Alphas: Supes and Badboys (8 Books in One) Read online

  He looked me over carefully, then stepped forward, planted his leg between my knees, grabbed the back of my hair hard, and kissed me. It was very difficult to breathe suddenly. All I could taste was Wolf—a meaty, minty taste. He didn’t merely kiss, he sucked at my mouth with his own as if he were trying to eat me. His free hand came up, following the line of my body, and then he shocked me by seizing my left breast and working my nipple with this thumb. I shifted around, my breasts heaved up, and an unfamiliar, half-choked whimper crawled up my throat and half parted my lips. His tongue went into me then, slippery and hot. I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt tears coming to my eyes. Jesus, his grip in my hair and on my tit was so tight, so painful…

  I cried out, right into his mouth. I expected him to respond the way a gentleman should. I expected him to immediately release me. Instead, he rolled my nipple in his immensely powerful fingers and said, intimately, against my mouth, “My pet, does it hurt so much? Such little pain?”

  “It hurts,” I agreed.

  “But nothing you can’t endure.” He wedged himself between my legs. The cleft between my legs immediately dampened in response to his presence. He released my nipple but slid his hand down my body. To my extreme embarrassment, I shifted my hip slightly so my pelvis was pressed more tightly against the enormous hard-on in the front of his trousers almost as if my body had been programmed that way. A sly smirk tugged the corners of his mouth. He loosened his hold on my hair, rested both hands on my shoulders, and pushed me forcibly down so I was sitting on the vanity top in front of him.

  “You are one arrogant son of a bitch,” I growled, though there was less anger in my voice than I wanted there to be. “You’ve set this up…”

  “And you’re spoiled, Rachaela. You’ve never learned your place.” His voice held that serious edge to it. He touched my hair and face. He leaned forward to bury his nose in my hair. He inhaled me. His accent grew more gravelly and singsongy. If I closed my eyes, I knew I would hear Africa in his voice. “Your husband wasn’t much of a man, Rachaela. He taught you nothing about submission. Would you like me to touch you again? Would you like me to teach you discipline?”

  “I don’t need discipline,” I said, my face resting against the front of Wolf’s tuxedo jacket so I was inhaling that wild African scent while he ran his hands lovingly up and over my hair.

  “We’ll begin slow,” he said softly, gently. I felt the dull thunder of his voice in his chest. “You’ll do as I tell you. You’ll learn to obey. Then we’ll see who I enjoy more, you or little Jasmine.”

  Heat flooded my face. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, to go back out into the restaurant and play these stupid games with Jasmine. But he put his hand up on my face and kissed me. He nudged against me, making me spread my legs wide to accommodate him. He kissed me gently, slowly, a long series of nibbling kisses that left me gasping into his mouth. His face looked so smooth until you kissed him. Then you felt the sharp burn of the almost invisible blond beard on his upper lip and chin. His hands cupped my breasts while he kissed me. He gently pinched my nipples, exploring my limits, slowly increasing the pressure of his touch until I groaned with the near pain of it all. Satisfied, he moved a hand lower, pressing it into the juncture of my thighs. Only my panties were a barrier between us. I immediately drenched myself down there. I strained to close my thighs, but Wolf said, “No.” His voice was cold and harsh against my mouth. My entire body jerked as if he’d hit me.

  His thumb pressed into my tender flesh, then gripped the edge of my panties. He pulled them down, along with my nylons. “Lift your bottom,” he said, again with that steely cold voice, so deep and resonating I swore the mirrors shivered in the room all around us. I wriggled around on the vanity while he worked my undergarments over my hips and down my legs. He went to one knee to remove my shoes one at a time so he could pull my stocking the rest of the way off. He disposed of everything in a nearby trashcan, then carefully replaced both shoes. “Pretty shoes,” he said approvingly of my bright red Jimmy Choo sandals. “But I want you to buy some stockings with garters, Rachaela. And I want you to dispense with undergarments.” He stood back up, running his hands up my bare calves as he did so, making the muscles tense.

  “There are rules,” he said.

  I tried to think of a scathing comeback, something snarky at least, but the steel in his voice stopped me. It’s hard to be sarcastic when the person you’re talking to is dead serious.

  When he reached my knees, he forcibly pushed my legs further apart, which drove the skirt of the Marilyn dress up to my waist. I shivered and a small cry caught in my throat when the coolness of the room touched my bare skin. “Rule Number One. A good courtesan makes herself physically available to her gentleman at all times.” His hands clamped over my knees to hold them apart.

  I felt a flash of panic, followed by a greater surge of anger. “I’m not your courtesan,” I insisted, but he ignored me. I was sitting at a level that put me a little below his line of sight. He bent one of my legs carefully at the knee and brought it up to the level of the vanity. I shifted back a little to relieve the tension in my leg as he set the heel of my shoe on the edge. Then he repeated the process with my other leg so I was mortified to find myself leaning back on the vanity with both legs spread wide, my knees pointing inward, the skirt of my dress bunched around my waist, and every private part of me on display for his amusement.

  “Rule Number Two. A good courtesan knows to obey her gentleman.”

  I started closing my legs, but Wolf placed his warm, heavy hands on the insides of my thighs to keep my legs spread far enough apart for him to enjoy me. “You’re wet,” he said. His voice was whispery-soft, gentle, intimate. “You’re wet and beautiful and ready, like a rose in full bloom, Rachaela. Tell me, are you always so wet when I talk to you?”

  I squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Let me touch you,” he said. “That is Rule Number Three. A good courtesan places the needs of her gentleman above those of her own.” When I didn’t immediately object, he moved his hand back between my legs, this time without the barrier between us. He touched me softly, a fluttery touch, then did something with his fingers so I felt a sharp pinch. I cried out, and the pain stopped. He drew careful circles around my sex, then his fingers slowly moved into me, spreading my labia and probing the inside of my vulva, causing me a flood of pleasure. My hips bucked in his hand. I tasted blood and lipstick where I had bitten my bottom lip to keep from crying out.

  “Shhh,” he said soothingly. “Be still, pet. If you cry out, someone might hear.”

  Oh God, I thought. If someone came through the bathroom door right now…

  He started circling my opening again, very gently, almost a non-touch. I tried not to whimper. His gentleness was somehow worse than the pain. “You feel like a rose, Rachaela, a wet velvet rose. Are you a rose, or are you an orchid? A rose lives only a short time on its own but is very beautiful. An orchid clings to the tree that is its refuge and may live almost forever. I want to know how you feel inside. A rose or an orchid. This may hurt, but you’ll stretch. You’ll take me.”

  His words, his cologne, were making me feel dizzy. His held me open with one hand while his fingers pushed inward. I shuddered. I thought I could not feel any more vulnerable than I already did, but when his fingers went into me, I nearly cried out. He went deep. He made me take three, maybe four, fingers. I could feel all the muscles inside me reacting, muscles that hadn’t felt this kind of stimulation in years. My bottom jerked up off the vanity, and I could feel the building pressure of my climax. But before I could come, he withdrew his fingers and sucked my wetness from them.

  I groaned.

  “Rule Number Four. You are my business partner up until the workday ends at six o’clock in the evening. Then you become my courtesan. As such, you’ll follow the instructions of your gentleman from then on.” He touched my clit again, gently, circling, teasing, the tension building slowly inside me once more, but with no way to relieve
it.

  “Please, Wolf…”

  “Rule Number Five. A good, well-heeled courtesan addresses her gentleman as ‘sir’ at all times. We are off the clock, Rachaela, so you will address me as ‘sir.’”

  I whimpered in frustration.

  “Listen carefully. As my courtesan, you will be absolutely obedient to me. You will not question or oppose my requests. I may send you instructions from time to time. I expect them to be obeyed. I may summon you to me. Barring familial duties, or some unpleasantness beyond your control, you will come without question or hesitation.” Each time his thumb returned to my clit, it brought me closer, and yet not close enough. He pinched it, then squeezed it with such pressure that I wound up groaning and thrusting against his hand. The pleasure built. I squirmed and fought him for my release, but his grip only lessened.

  “Failure to follow my rules will end in severe punishment. Do you agree with my rules, Rachaela?”

  “Yes,” I said, nearly sobbing. “God, yes…” Now let me come!

  Wolf grinned in triumph and dropped to one knee. He flicked his tongue over my clit. His ponytail of hair brushed against the inside of my thighs. Now I did cry out, a strangled noise. He rolled my clit back and forth with his tongue. I thrashed and bucked beneath him. My climax finally broke over me, starting at my cunt and working its way outward like a shockwave so that every muscle tightened and relaxed at once. I came and Wolf sucked at my wetness. He licked it from my clit. He probed into my cunt for more. The scrape of his tongue against all that oversensitized flesh made me convulse. I dug my fingernails into the back of his head, I clutched his ponytail as I thrust and thrust against his mouth, giving myself to him, begging him to take me. I came. He nipped at my clit with the sharpness of his teeth and I came again as he ate me out.

  Finally, I crumpled back onto the vanity, shuddering and gasping for breath. My heart was slamming around in my chest like a windblown bird, and for a moment I saw a sparkling darkness in the corners of my eyes and I wondered if I wouldn’t pass out. I had never experienced anything like this with anyone, not even Jerrel. My experiences were somewhat limited, granted, a boyfriend in high school, then Jerrel in college, but still…

  Wolf stood up. He watched me greedily—wolfishly—licking the juices of my release off his lips and chin. “I should like to take you from behind now,” he said, his voice soft but metallic, and one of the hardest and most unforgiving sounds I’d ever heard. “Make yourself available to me.”

  Oh God, I thought. I can’t do this now…

  “Now, Rachaela. I won’t tell you twice.”

  I skittered down to the floor, barely able to stand. I turned so I was facing the mirrors, facing the woman with the long mussed hair, the pale, milk chocolate skin and wild, dark, flickering eyes. She didn’t look like me. She looked like some ravished model from a porn film.

  Wolf was very aggressive, as I expected he would be. He grabbed my hips and pushed my upper body forward while his hands ran up the backs of my legs, over my bare ass, and pushed the skirt of the dress up to my waist. He leaned against my back, pinning me to the surface of the vanity. I heard the sound of him undoing his zipper, the rip of foil on a condom. I waited, breathing hoarsely, as his voice came soft and hot on the back of my neck. “I will never harm you, Rachaela. I will never cause you more pain than you can endure. Do you believe me? Do you trust me?”

  I breathed in and out, in and out. Only the pressure of Wolf’s body kept me upright. I felt the pressure of his cock probing me, exploring me. He felt big. Bigger than Jerrel. I whimpered deep in my throat.

  “Rachaela, do you understand me?”

  “Y-yes.”

  He rubbed his cock up and down the slickness of my slit, rubbed against me like some large, aroused animal. The head of him parted my folds. He said words then, but not in English. Little words, little assurances, in a low, rumbling voice. I realized he was calming me like I was some poor, skittish horse. “My Rachaela,” he said, “my lovely, my pet, take my cock.” And then he drove himself into me.

  I immediately came with a cry. I’d thought he was big, but I’d no idea of the size or pain of him. My body immediately rebelled at the invasion and I tried to move, to scramble away. I scratched at the vanity top in my need to escape, but he reached under me and grabbed my breasts, crushing them in his hands as he battered into me, making me take all of him at once. I wanted to scream in outrage and defiance. I wanted to move. I wanted not to move. Wolf reached around and cupped my mouth with one hand. He slid his fingers into my mouth and said, “Bite.”

  I bit.

  He started thrusting in and out of me in long, punishing waves so powerful that my whole body tried to convulse around him. He pounded into me, each impact stretching me, forcing me to acclimate to his size. His English turned to German, then to Afrikaans, then English again, and I realized he was calming me, telling me things to comfort me, but also training me.

  “Take me, my pet, mein liebeling, my sweet, take me deep, take my cock. Let me ride that sweet ass of yours...”

  I whimpered and finally relaxed into his thrusts. It hurt less when I let go, when I let him take me, when I stopped fighting him tooth and nail. I watched him rut with me in the mirrors in front of me. He went deep into me, long, course motions that almost went to the end of me. His eyes were a narrow, fiery grey, his face lean and carven and somehow beautifully cruel. I thought how Jerrel had always looked a little goofy when he’d make love to me. Wolf didn’t look goofy. He looked like some cruel, despotic archangel. He moved, and I started moving with him instead of against him. Wolf groaned with satisfaction against the back of my neck. “Ah, my pet, my little courtesan…so quickly you learn.”

  He thrust inside me one last time, shuddered, and came. He closed his eyes and groaned as he emptied himself inside me. When he was done, he pulled out of me. He settled on the edge of the vanity and took me in his arms and kissed my face and chin and lips, soft, ticklish kisses that left me gasping and whimpering against him. I kissed him back, sliding my hands under his suit jacket and reveling in the hard, solid muscles of his chest. I opened my mouth to the wet slip of his tongue. He kept murmuring words against my mouth, sweet words in other languages I didn’t know.

  I wanted this to go on forever, this sweetness. I didn’t care if anyone discovered us, shuddering and disheveled and covered in sweat and passion, but Wolf pulled away and stood up, taking my hand. “That’s enough training for tonight, my courtesan. I have a crème brulee planned for dessert, and then we must attend to Jasmine. I have plans for her too. Come along.”

  * * *

  Book II: Big, Bad Wolf

  “What’s the matter, Rachaela? Are you afraid of the big, bad wolf?” Devon asked, holding a glittering, Venetian-style mask in front of his face. It took me a moment to realize this mask was different from the other masks that most of the guests wore—owls and ibises and cats. This was one was an elaborate, bejeweled wolf mask.

  “Not funny,” I told him. “Did Malcolm put you up to that?”

  Devon lowered the mask, looking surly but still delicious. He was the only male model I knew who never looked less than absolutely perfect, no matter his expression, like someone had manufactured him just so. “Aww, you’re supposed to be having a good time, doll,” he said.

  I took a deep breath and glanced around the elaborately decorated ballroom of Malcolm’s Southampton estate house. About a hundred people swarmed the floor, dressed in their Revolutionary French finest and dancing the Minuet step. It was getting late, and most of the masks had started coming off. I recognized a fair amount of moneyed New Yorkers. I hoped that meant that Malcolm’s masked ball had been a success. He threw one every year at Halloween in order to benefit the local women’s shelters. But who was I kidding? Malcolm’s balls were never unsuccessful. Too many people knew and liked Malcolm too well. “It’s a lovely party,” I told Malcolm’s partner. I clutched my glass of champagne tightly, terrified I would upend it onto my saff
ron ball gown. “You boys always do an excellent job.”

  Devon smiled wryly, took my free hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm, and walked me through the French doors and out onto the tiled parapet. Down below, I could hear the sea washing in over the rocks at high tide. I could smell the bitterly sweet Atlantic. “Then why do you look like you want to run away and hide? He hasn’t mistreated you, has he?”

  “No,” I answered. “It’s not that.”

  Devon stopped and looked down at my bare, shivering shoulders. I wished my ball gown wasn’t cut the way it was, leaving a scoop of bare flesh from one shoulder to the other. I don’t really know what had possessed me to wear it in the first place. I should have sent it back to where it came from. Or burned it. Devon blinked and said, “Are those real Namibian diamonds sewn into the bodice?”

  “You can tell?”

  “Namibian diamonds are champagne in color.”

  Devon would know something like that.

  “They’re real,” came a low, somewhat gravelly voice behind Devon. I looked up, and the man I’d been dreading to see tonight stepped out onto the parapet. He wore Regency wear, a black tailcoat, white waistcoat, and a red cravat with a pin in it that bore what I thought might be another Namibian diamond. He carried his walking stick, and he wore his clothes like he’d been born into them—in 1795. I had forgotten how tall and rangy Wolf was. The black made him look taller still, and it washed the little color out of his face and hair so he almost looked like a vintage sepia photograph come to life.

  Devon patted my arm reassuringly, then went fearlessly up to Wolfgang Beck and shook his big hand. He had to look up at the man, and Devon wasn’t short. “Well, you’ve been MIA from the Dollhouse,” he reprimanded Wolf with a mischievous smile. “What have you been doing with your lovely self of late, Wolfie?”

  Wolfie?

  Wolf offered Devon a closed smile. “Ah, a little of this and a little of that.”

  “Do a little of this and a little of that have a name?” Devon joked.