A Very Merry Alpha Christmas

by Chance, Logan

“I can’t let you drink alone. Just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Well, I sure hate drinking alone.” My voice just dropped like fifty octaves.

  “Yeah, me too.” His voice is just as low.

  I’ve never done this before. I don’t even know his name. I’m about to introduce myself, but change my mind, because, honestly, I kind of like we’re anonymous. It’s exciting. Don’t tell Santa, but the naughty list might be the place to be this year.

  As soon as I finish my drink, Brian makes me another. And another. And suddenly, I’m feeling great, and this stranger is not only the sexiest man in the world, he’s the funniest. I’ve become obsessed with the way he talks, the perfect things he says. I find myself hanging on every word. I’m also becoming touchy-feely, because he’s just too magnetic, and that’s my signal to leave. If I stay any longer, I’ll be straddling him.

  “Thanks for the drinks.” I stand and shrug my coat on.

  “Let me walk you to your cabin,” he says, rising from his seat.

  Before I can object, he’s lifting my hand, and settling it in the crook of his arm, so I use the opportunity to slide it up a little and fondle his bicep. And oh, what a bicep it is.

  “See.” He points above our heads to a hanging shrub of greenery on the door leading outside. “Mistletoe, my favorite.”

  “You planned that.”

  “Ah, you figured me out.” And then he leans in and the lips I’ve stared at all night, meet mine. They’re firm, yet soft, and irresistible. His tongue begs for entrance, and I open my mouth for him. And this is no mistletoe type kiss either. No this is the kind made for dark corners and naughty places.

  He steps me outside, our lips never breaking apart.

  The air between us shifts like tectonic plates and I hold onto him for fear of falling.

  “Twelve, cabin twelve,” I say against his lips.

  “Mine’s closer,” he husks back.

  We get there in the blink of an eye. In a rush, he opens the door, and then pulls me close, kissing me once again.

  This is all very surreal. Normally, I wouldn’t do this with a stranger, I’m a get to know you first kind of girl, but I want him. I’ve never been with a man who makes me feel so weak in the knees. As if he knows what he’s doing to my body, he lifts me over the threshold and kicks the door shut.

  We’re a mad rush of lust driven hands, kissing and groping down the hallway, leaving a trail of clothes along the hardwoods.

  His cabin is an exact replica of mine, so I know we’re headed straight to the master suite.

  We fall to the bed, tumbling between the covers. “I’m not going to be very gentle with you tonight,” he says, between kisses.

  “Do whatever you want.”

  He leans over, producing a condom out of thin air. I rip the foil with my teeth and watch as he rolls it down his hard length.

  He spreads my legs, licking his lips as his eyes trail down my body. I need him inside me right now. And it’s like he can read my mind, because he holds the thick head of his steel cock at my entrance and pushes deep with one thrust, stretching and filling me. “Fuck,” he groans out.

  He pumps his hips, and I move against him, with him, and together we push and pull, tugging and holding onto each other.

  “Don’t stop,” I whisper over and over.

  My body thrums with a want—a need—it’s never had before. He kisses along my neck, then across my collarbone, and ends at my nipple.

  “You have perfect tits,” he murmurs against my skin, biting the stiff peak, as he hits that special spot inside me.

  No one has ever hit that spot. My body rises and falls, closer and closer to my orgasm, closer to tumbling over the cliff with him. His hair is magical, thick and soft—tuggable. My fingers pull and clinch the strands to bring him closer. Like a vice, my legs tighten around his waist.

  “That’s right, take my cock.” He pumps harder, hammering into me with determination. “Tell me you like the way I fuck your pussy.”

  I don’t even have time to blush at the dirty talk he wants me to do, I just blurt it out, wanting to please him. Because he sure knows how to please me. It’s insane the way he’s working my body like he owns it.

  “God, you’re so tight. Your sweet, little pussy feels so good.”

  Oh damn, I can’t handle his mouth. It makes me wetter, more turned on, if that’s even possible. I trail my nails down his back, digging them in as my body gets so close to shattering in a sexplosion.

  “You going to come for me?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I pant.

  “I want to feel your little pussy get off on my dick.” He keeps pumping, fucking me as the headboard thrashes into the wall. “Come on me.”

  His words send me over the edge. I come and come, breathing out of control.

  He moans, pumping faster, until his orgasm crashes through him shortly after mine.

  “Fuck,” he says, dropping down beside me.

  His skills have left me speechless, so I stare at the endless loop of the wooden ceiling fan blades until I catch my breath, until awkwardness settles over my naked body. Now what? Do I say thanks and leave?

  My sex high crashes, and I scoot off the bed and rush to the adjoining bathroom. Toiletries litter the marble countertop. Instead of snooping to see what products make him so perfect, I splash cool water over my heated face, and take a deep breath. I fix my fresh fucked hair, clean up, and wrap one of the resort’s towels around my body before heading back into his room to say goodbye. I’ve never had a one-night stand before, but this is pretty much how they go in movies and books. One and done.

  He lies face down when I return. The white sheet clings low on his hips, leaving his spectacular back on display. Corded muscles ripple beneath skin my fingers already itch to touch again, so I do.

  “Hey,” I poke his back with a finger to see if he’s asleep, “are you awake?”

  He flips over with a lazy smile. “Come back to bed with me.” His voice is deep, sexy, and sends a shot of adrenaline racing through me.

  The clock reads midnight, chastising me and reminding me I have an important day tomorrow. As tempting as it is, I can’t risk my future for another ride on the One-Night Stand Express. If I get back to my cabin now, I can possibly go over my notes before I shower and get to sleep. God, the man is sexy, though.

  He stretches a muscled arm above his head, waiting.

  “I have to go.” The words are like razors coming out of my mouth, but this is what I have to do. I have a reason for being here and getting off is not one of them.

  He doesn’t say anymore, just rises from the bed in all his naked glory. For a moment, I gawk at the beauty of the chiseled abs and perfect vee leading down to the manscaped part of him that is still semi-hard, memorizing every part of him.

  I turn away and find my clothes, quickly dress, and go on a quest for my shoes. Talk about the awkwardness being back tenfold. I don’t even know what to say to him. ‘Hey, thanks for the stress reliever?’ I can’t say that. I can’t even think that.

  Because this was so much more than that. This was better than any sex I’ve ever had in my twenty-eight years, but again, I can’t let some stranger know he just upended my world.

  Oh my God. I just had sex with a stranger. I don’t know anything about him. I know he hates Christmas and really likes nails scratching down his back and makes the best orgasm face known to man, but I’m not sure that counts.

  “I think they’re by the front door.”

  I spin around to face the stranger, now semi-clothed in just a pair of well-worn jeans. All men should take instructions on how to wear jeans from him. The undone button makes me debate for a moment if I should take him up on his offer of getting back in the bed.

  Instead, I slip into my heels, and smile. “I had a really nice time.”

  He stalks closer. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I really have to get going.”
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  He gives a little nod, and I want to ask for his number, or email, or something, but I don’t. Because, that’s not how a one-night stand works.

  I walk out of the cabin and leave my sexy stranger behind.

  Chapter 2

  Zoe

  “Hurt your leg, Miss Walters?” the front desk clerk inquires as I hobble across the lobby to refill my coffee while I wait to meet with the owner, Mr. Steele.

  “Just a little kink,” I tell her.

  It’s more than a kink, though—it’s a full-on sex strain. Karma is not on my side today. Not only did I oversleep this morning, that spectacular sexcapade last night left me with sore muscles in places I never knew I had muscles. Hence the slight limp.

  “You can go on back,” she informs me, a few minutes later. “Just down the hall, last door on the left, is the conference room.”

  “Thank you.” I set my mug down, after taking another sip to energize me, and grab my notes.

  I can do this. I have a degree in marketing; if anyone can sell this soap, I can. There’s no way they can turn down my presentation. My red silk shirt is my power tie as I walk down the wide hallway, giving myself every type of pep talk known to man.

  Before I enter the room, I take a deep breath and open the door with a forced smile on my face.

  “Good morning,” I address the two people seated at the long rectangular table.

  “Hello, Miss Walters,” Liv, the woman with whom I set up the meeting, greets me. “Mr. Steele stepped out for a moment. He’ll be right back.”

  In the interim, she introduces me to Mark Feinstein, a burly man with a distracting mustache and a buyer for the resort.

  I smile and shake his paw-like hand.

  The door opens, and my entire sales pitch leaves my brain faster than I spread my sore legs for the man standing before me in an orgasmic black suit that clings to his broad shoulders like my hands did last night. This can’t be happening; my stranger is Graham Steele.

  “Good morning,” I say, hiding my shock behind a tight-lipped smile.

  “Morning. Let’s get started.”

  He takes a seat as if last night didn’t happen. Yes, right. Be professional. There’s a reason I’m here—an important one—and it’s not to admire how his skillful hands thumb through the packet of papers in front of him. I reach in my leather bag and assemble my materials on the table. My go to trick of imagining everyone naked, to ease my nervousness, is definitely not going to work in this scenario, and I silently will my hands not to shake.

  Mr. Steele’s eyes follow me as I pass out a sample of lavender soap with an evergreen sprig embedded. Everyone takes a sniff, except Mr. Steele. Instead, he sets his soap aside, and twines his fingers together, placing them on the table in front of him.

  “Miss Walters,” he starts, “why don’t you tell us a bit about your soaps.”

  “Um, absolutely.” His eyes track the movement of my hand as I push up the purely fashionable glasses slipping down my nose.

  I begin my presentation with my backstory, how my grandmother owned her own candle company, and how I experimented with candle making and then became fascinated with soaps. None did everything I wanted. Some smelled sweet, but left my skin feeling dry all over. Others felt great, but had no scents. So, I wanted one that could clean, soothe, moisturize, and smelled like any place I could imagine: the beach, the mountains, clean sheets and a rainy afternoon. The possibilities are endless.

  While I hand out a pamphlet on my small business, website, and sales projections, I tell them how I branched off into lotions, lip balms, and bath gels, each handcrafted in my home.

  This nugget of information impresses Liv, and she smiles wide. I smile back, knowing I’ve got her on my side. Mr. Steele is another story. His eyes burn into me with the same fire they incinerated me with last night. When I’m done, I finally sit, and squeeze my thighs together to quench the ache inside me.

  “This soap smells divine.” Liv takes a long whiff of an oval bar. “What is that?”

  “It’s sandalwood. I have so many different scents.” I grab my bag, opening the front pocket to pull out a variety of scent cards and hand them over to her.

  Each bar of soap has an original ‘calling card’ scent—a smidge of finely ground coffee beans—which I won’t ever disclose. Kind of like a secret ingredient.

  Liv passes the cards to Mr. Steele, and I watch as he brings a card close to his perfect nose. His eyes bore into mine as a small smile graces his lips.

  I try so hard not to smile back.

  “Can you imprint the company goat logo onto the bar?” Mark inquires after the scent cards are handed to him.

  “Absolutely. I can make a stamp, which I can place into each bar upon production.”

  Before I can get into numbers, the door opens, and a woman with red hair twirled into a bun on top of her head, enters.

  “Mr. Steele, sorry to interrupt, but there’s been some damage from the storm last night.”

  “Damage?” He rises from his seat, and I can see my meeting is now finished.

  “The roads at the base of the mountain are blocked, and they’re not sure when they’ll be able to get them cleared,” she explains.

  “What do you mean blocked?” Liv asks with concern, standing.

  I grab my bag, and follow everyone out the door.

  “The storm created an avalanche on Briar’s Pass, and there’s some downed trees blocking the road,” the woman says.

  “Ok, Maggie, do a wellness check on everyone,” Mr. Steele instructs. “Make sure we don’t have any emergencies that need off the mountain immediately. We’re ok on supplies to be holed up here for a few days. Let the guests due to checkout know they won’t be leaving today.”

  I trail behind listening as he doles out instructions to call the sheriff and ask for a timeframe on when the roads will be operational. I’m supposed to be at my mom’s at five, so this isn’t going to work for me.

  “I won’t be able to stay,” I say, realizing I don’t really have the money to book a cabin for another night.

  “Non-negotiable,” he tells me. “Maggie, re-book Miss Walters in her cabin, on us, until the roads are open.”

  “Thank you.” I’d love to fight his generosity, but I can’t afford it right now. Plus, I can see this is a battle I’m not going to win. I excuse myself and head back into the conference room to grab my things.

  When I turn to leave, Graham leans against the door frame. “I’m sorry we can’t finish your presentation.”

  I wave him off, thankful he didn’t bring up our fuckfest. “It’s ok, Mr. Steele.”

  “Graham.”

  Should it feel weird calling the man I had sex with last night by his first name? “Thank you, Gra- Mr. Steele.”

  He leans closer. “I think after last night you can call me by my first name now.”

  Avoiding his mention of our tryst, I reach in my bag for a sample of my soap. “Just do me a favor.” I step closer, holding it out. “Try this tonight when you take a shower.”

  The left corner of his lips lift into a sexy smirk, as his fingers curl around mine, silently tempting me to join him in the shower for a two-night stand. Even though I’d really love to lather him up and lick his skin dry, I step away.

  Fate sucks. Last night it was fine when I didn’t know he’s the man who holds one of the largest accounts I could possibly ever acquire. Now I do. This would be huge for my company—my soapany—so I tamp down my overwhelming desire to lather up his muscular body and think about my future instead of my vagina.

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “Right.” His eyes darken, growing narrow as he stares right through me. “I’ll let you know what we decide.”

  “Have a good day, Graham.” I brush past him and curse fate for screwing me. Literally.

  Chapter 3

  Graham

  If Santa were real, I know exactly what I’d ask for—Zoe’s sweet pussy. Unfortunately, there’s no Santa,
and it looks like I won’t be getting to enjoy her anytime soon. The cardinal rule is no mixing business with pleasure. I had no idea the beautiful jaded elf was a potential supplier. Fucking figures. I can’t really confirm that would’ve stopped me had I known, but judging by the look on her face when I walked in, she had no idea either and it certainly would’ve stopped her. I should be making sure everyone in this resort is safe, not replaying sex with Zoe over and over in my head.

  I came up here to get away, not meet someone new. Try telling that to my dick, though.

  After changing into a black sweater and jeans, I shrug into my coat and step from the warmth of my cabin, back into the frigid, ice-cold air. Mounds of freshly plowed snow line the walkways connecting the cabins to the main building as I wander around the property.

  A pink knit hat in the parking lot, covering long dark tresses, catches my eye. Zoe, her previous sexy as sin black business skirt and heels now replaced with jeans and calf-high boots, stands by a black Camry, loading her suitcase into the trunk.

  “What are you doing?” I call out, making my way over to her car.

  “Leaving.” She smiles and brushes past me, throwing her purse into the front seat.

  I grab the door. “You can’t leave. I thought I made that clear?”

  “Well I thought about it,” she grabs the door, and stares into my eyes with something akin to panic, “and, I have to get off this mountain.”

  I smile at her dramatics. “Well, that’s impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible if you try hard enough.” She jerks the car door from my hold.

  “You sound like a motivational poster.” She doesn’t think that’s funny. “I prefer the demotivational ones, they’re more accurate.”

  She scrunches her face at me. “Demotivational?”

  “Yeah, like overconfidence. The cat walking toward the eagle,” I explain, “and a little tagline saying ‘This is going to end in disaster. And you have no one to blame but yourself.’”

  She jerks the door. “Like I said, nothing’s impossible.”