CharmaineLouise Books New Subscribers Sneak Peek!
CharmaineLouise Books New Subscribers Sneak Peek!
Glitzy. Glamorous. Steamy.
The Latest Trilogy in STEELE International, Inc. A Billionaires Romance Series:
Read on for your New Subscriber Sneak Peek of the prologue for Capture My Desires Malcolm & Starr Part I. The Rebel Alpha Dom Billionaire meets his free-spirited Independent Woman-cum-sub in the start of their sizzling romance trilogy. Click here to pre-order your copy today from Amazon.
Enjoy! xoxo Charmaine Louise
18 Years Ago
Starr — 13, Beverly Hills, CA
“—Yeah, right! What makes that loser nerd think anyone wants to go to her corny birthday party?”
“Right! And with her weird hippie parents, too! What’ll she have there? Unicorns and rainbows?!”
“Did you get a glimpse of her face when we told her we’d go? She grinned ear to ear with happiness braces on full blast… SIKE!”
“With a name like Starr, she’s not very bright, is she?”
“That’s the problem she thinks she’s so smart, knows more than the rest of us—”
My mind reels as their voices fade out behind the closing bathroom door. I hug my knees to my chest while I rock on the toilet’s lid. Tears stream down my heated cheeks, blurring my vision.
I don’t need to see clearly to know the voices of Sally, Laura, Gail, Connie, and Jessica—the It Girls of Beverly Hills Junior High School. I could envision Sally, their leader tossing her silky blonde hair over her shoulder as she mimed my glasses. Gail, her main sidekick would have fluffed her curly afro to copy my naturally curly hair.
Obviously, I’m not so smart to have fallen for their easy yeses to attend my thirteenth birthday party this weekend. The It Girls at my simple backyard barbecue? Too good to be true.
For a moment I thought their teasing ways were over since we’re in the seventh grade now. Who knew they’d carry over their mean-girl antics from fifth and sixth grades to a new school?
A drawn-out sigh slips from my lips when I tilt my head back to stare at the ceiling, hoping to stop the flow of my tears. I’m so tired of them being so nasty to me. And for no reason!
Sure, I like to excel in my classes, and I answer the teachers’ questions happily—and correctly. But that doesn’t make me a nerd. Just interested in my schoolwork.
The whole braces thing is messed up too. I got them this past summer and grew five inches. So along with a mouth full of metal, thick-lensed glasses, and unruly curls, I tower over the other girls in our class.
It was bad enough they teased me ruthlessly about my “hippie” parents, clothes, and crystals in elementary school.
So what if my parents changed their names from Jordan and Belinda to Peace and Sun years before I was even born?! I like my name, Starr Knight. And doggone it, I am bright, and I love my parents—hippies and all!
They’re brilliant environmental law attorneys who take on the most challenging cases against big businesses and win billions! The law firm—Knight & Knight LLP—my parents founded years ago after they met at a music festival while at Stanford Law School ranks in the top five of the United States. With offices in LA, Seattle, Denver, Chicago, Houston, New Orleans, Miami, New York City to represent cases in the top environmentally focused cities. They may be hippies, but they’re sharks in the courtroom.
And so am I!
After a sniffle, I rise, shake out my vintage, glittery matchstick midi skirt so the layers fall to my Doc Martens’ eight-eye, patent leather boots on a whisper. I smooth my off-the-shoulder ruffle top over the white camisole before I grab my well-worn leather crossbody bag.
Loose tendrils of curls fall over my eyes as I bend over. I sweep them back into the big bun at the nape of my neck with a resigned huff as my rose quartz pendant slips along its leather cord. Determined, I straighten my spine and leave the bathroom.
Time to face the music on the school bus ride home.
“Hi, sweetheart, how was school?”
I lift my head from my notebook and smile at my mother. We look exactly alike. Sorrel brown eyes full of love as she peers at me. Smooth chestnut-colored skin glows from healthy eating and regular exercise. Long, curly, dark brown hair pulled up in a topknot. Dimples highlight her sculpted cheekbones when she returns my smile. She’s a beautiful woman in her late thirties.
“History class was interesting, and I loved art,” I answer as I stand three inches taller than her petite feet-foot-three-inch frame. “But the crew siked me into believing they were coming to my birthday party.”
I raise my hand when she speaks. A scowl settles on her pretty face.
“Hey, no worries. ‘Be equally thankful for what you perceive to be good and for what you perceive as bad. It all happens for a reason. Either way, you don’t let it disturb your inner peace. Strive for tranquility no matter the outer circumstances.’ Right?” I ask, reminding my mother of her favorite yogic piece of advice.
She cups my face and beams at me.
“Absolutely, Starr!” My mother exclaims.
“What’s the ‘absolutely’ for?”
We turn to see my father stride into the room. His baritone voice booms around us.
I get my height from him being six feet, five inches. He’s opposite of my mom and me, with his obsidian eyes and pecan-colored skin. Equally fit and health conscious, he exudes power at forty-one. He’s renowned for his command of the boardroom or the courtroom if negotiations reach that extent.
“A bit of a misunderstanding about my party. But no worries!” I respond as I give him a hug.
It’s nearly dinnertime, and they make a point of being home as a family each night if possible. Otherwise the chef makes a meal for me.
“Well, perhaps your gift will make up for it,” my father says as his eyes twinkle. “How about you open it early?”
With a shriek, I grasp the envelope and rip it open. An itinerary for a two-week stay at an ashram in Rishikesh, India, the world capital for studying yoga and meditation rests in my hands.
I never thought my parents heard me rambling about the center for spiritual studies a few months ago when I found it online.
Another of their traits I inherited is their focus on wellbeing. Whenever I have encounters with the crew, I practice breathing exercises to brush off their meanness. It takes the focus away from them and brings it back to me, keeping me centered and at peace.
I whoop and throw my arms around my father, then my mother. Yup, hippies and all, I’d have them no other way!
Roger — 15, Southampton Village, NY
“Oh shit! What the hell is that on your back, Malcolm?! It better not be real, bro!”
My head whips around, my mouth twisted as I glare at my older brother—older than my fifteen by two years barely.
Since we’re so close in age, everyone confuses me with him. We share the Steele clan traits of wavy ebony hair and dove gray eyes. Our olive-colored skin tanned further by the bright sun of Southampton Village, where our family’s compound spans for a mile along our private beach.
Baz has a few inches on my six-foot-frame, so I have to look up at him.
But I don’t look up to him. Hell nah!
He’s Mister Perfect. The supposed leader of the Steele siblings. A role he’s taken upon himself since forever. That’s cool for Roger who’s fourteen and the fraternal twins Harris and Haley at eleven. They freaking idolize Baz.
Me? Not so much. I refuse to be in Sebastian’s shadow. I make my own way and don’t need his interference in my life. My identity is my own. Screw looking alike.
“Oh, screw you, Sebastian! You’re not my father! Back off, bro!!” I snarl viciously as my nostrils flare and my face reddens.
I storm off from the party we’re having on the beach, sick and tired of his crap. I push past the others ranging from my age to twenties.
Of course it’s a crowd. Everyone wants to be around the Steeles. Our multibillion-dollar family has deep roots in New York City with our multigenerational luxury real estate development and management company based out of The STEELE Tower.
Even though it’s the summer and we’re out in the Hamptons for the weekend, each of us interns at the company. Come Monday, we’ll be on Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue in the heart of Billionaires’ Row at our respective divisions, learning our family’s business from the ground up.
We have our mother to thank for “not being spoiled rich kids who only lounge around the pool all day.” Shelley is a native New Yorker who worked as a shopgirl in one of STEELE’s retail spaces. She met our father Morgan when he was on a business call to the store. At the time he was President of the Retail Properties Division and our grandfather was the CEO. Now, our Dad is top dog.
Baz assumes he’s next in line, so he runs around barking orders at the rest of us.
Well, to hell with that!
I want no parts of STEELE International, Inc. I plan to start my own company for extreme sports lovers like me. Baz can have it all—Favorite Son and future CEO. I’ll continue on as the second son; the rebel; the bad boy billionaire playboy of the family. And billions it will be too. Those I make on my own, not handed to me. Thank you very much!
Who the hell does he think he is telling me how to behave and what to do constantly?! He needs to get off my back already, literally.
That’s why I got my tattoo. The wings on my back symbolize freedom from family constraints and the flying as I speed along on my bikes. After I won my latest motocross race, I memorialized it forever in ink. The tattoo artist didn’t give me any flack since my height and attitude make me appear older than fifteen. Plus, I flirted with her, then backed it up once she completed my tat. She did a damn good job, and I thanked her royally.
So Baz can shut up with his nagging.
I need to feel the wind in my face to cool down. A quick walk to the garage and I’m astride one of my KTMs, ready to hit the dirt trails outside of the ritzy town. Just as I lift my helmet—I may be a rebel who takes risks, but I value my life—a movement to my left catches my attention.
Damn. Belinda Crane.
Belinda Baz’s Girlfriend Crane, to be exact.
By her expression, she’s not thinking of Big Brother right now. Nor does she mistake me for him. Nope. That heat is all for me.
She twirls a strand of her long silky red hair between her delicate fingers as her eyes travel from my boots to my leather-clad muscular thighs and chest to my smirking mouth. When green meets gray, the lust rolls through us in waves.
I may be fifteen, but this isn’t my first rodeo, nor will this be my first ride of this little filly. Poor Baz has no clue. Yeah, height and attitude make all the difference in life.
Belinda sashays over to me, her grip-worthy hips sway, making the strings of her white bikini dance. The round mounds of her tits bounce with each step. Her hooded eyes never leave my face, but my eyes travel the curves of her luscious body. She’s a true redhead.
“I love your tattoo, Malcolm… A lot,” Belinda says breathlessly as her fingertips skim over my back from shoulder to shoulder, sparks reach through the leather to make my cock jump to attention.
“Do you now, B.?” I smirk.
She nods and licks her full glossy lips.
My eyes dart to them, and I chuckle.
The first time her little pink tongue wrapped around my hardness, I nearly came before she even started blowing me.
I’ve learned more control since last winter’s break. And I plan to use it.
“I’m going for a ride. You wanna cum?” I ask, not missing she picked up on my word choice when her pale cheeks flush bright red.
A quirk of my eyebrow has her nodding and scurrying to hop behind me. The warm, wet folds of her pussy press against my ass.
Yeah, I can’t wait to bury my thick ten inches balls deep in her greedy snatch.
The purr of the engine is a precursor to the purrs I’ll have Belinda moaning as soon as I get her writhing beneath me.
At times, it’s good to be a Steele.
But on my terms.
Next in Malcolm and Starr's Trilogy:
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