Alpha's Desire Read online

  I drop her on the bed and go for the button on her shorts. The scent of her arousal fills the room. I rub the crotch seam over her slit with one knuckle as I work the button open.

  She moans and wriggles, which makes it easy to strip her bottoms off. I leave the go-go boots on, because—yeah—they’re hot.

  Hands hooked under her knees, I spread her wide. For a moment I just stare, which makes my girl squirm.

  A blush spreads up her neck and across her cheeks. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “Looking at the most perfect pussy on the face of the Earth.” And it is. Dewy and plump, her pink heart open, begging to be licked. And yeah, the carpet matches the drapes, not that there was any question if she was a natural redhead.

  “Jared.” She tries to wriggle free of my grasp, but I hold her down and lower my head, laying a soft kiss right over her clit. The last moment of tenderness she’s going to get before I bring it with everything I’ve got.

  She shivers, her flat belly fluttering.

  I part her lips with my tongue and trace along the insides, swirl my tongue around her clit.

  She makes cute girl-sex sounds—adorable little ung-ahs that make my already throbbing dick harder than stone.

  She’s already had my fingers tonight, so I keep working her with my tongue. I’m going to work until she’s screaming my name and tearing out my hair. She needs this release after the fright she had.

  I suck and nip and lick until the pitch of her voice takes on a desperate keen, then I affix my lips to her clit and suck hard. I release it and flick it with my tongue. Then repeat. Because I’m a dirty guy and an ass man, I can’t stop from pushing my thumb between her asscheeks, seeking her little back pucker.

  The moment I hit it, she shrieks, squeezing her buns together and shoving her dripping pussy against my mouth. I keep torturing her with my tongue as I make slow circles with my thumb, massaging her anus.

  She thrashes beneath me, babbling incoherently.

  I apply a little more pressure with my thumb and she goes off, screaming, thrusting against my mouth, her hands pushing my face against her core as her muscles do their squeezy thing that signals her orgasm.

  “That’s it, beautiful,” I say when she finishes. “I love the way you come.”

  She gives a shaky laugh that rings with disbelief.

  “I do.” I reach up and pinch her nipple through her thin t-shirt and bra. “Dancers must do it better.”

  She smiles and pushes her hair out of her face. “I’m sure we do.”

  I roll her over. “Let me look at this firm little ass of yours.” I give it a slap. Her ass is all toned muscle, like her thighs. So spankable.

  I prod her legs apart and rub her pussy with my fingers. I let my thumb quest again for her anus.

  She squeezes her butt again.

  “I know, baby. You’re an anal virgin, aren’t you?”

  She doesn’t answer, but I’m sure she is.

  “I’d love to take this ass. I’ll bet it’s so fucking tight. But I’m not going to do it now. We’ll save that for when you’ve been naughty and need another spanking.”

  Her bottom clenches again and I chuckle.

  But I shouldn’t have mentioned what happened back at the club, because it must remind her of how she felt after. I think I made her feel cheap and used—something I never wanted to do.

  She rolls over and sits up, pulling the bedspread over her waist. “I, um… I don’t know if this is a good idea.” Her eyes travel down to the bulge in my jeans and guilt flits across her face.

  I adjust my cock. Down, boy. “No, you’re right.”

  I can’t be in a relationship with this girl, and she deserves so much more than a one night stand.

  I back up. “I’ll just, ah… You know, I should probably go. I’m gonna take your car to my friend Tank’s shop. We’ll get it all fixed for you at my expense, okay? The accident was my fault.”

  She stares at me with those guileless blue eyes, so wide and alert, it’s all I can do not to go back to her and kiss her senseless.

  “Can you Uber until I get it back to you? I promise I’ll make it happen fast.”

  “Um, yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

  “It’s the least I can do. What’s your phone number?”

  I enter her number into my phone and remember I still have her phone in my back pocket. I toss it to her. “Get some sleep. I’ll text you with an update on the car.” After I stow my phone, I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her, settling instead for dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

  “Goodnight, angel.”

  “‘Night.” Her voice is soft and sweet and that single syllable makes me want to go right back and worship between her legs again, but I force myself to leave.

  Dammit. I fucked up again. I hope she doesn’t hate me for this.

  3

  Angelina

  I wake up at noon and pad to the bathroom on auto-pilot. Then I see the huge black, blood-crusted t-shirt on my floor and it all comes flooding back.

  Jared and his super strength. His super healing abilities.

  What the hell? Was I on drugs? I accepted his explanation so easily last night, but in the light of day, it sounds insane.

  Jared, the superhero.

  Except he does have all the qualities of a superhero, doesn’t he? Hero. Strong. Protective. Giving.

  Oh boy did he give last night.

  And I gave absolutely nothing in return.

  Because I really don’t want to be another notch on his bedpost, or whatever the dumb cliche is. Jared is a player, through and through.

  But then again, I already went pretty far with him. What’s the difference between having sex and what we did, really? Would it have been so horrible for him to get off, too? Considering I did, twice. I could’ve at least blown him. I’ll bet his cock is as impressive as that hard body of his...

  Oh God, what am I even thinking?

  I need to erase this man from my mind. He may be hot, charming and endowed with superhero powers, but—

  No, really. Why am I trying to erase him? He’s better than a movie hero. I carry his bloodstained shirt to my laundry closet and toss it in the washer. The least I can do is wash his clothes for him.

  That brings up all kinds of lurid images of domestic servitude. Me, in a fifties housewife outfit (nothing but an apron and panties and a pair of red heels, of course) waiting for him with dinner when he gets home.

  Me, naked except for a pair of pearls and a raincoat, surprising him at work…

  Except he works at a bar. And that just fizzled my fantasy completely.

  No, this guy isn’t husband material. Or even boyfriend material. He’s a hot finger-bang at a nightclub. A ride home after a car crash.

  The guy who fixes your car for free.

  Okay, that’s beyond attractive to me.

  Because, seriously, my dad would’ve shit when he found out about the crash. He would’ve lectured me on and on about insurance rates going up and about how irresponsible I am driving home at three in the morning from a nightclub.

  Of course, I’ll probably still have to tell him about the crash tonight. My parents live here in Tucson and insist on Sunday dinners. Sometimes I really wish the best dance program in the country wasn’t at the university in my hometown.

  I smirk, imagining bringing someone like Jared over to meet my parents. His appearance alone would shock their Foothills sensibilities to the core.

  They keep dropping hints about getting me to meet some local multi-millionaire software mogul.

  Not. Interested.

  And it’s only because my dad wants the guy to acquire his small niche software company. Sure, Dad, pimp your daughter out for your own gain. These are definitely still medieval times. Grrr.

  I start the washing machine and check my phone.

  Jared’s already texted. Your car is in good hands. I’ll have it back to you tomorrow, and you’ll never know the difference.
br />   And my resistance melts a little more.

  I text back, Thank you. What about your motorcycle? Do you need me to pay for the repairs?

  Not that I have any money, but I should offer. I will figure it out, if I need to. Maybe I can pick up another teaching gig at a local dance studio.

  He responds immediately, I have it covered. Don’t sweat it.

  I smile at my phone. It’s really hard not to feel warm and fuzzy about Jared. And also itchy and needy to see him again.

  But I put the kibosh on that. I don’t want to be his booty call or hookup or whatever it is he does.

  It was definitely the right decision.

  So I should stop getting fluttery thinking about him bringing my car to me tomorrow. Or asking me out. Or pinning me against a wall and spanking me again.

  Yeah.

  Jared

  If I didn’t think he’d bust my ass, I wouldn’t even tell my alpha what happened.

  But a car accident in the alley outside his club constitutes a phone call. Especially when it involves a girl seeing my body spontaneously regenerate.

  Dammit.

  I’d rather keep Angelina completely out of this conversation, but I can’t do that either. Not only can shifters pick up on dishonesty, lying to Garrett would be a banishable offense, even if he wasn’t one of my closest friends.

  But I put the call off as long as I can. It’s Sunday and he has a new mate. He doesn’t want me calling with a shit story first thing in the day.

  I wait until late afternoon to dial him, telling myself it’s better to get the car and motorcycle repairs going first.

  I told Trey this morning. He told me I was a fucking idiot and if I thought Garrett was going to let it slide that Angelina saw my injuries heal, I’m even dumber than I look. But that’s standard shit-talk between the two of us.

  I stand outside Tank’s auto shop and lean my ass against our packmate’s truck.

  Garrett answers on the second ring. “What’s up?”

  Right away I start walking, like staying in motion is going to make this go down easier. “Hey, I had a little incident last night.”

  “What kind of incident? At the club?”

  “Yeah. I pulled into the alley without looking and Angelina, the little go-go dancer, hit me.”

  Garrett curses. “Was she hurt?” Of course he wouldn’t ask if I’m hurt, because—yeah—we’re shifters.

  “No. Neither were the other two dancers. I drove them home and took her car to Tank’s.”

  There’s a pause, and Garrett, who knows me too well, says, “What aren’t you telling me?”

  I crack the knuckles of my free hand. “She saw a cut regenerate.”

  Garrett curses again.

  I hear his mate, Amber, murmur something in the background.

  “It’s all right. Just pack shit. Don’t worry, baby,” I hear him reply. To me, he says, “Wipe her.”

  I grind my teeth. I don’t want to fucking wipe her.

  “She’s doesn’t know,” I insist, but my insistence sounds flimsy, even to my own ears.

  “She knows you’re a paranormal. You know the rules. She gets wiped.”

  “You didn’t wipe Amber.” I’m an asshole to point it out, and also operating from an artificial sense of security, because if we were in the same room, my alpha probably would’ve flattened me.

  Garrett’s warning growl crackles through the phone. “Amber’s different. She’s a paranormal, too.”

  Garrett’s mate has psychic abilities that he used to find his sister when she was kidnapped by the harvesters last spring.

  Yeah, well Angelina’s a beautiful dancer with a bright future. Right. Not a strong argument. Good thing I left that one unspoken.

  “Jared?” There’s alpha command in his voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t make me fucking tell you twice.”

  “Consider it done,” I mutter and end the call before I dig myself in any deeper.

  Dammit.

  I rub my forehead. I can’t come up with any way around Garrett’s order. I look up at the sky. Sun’s still out. I’ll have to wait until sundown to get help from a leech, which gives Angelina a few more hours to keep her memories intact.

  And I have to meet with some shifters from San Diego about setting up a fight in Tucson.

  Maybe I can do it tomorrow night. When I bring her car back to her.

  Yeah, that should work. And when Garrett asks, I’ll tell him it’s going to happen, as soon as possible. And tomorrow is as soon as it’s possible.

  Angelina

  “Driving downtown after the bars have closed is paramount to suicide,” my dad lectures as he neatly cuts his steak. I love the man, but he drives me nuts. As predicted, he’s freaking over the car accident.

  We’re at their long formal dining room table for Sunday dinner and I’ve chosen to tune out the lecture while I eat the baby broccoli my mom steamed just for me. At least tonight she and dad are eating the same thing I am, though their vegetables are dressed with lemon butter, and mine are not.

  While he goes on, my mind runs over the scenes with Jared. The last one, mostly. Where he showed me exactly how experienced and clever he is with his tongue and then let me off the hook the moment I got uncomfortable.

  He really is a gentleman.

  Funny how my gratitude to him for treating me with such honor and respect makes me want to run and jump his bones. My unwillingness to have sex with him has completely vanished.

  But no. I’m the kind of girl who gets attached.

  “How’s school going, honey?” My mom pipes in, to change the subject.

  “Fine. Good.” My stomach knots up.

  “How did auditions go for the spring concert?”

  “Pretty good.”

  It’s not a lie. I did my best, and I’ll probably get into several pieces. But the truth is, I feel like a misfit in the dance program. Not because I’m not a good dancer—I’m decent. Lord knows my parents spent enough on my training since the day I turned three. It’s just that I don’t want to be an automaton anymore. I don’t want to work hard to please my teachers and hope they give me a good part in their dances.

  I want to choreograph my own dances. No, not just dances—shows. I want to direct my own company. Stage big daring productions. A modern version of The Firebird. A ballet choreographed to Lady GaGa.

  The trouble is, the undergrad program isn’t really geared toward that. I could stay and hope to get into the MFA program, but I am honestly tired of working hard to please everyone else.

  My whole life has been spent making my parents proud. Being the picture perfect princess they both wanted me to be. It was my mom who put me in dance. I have no idea why. Honestly, I think it was because some wealthy friend had her daughter at the studio, so it seemed like the thing to do.

  Keeping up with the Joneses and all that.

  “You’re keeping your weight down?”

  I set my fork down. “Yes, mom.” I infuse my voice with total teen impatience. Because she reduces me to a surly teenager in the blink of an eye. I’m an independent, almost college grad, but five minutes in their house and I’m chafing against my childhood constraints again.

  “Well, I know how you worry about those things.”

  “No, I’m not worried. I never should’ve told you about the fat letter. I’m sure it’s a myth, anyway.”

  The rumor is, the faculty will send you a fat letter if they think you’re getting too porky. Personally, I dare them to do. It seems like a civil liberties case to me. But what do I know? I’m not a lawyer. I’m definitely not as rail-thin as some of the bun-heads in the program, but I’m not doughy either. And I definitely don’t want to obsess over my weight like almost every dancer does. I’ve worked hard since my high school days of eating disorder tendencies to love my body and appreciate all the hard work it does for me.

  I’m their only child, and my mom was a stay-at-home mom, so I became the object of a
mountain of attention. Angelina ballerina, with straight A’s, straight teeth, and sweet manners. A good girl.

  God, I’m sick of it.

  “I don’t know why you keep that job at the nightclub anyway,” my dad says, back on his soap box. “You’re not making fine art and the pay isn’t that great.”

  “The pay is perfect.” My jaw gets tight. I’m even more defensive about my time at Eclipse than I am about my weight.

  It may be sad, but I feel the biggest thing I’ve accomplished since I started school was setting up the go-go dancing gig for me and my friends at Eclipse.

  I guess it’s because it was like one tiny baby step toward directing my own company.

  But my parents don’t support that angle, at all.

  My dad made me double major in business because he thinks I should run a dance studio when I get out.

  Which is fine. I like to teach. It’s just… it would be nice to follow my own dreams for a change.

  Instead of the neatly laid out plan my parents have set for me.

  “I still don’t understand why this Jared character took your car to be fixed. There’s something fishy about it. How well do you know this guy?”

  Oh God, please don’t let me blush.

  Sometimes I hate being a redhead.

  “I know him pretty well, Dad. He’s a bouncer at the club. Really nice guy. I told you, he said it was his fault he pulled out in front of me, and he has a friend with a repair shop, so he was going to take care of it.”

  “How do we know the repair shop is reputable? What if he does a shoddy job on it? How do you know he didn’t just steal your car? You should have called the cops. Were you drinking?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, Dad. I wasn’t drinking. I’m sure the job will be professional, and you should be grateful I didn’t call the cops and get the insurance involved, because my rates would’ve gone through the roof.”

  “Well, that’s true.”

  You can always reason with my dad through his wallet.

  “How’s business, Dad?” I ask pointedly.

  My father takes a sip of wine. “Good. I’m still working on the acquisition proposal for SeCure.”