by Elaina Jadin
I draw my knuckles across her cheek, loving the way she flinches ever so slightly. “Tell me, what are you thinking about?”
The muscles of her throat contract as she swallows hard. “I’m wondering what you’re going to do.”
I’ve never been in the business of taking suggestions, and I’m damn sure not about to start now, but that nervous energy in her voice makes my cock ache, so I ask, “What would you like me to do?”
“Whatever you want, sir.” Her answer is immediate.
She’s a fast learner, trying to please me with her submission, but that’s not the only thing I want from her tonight. I slide my hand up between her breasts until I reach her neck, and wrap my strong fingers around her throat. I glide my lips across the soft, pale flesh of her cheek, breathing in the scent of her.
“It will be whatever I want,” I remind her while tightening my grip, my fingers digging into her soft skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”
Her body trembles at the growl in my voice, but I don’t relent. I only squeeze harder at her hesitation. She’ll learn she cannot hide from me.
“Tell me.” I demand, even though I already know the answer—I can feel it in the way her pulse beats under my fingers, in the scent of her skin, in the way her breath catches when I lean closer. But I need her to say it aloud, to hear the anxious edge in her voice as she confesses the need tearing at her soul.
“I want you to make me come,” she murmurs.
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, but the rest of her goes as still as a statue, waiting for my response. Waiting to see if I approve of her confession.
A small, deep hum of satisfaction rises from my throat as I trail my lips along her jaw to the delicate skin beneath her ear. I can still smell Bishop on her, his feral musk lingering strongly on her skin, the pheromones of a wolf at the height of agitation. He must have been very worked up, indeed.
“And how would you like me to do that?” I nuzzle her earlobe, closing my lips around it and letting my teeth graze across her flesh as she shivers against me.
I’ve been thinking about all the things I want to do with her from the moment Bishop strolled into my office this morning smelling like her. The asshole didn’t shower on purpose, knowing her scent would drive me fucking crazy. Very little gets under my skin, but Bishop—he loves to taunt me however he can. It’s one of his favorite games, coming only second behind rewarding an enemy with a nice slow torture to the death.
“I… I don’t care, I just want you to touch me,” she breathes, a plea in her whisper.
“Show me,” I tell her, sliding my fingers under her palms and lifting them from the desk. She’s obediently kept her hands exactly where I placed them earlier. Good girl. “Show me how you want to be touched.”
Her bottom lip tucks between her teeth as I let go of her, leaving her hands resting on her thighs. Her fingers twitch under my expectant gaze, but still she hesitates.
I level my face with hers and even though she can’t see me through the blindfold, the irritation in my expression is clear. “You must think I’m a patient man—but if you keep me waiting, you’ll learn how mistaken you are.”
Finally she slides a hand between her legs and lightly grazes her clit. “Here,” she murmurs.
She starts to move her hand away, but I clear my throat and she freezes instantly. “I didn’t ask where, little fawn. I said show me. Put your fingers back where they belong.”
She obeys, returning her hand to cover the soft mound of curls. After a moment, she hesitantly sweeps across her clit with soft strokes. I watch, hunger growing inside me as she touches herself.
“You want me to touch you like that, nice and slow?”
“Yes,” she says with a soft nod, then quickly adds, “At first.”
Her fingers pause their demonstration, but I’m not finished enjoying the show. “Keep going,” I demand.
My gaze shifts languidly from the delicious view between her legs to her pretty face, noting the lovely flush of heat on her skin and the way her soft lips press together then part. A ravenous smile curls on my lips as her fingers work faster and her chest shudders with a heavy breath.
As pleasing as it is to watch her, it’s not enough. Soon, I won’t be able to resist touching her, too. But for now, I crave her innermost thoughts. She is my property, and I want access to all of her—physically and mentally.
My fingers dance lightly, teasingly along her inner thighs as I say, “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
Her reply is a sweet whisper. “You.”
I purse my lips with a sigh of disappointment. Her cleverness and adaptability has served her well, I’ll give her that. She’s learned to handle the insufferable egos of men by telling them what they want to hear. But I am not one of her foolish clients, and I have no tolerance for anything less than complete disclosure.
Leaning closer, my voice is calm, the very opposite of the storm brewing inside me. “You wouldn’t dare withhold anything from me, would you?”
Her rhythm falters momentarily, then her fingers stop completely, and worry colors her expression. She draws in an unsteady breath, but says nothing, and I lay my hand on her knee as a warning.
“No,” she assures me quickly with a little shake of her head.
“But I’m not the only one making you wet, am I? You’re thinking of Bishop, too.”
“No, only you, sir.” The lie slides off her tongue quickly, but she can’t hide the nervous swallow she makes, or the spike of adrenaline my nose easily detects. Even though her eyes are hidden behind the makeshift blindfold, she bows her head, trying to hide from me as the words linger in the air.
I wait a moment—and only a moment—for her to correct the lie, but she remains silent. So be it, then. A small squeak escapes her as my fingers dig into the sides of her knee, squeezing hard.
“Don’t fuck with me, Fawn.” I hammer my fist down on the desk, and the sound ricochets through the room as my words come out as a snarl. “I will not be lied to.”
Normally, retribution for half truths and clumsy attempts to pacify me would be swift and brutal, but tonight there are other, more primal needs calling for my attention. I let my gaze drift back to between her legs. My length pulses at the sight, demanding to be uncaged from the confines of my slacks.
She trembles slightly, and that cloak of apprehension wafting off her grows stronger, but she takes a deep breath and lifts her chin before admitting, “I’m… I’m thinking of you both.”
I relax my grip and release her knee, even as a possessive growl rumbles in my throat. I was the one who suggested Bishop get acquainted with our new guest. And I said he could punish her if warranted.
But I didn’t invite him to fuck her.
I also didn’t tell him not to. That’s on me.
Not that it matters. What he did or didn’t do with her shouldn’t interest me in the slightest, much less make resentment course through my veins like a fuse racing toward a powder keg.
My jaw is set firm as I strain to tamp down the irritation that bristles through my muscles. I’ve never given a fuck about sharing a woman before. And not once have I ever cared if Bishop or Kade get their fill of a new beta first.
They have as much right to her as I do, but a surge of possession floods through me anyway. It also makes my cock stand at attention and my focus sharpen, like an assassin on the hunt, as though I’ve got a score to settle.
Temptation may have been delivered to my doorstep, but I, Draven Kildare, head Alpha of the Blackfang Barons, will not be made maudlin by a mere fucking human. Envy will never weaken me. Sin is the fuel I thrive on. I embrace it, play with it, and twist it into that which serves me.
Because here, in this kingdom, I’m the devil.
Jemma shifts nervously on the desk and tugs at the edges of her satin robe. Before she can pull the sides together, I grasp her hands and lower them to her thighs.
“Oh, I’m not finished with you,” I tell her. “We�
�re just getting started this evening.”
I slide my hands up her inner thighs, and she tenses in anticipation. Then I slowly stroke one finger through her soft folds, loving the glimpse of deep pink I reveal and the way her body twitches as I do. Her silken moisture coats my finger as I trail down to her entrance and pause there, teasing her with a languid sweeping circle of my finger.
She becomes utterly still under my touch, her breath caught in her chest, waiting. Wanting.
I’ll give her the reward I’ve promised, and with it, the release she craves, but it will come at a cost. First, she must give me what I want—a complete confession, for starters. And then, the pleasure of that sweet, hungry mouth.
I sweep across her clit, gratified with how she wiggles on the desk, straining to press herself against my hand. “Put your hand back here,” I tell her.
She does as told, pleasuring herself under my watchful gaze. But she won’t be doing it alone. Moving my hand lower, I push a finger inside her, and I’m rewarded with the loveliest little moan. My length becomes rock hard as her velvety warmth grips me, greedy for more.
Goddamn, she feels so fucking nice.
I thrust inside her, slow and firm, watching every nuance of her enjoyment—the gorgeous little gasps, the tremble of her thighs, the way she bites her lip as our hands work in harmony.
After a moment, I slip another finger inside her and begin working them in and out of her tight channel, my pace increasing as she rocks her hips in rhythm, begging for me to go faster and harder.
My voice is deep and husky as I ask, “Do you remember how it felt to have Bishop’s thick cock inside you?”
Her pussy clenches at my question, giving away the answer before she breathes, “Yes.”
Withdrawing my fingers from between her legs, I raise them to her face and lightly rub across her lips. Her mouth parts for me, but I don’t push inside.
Instead, I suck her warm juices from my fingers then lean down and lick the glistening moisture from her lips, savoring the taste of her. She presses into my touch and lets out a sultry breath that has my stomach tightening and a snarl forming in my throat.
She reaches for me as I pull away, searching for more, wanting my kiss. But I grasp her hands before she can touch me, lowering them to the hard surface of the desk once more. She will learn patience during our time together. Things will move at my pace—and I’m an insufferable bastard who likes to take my time.
“These bruises,” I begin, brushing my fingers over the dark marks along the tops of her thighs, tracing them across to the edge of her hip, “they’re from Bishop?”
“They’re from the table,” she tells me, as though she’s worried about getting Bishop in trouble.
Her concern makes me chuckle softly. Bishop only does discipline one way—he doles out punishment slow and harsh, relishing in every ounce of agony he elicits. Anyone who’s ever tried it the other way around is no longer breathing. We have our disagreements, but he’s keenly aware of where the line is with me. And he knows better than to ever cross it.
I press my thumb against one of the bruises and she draws in a sharp breath. “You wouldn’t be trying to dance around the truth, would you, Fawn? I’ve warned you about lying to me.”
“I didn’t lie. I was against a table,” she says, her chin tipped upward with a hint of a haughty curl to her lips. Then immediately she lowers her head as though I’m going to admonish her for speaking out, and her voice softens into almost a whisper. “It got… rough.”
Of course it did. Bishop is infuriatingly calm, calculating, and standoffish—to a point. And apparently he reached his tipping point with Jemma. When he lets go, he’s a tidal wave.
Reaching behind her head, I undo the knot there and pull the tie away from her eyes. She blinks at me then drops her gaze submissively as I give her a hard stare.
“Was that a complaint, Fawn? About it being rough?”
“No, sir.” She shakes her head before darting a glance at me. “I liked it that way.”
I nod, pleased with her forthrightness, but her answer provokes another question in my mind, one born of curiosity from the dark, devilish side of me. She longs for pain and dominance. I wonder what else she might crave.
Our betas crave the full release of an alpha wolf. We deny them, of course. There’s a reason none of us have ever taken a mate. Our solitary lives have kept us strong. Focused. Ruthless.
We cannot abide the distraction of a mate. We have an entire pack to be mindful of, not to mention a sprawling empire of illicit businesses that afford us all the luxuries we could ever want for, and an ever-growing list of enemies who would love to spill our blood.
But the instinct is relentless, and it courses through my veins like an addict craving a fix. My wolf is constantly hungry, always hunting for the female that will finally bring me to my knees and give him what he seeks. It’s a dangerous thing for me to play with, but then again, I like to live on the edge.
Jemma’s human, making it very unlikely that she could develop a drive for that bond, to experience the innate, primal energy of mating with an alpha wolf like myself, Kade, or Bishop. Still, my cock throbs at the thought, and if nothing else, I want to appease my curiosity.
I begin by asking a question I already know the answer to. “Tell me, little fawn—did Bishop come inside you?”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t answer me. Instead of speaking, she stiffens, her eyes regarding me warily, like a small animal that’s trapped.
My eyes narrow at her hesitation, my heart pounding. Surely, my brethren alpha would never initiate the ritual of claiming a mate. Especially not with a human.
Then again, Jemma’s skin is absolutely coated with Bishop’s pheromones—the kind an alpha wolf only produces during an extremely heightened state of excitement, such as during a fierce battle. Or during mating.
She flinches in front of me as a furious growl rips its way from my chest at the thought that Bishop might have done the one thing that would sow dissension and chaos between us. Confusion and fear are etched on her features, but I have no intention of explaining it to her, even if I could.
Not even I can tell which agitates me more—the audacity that he may have undermined my authority and stolen away the promise I made to Jemma, or the unbearable anger of the wolf inside me. His hackles are up, his teeth bared and thirsty for blood at the idea that Bishop may have usurped my right as the apex alpha.
And Jemma. Christ. If Bishop did… then her fate is already sealed.
Once an alpha chooses a mate, it’s for life. She would never be able to leave. But I swore she would be free to walk out of here anytime she chooses—even if it goes against my every instinct.
“Answer me,” I demand, a snarl on my breath, my hand clamping around her throat.
“No, he didn’t,” she chokes out with a quick shake of her head, her eyes wide. “I swear.”
My nostrils flare with relief and I release her, but that’s the only reaction she will get from me. I’ll let her assume my question arose entirely from jealousy—it’s much safer for her than the truth. Jemma will never know the weight her answer held, but it confirmed that all is as it should be. In a few weeks, she will have her freedom, as I promised.
Until then, she is ours.
I’m pleased that Bishop behaved himself, but that doesn’t fully slake my curiosity. With a firm grip under her chin, I raise her face until she’s forced to meet my eyes and ask my next question. “Did you want him to?”
She nods solemnly, as though she’s reluctant to tell me for fear of making me angry, and her words come out like a vow of contrition. “Yes.”
I take her answer in stride, trying to tame the excitement of my wolf. Perhaps it’s something she enjoys. “Is that what you normally like?”
Her brow furrows and she presses her lips together, as though it’s the first time she’s contemplated the topic. “No. I always made Bryan wear a condom. But with Bishop… I wanted him inside me with
out one and for him to just…” she parts her lips as if to say more, but closes it again after a second.
I raise an eyebrow but say nothing, my mind processing the full gravity of her words.
It’s very rare for a human to feel the ancient, primal call, to be affected by an alpha wolf the same way the females of our pack are. And yet, I see it in her eyes—that same raw hunger, the same overpowering desire for the alpha’s seed that brings our betas into heat.
Fuck. That explains the pheromones Bishop left on her skin. I wonder how close he was to losing control, to claiming her in ways that can’t be undone. Now that I know the full extent of the allure Jemma holds, I could almost forgive him if he had. Almost.
She’s watching me, waiting for my next move, her fingers twitching uneasily against the desk.
With this confession, she’s become a whole new level of temptation, and my wolf knows it. He’s pacing relentlessly now, demanding things I can’t allow.
Lifting my hands to her neck, I slowly trace the hollow of her throat and the delicate outline of veins visible through her pale skin. She leans into my touch, her eyes closing as I explore her slowly, buying time as I will my racing pulse to slow and my wolf to calm down.
Moving my hands apart, I push the robe off her shoulders, letting it fall down her arms and back. Her breasts are calling for my touch, and I cup my hands around them. A perfect handful, supple and soft. Jemma’s breath is light and quick, her nipples hardening under my caress.
The allure of her body is too much, and I can’t hold out anymore.
I undo my belt buckle and pull my zipper down, freeing my aching cock. Wrapping my fist around it, I stroke my hard shaft as I move my other hand to the warmth between her legs and brush my fingers against her hot, wet entrance.
She shifts, opening to me further, and I thrust two fingers inside her. Her head tips back as she lets out a gasping moan. The heat of her pussy is intense and she’s perfectly slick—so fucking wet and ready.
The idea of enjoying her that way, releasing inside her like a feral beast with a singular focus… it shouldn’t turn me on so much. It’s a dangerous path if there ever was one. It’s akin to playing with fire.
