Alphas of Seduction

by Victoria Blue

  Still, I’d do anything for one more night to taste her sweet and tender lips.

  Oh, Sofia…my body aches for you.

  Oh, Sofia…my heart breaks for you.

  Please, Sofia…tell me that you love me, too.

  The passion in his voice, as well as the pleading expression etched on his face, had her whole body trembling.

  Fear, hope, anxiety, and a strange sense of peace swirled inside her.

  Her mouth went dry. The butterflies had been replaced by an all-out tilting deep in her belly. Mesmerized by the passion flowing from Burk’s voice and body, Sofia blinked back the tears stinging her eyes.

  Peeling away her layers was dazzling…breathless.

  The memory of her beneath me leaves me restless.

  Let me show you how hard I’ve fallen.

  Will you take a chance and hold my hand?

  With you beside me, I’m a better man.

  Let me prove how hard I’ve fallen.

  This unrefined rocker has nothing to give a lady who deserves a charming prince.

  But I’d do anything for one more night to taste her sweet and tender lips.

  Oh, Sofia…my body aches for you.

  Oh, Sofia…my heart breaks for you.

  Please, Sofia…tell me that you love me, too.

  I want to spend my life with only you.

  Sofia slapped a hand to her mouth and helplessly sobbed into her palm as Burk strummed out the last sweet note. A split second later, his eyes flew open and he snapped his head in her direction. Locking his gaze to hers, he slowly stood and placed his guitar down before strolling toward her.

  She didn’t bother to brush her tears away, but she did lift her hand and quickly wipe her nose. A little smile kicked up the corners of his mouth as he quickly ate up the distance between them.

  Without a word, he lifted the leather folder from her hand and dropped it to the floor before gripping her waist and meshing their hips together.

  “I guess we’re both busted. You now know that I’ve been thinking about you for a while now as well.

  Sofia issued a watery laugh and nodded.

  A look of trepidation crawled across his face. “I just want you to know that every word I sang is true. I’ve fallen hard for you, sweetheart. I don’t expect you to tell me that you lo—”

  “But I do… I love you, Burk,” she blurted out. His expression morphed into shock.

  “You do? I thought you hated me…I-I mean…”

  “Oh, there’ve been plenty of times you’ve been a dork and I wanted to smack you upside the head. But nothing changed the way I feel about you, except…”

  The look of joy he sent her was short-lived. “Except what?”

  “Earlier, I was in the hall and I heard that woman proposition you.”

  Burk arched his brows up high. “And you think I had sex with her?”

  “Did you? I heard you invite her up to the stage.”

  “That I did.” He nodded, gazing deeply into her eyes. “And I told her that I appreciated her offer, but that I had a woman who kept me quite satisfied now and that I hoped she enjoyed the show tonight.”

  Sofia swallowed tightly as hope took flight and soared to the heavens. “You did?”

  “Yes. I’m not going to do anything stupid enough to risk losing you, sweetheart. I know you’ve seen me do some damn dumb things this past month, but there’s no other woman I want in my bed, and in my life, but you. I love you.”

  With a squeal, she wrapped her arms around his neck and grinned. “I love you, Burk Jennings. Now kiss me.”

  “Kiss me, please,” he instructed with a devilish gleam in his eyes.

  “Kiss me…please,” she repeated.

  His nostrils flared. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life seducing you, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, please do,” she moaned.

  Burk slid his fingers into her thick mane, and cinched his hand into a fist. Delightful tingles exploded over her scalp as his lips crashed down on hers in a startling, possessive kiss.

  Want more steamy stories featuring the naughty boys in the band?

  Look for Ozzy Page as he pounds more than his keyboard in: Rock Me Again – Licks of Leather, Book One, coming spring of 2019.

  About Jenna Jacob

  USA Today Bestselling author Jenna Jacob paints a canvas of passion, romance, and humor as her alpha men and the feisty women who love them unravel their souls, heal their scars, and find a happy-ever-after kind of love. Heart-tugging, captivating, and steamy, Jenna’s books will surely leave you breathless and craving more.

  Meet her wild and wicked fictional family in Jenna’s sultry series: The Doms of Genesis. Become spellbound by searing triple love connections in her continuing saga: The Doms of Her Life (co-written with the amazing Shayla Black and Isabella LaPearl). Journey with couples struggling to resolve their pasts and heal their scars to discover unbridled love and devotion in her contemporary series: Passionate Hearts. Or laugh along as Jenna lets her zany sense of humor and lack of filter run free in the romantic comedy series: Hotties of Haven.

  To be notified of new releases or sales, join Jenna’s Mailing List: Here!

  Connect with Jenna online

  Visit Jenna at JennaJacob.com!

  Chapter 1

  Brian

  For the most part, I prefer my sex anonymous. Finding willing partners has never been an issue, because frankly I adore women—petite and tiny, tall and lean, curvy and voluptuous, black, white, red, brown, yellow—I don’t care, I love them all equally. Well, as much as a man like me is capable of love, just call me an equal opportunist.

  I take pride in my bedroom skills and love giving my lover my complete and undivided attention. Bringing her to the peak of pleasure again and again is incredibly satisfying for me and I’m extremely good at it. Not a boast, just fact.

  But don’t be fooled, I’m demanding too, and for some women that hard, no-nonsense look is a real turn on as well. Some women crave the razors edge and enjoy riding that fine line between pleasure and pain. Sometimes, it’s the element of danger, the risk and uncertainty that’s irresistible, often despite the choice of someone known and safe, there for the asking.

  Some want to be used, their bodies fucked hard into oblivion until they’re so utterly sated, it’s all they can do to smile as I leave. Others want it soft and sweet, need to be coaxed into it, savored, petted and thoroughly roused until they’re clawing and screaming out their pleasure. I could go on, as the women I’ve been lucky enough to enjoy are all unique and beautiful, but you get my drift. We are all sentient beings and whether we deny or try to suppress it, doesn’t change the fact that our bodies require sexual sustenance as well.

  I guess it’s just the lack of concern for their own safety that never ceases to amaze me. Maybe we as a society have become immune to murder and rape. We live in a world where they occur so often, that the words themselves barely raise alarm. Now that’s fucking scary…

  Because I can be as intimidating as hell. You can tell I’m Special Forces, even when I’m in my biker gear and have a four-day growth on my face. Maybe it’s because there’s no softness to my body, I’m lean and strong, with muscles honed from years abroad as a professional soldier. Or maybe it’s the unmistakable cold eyes of a man whose looked death in the face more than once or twice. Yeah, they don’t all get that part, but they can see something unnerving and instead of turning tail and running the other way—I kid you not—they find it sexy as fuck. Go figure.

  Now I know what you’re thinking, that I must look like some sort of Don Juan or something. Trust me, I’m not pretty either. Unerringly ordinary, a typical jarhead you might say, I wouldn’t stand out at all in a lineup with my brothers in arms. I’ve tried to figure out what it is that attracts women, and I still haven’t the foggiest notion. Perhaps it’s chemical, a hormonal instinct. Or something more basic, like a primitive sexual call, refined by evolution. Of course, it could be nothing more than sensing
me; the moody male, built like a brick shithouse, willing to fuck a woman long and hard, with no strings attached. But whatever it is? It’s enough to draw them to me. Enough, that I rarely if ever have a need to pay a professional—not that it’s beneath me—sometimes I want the easy mindlessness with someone who knows what’s she’s doing. Working girls don’t pretend to be your friend, your mother, or your wife. They get paid to fuck, period.

  But like I was saying, whatever it is, it’s enough to let me bed her for an hour or three, sometimes even a day or two, but that’s it. I don’t do relationships and the women I hook up with, aren’t interested in making me breakfast. Getting horizontal with them for me is just fucking sex.

  I learned a long time ago not to expect more. Oh, I can make them beg and scream, usually several times over. Until their sweet hot little pussies’ cream, flutter and clamp down on my cock, making my balls churn and I’m pouring myself into latex. But when it’s done, and the dawning is chasing away the last remnants of the night before, we’re all the same. Anxious to get dressed and disappear back to wherever it is we came from.

  I remind myself that I am grateful for whatever time I get to spend with a beautiful woman, buried inside her and holding her in my arms. Because I keep those memories close, and use the heat of them to ward of the loneliness. I tell myself I don’t need more…and for years, that was actually true.

  Let’s just cut to the chase and say that the quarter acre dream of a picket fenced house with a gaggle of kids, a dog or two, and that one woman they I get to come home to every night is for other men not me. The reality of my life is as simple as it is complex; professional soldier/contractor for hire, which means that I never know if my next assignment will be my last. I don’t need or want the distraction and worry of a family. I can’t pretend to have the energy to worry about lives I don’t need or want to be responsible for, twenty-four seven. Not now and not when I am thousands of miles away, knee-deep in shit and trying like hell to keep my team alive in a hot zone. Yeah, not happening. I won’t do that to them or myself.

  So, I take the softness when I can get it, and use the memories of it to get me off when I can’t. That’s it. That’s who I am. I don’t expect or ask for more. It’s the life I chose and thought I’d always have, and I was happy enough to play my part.

  I suppose I should explain.

  I’m the second son.

  The spare, and now that the heir is dead, I’ve been recalled to live a life that I was never trained for, wanted or expected to have. I didn’t ask for this, never wanted it and have no fucking idea how to live it.

  But the family name, my estranged mother and the broke down, run down, riddled with debt property and home that I never expected to see again in this lifetime, are suddenly all mine to deal with.

  So, I’m in South Carolina, fifty miles from the home I now own, on extended leave after the latest six-month tour—a bad one that could have ended fifty ways of fucked up, yet somehow didn’t. And I find myself in a bar, tense anxious and needing to vent some battle stress with a meaningless piece of ass.

  It’s nothing fancy, one step up from a dirt parking lot dive, with decades of cigarette smoke staining the walls and ceiling and the sickly-sweet stench of spilled liquor and desperation. There’s a pool table in the corner, that has seen better years and needs leveling and new felt. A dozen or so barflies are poured along the bar, drowning their sorrows in beer and watered shots. I choose a seat that gives me an unobstructed view of the joint and signal the barmaid over. She’s late fifties I guess, with brassy hair, a hard smile and a face to match. She might have been a looker once, but too many years and too many disappointments have marked her.

  “What’ll you have?” The voice is dull, apathetic.

  A glance at the fridge behind her shows a limited choice. I pick a beer. She turns to grab it then gives me the once over as she sets the bottle down in front of me, pops the top, takes my money and moves on. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

  Pickings are slim, but there’s always a couple of prospects, even in a shithole like this. I use the mirror behind the bar to look around. It’s barely nine, and yet there’s a hen party in the corner working themselves up into a frenzy to hit on any remotely eligible looking male. Talk about walking the wild side. But I’m not interested in them; the young ones already sense possible danger and wisely choose more predictable marks. Most of the older ones with them are in protective mode though one or two slide their gaze over me, and one old gal looks almost as starving for a good banging as I am. But she’s a no-go too, I don’t need the drama and ignore the pull.

  A younger barmaid comes in from the back carrying a loaded tray with chicken wings, fries and onion rings, and drops them off at one of the tables. They smell pretty good and my belly growls. Then she spies me, and I watch with a smile, as she straightens, and thrusts out her plump chest before making her way over to where I’m sitting.

  She’s maybe thirty and easy on the eyes, a brunette with a ponytail that brushes the middle of her back. Great legs in the short shorts, and the black tank stretched across her rack accentuates the girls. I’m just sitting there, minding my own and watching her approach in the mirror, just appreciating the view, when my cock gives a lazy twitch, and it looks like our mind is made up.

  “Hi sugar, I’m Candy, would you like anything off the menu?”

  The voice is throaty and warm, she’s parked herself next to me, hip cocked to one side, making the camel-toe at her crotch all the more obvious.

  I turn on the barstool to face her, ignore the menu she’s holding out. I deliberately give her a slow once over then smile, “What’s good?”

  The interest in her eyes flares as she returns the grin, “Oh, you mean to eat, right?”

  I chuckle, she’ll do nicely. Cute with a sense of humor. Perfect. We’ll have fun. “Candy, huh? I like that. What do you recommend?”

  “The burgers are good, I—” she begins, then stops when I let her glimpse the hunger. Right there…oh yeah, I watch as she licks her lips, has a brain fart for a second, then composes herself enough to rattle off the menu which takes less than a minute. I suppress my triumphant grin and order a burger with fries. She’s flustered now, uncertain whether she got a mixed signal or not. I wait until she is just turning away, then ask her soft and low,

  “What time do you get off?”

  With only the briefest hesitation, she turns back to me her face beaming, “In about an hour? Where are we going?”

  I reach out and grasp her elbow, my little finger stroking lightly, feel the tremor and draw her closer long enough to say, “Somewhere private, seems my sweet tooth is craving a little candy rush.”

  She all but purrs in delight. Her eyes glitter with a knowing smile, and it’s a done deal. A quick nod and she’s sashaying those hot pins of hers back to the kitchen. I zone out to wait, indifferent now to the sounds of those around me.

  Then she walked in and changed my whole damn world.

  Chapter 2

  Georgia

  I know I shouldn’t be at this dive bar. But growing up as the eldest of triplets, and having two sisters who are far more adventurous and out-going, I felt the need to break out of my mold.

  I guess I should start at the beginning, we’ll be twenty-five next Saturday. I’m Georgia, the eldest by seven minutes, which is probably why I’m the responsible one. I have a job that I love, my motorcycle, and my sisters…and I’m the only one who is still a virgin. It shouldn’t even be a big deal, but when we talk, and they start elaborating on their experiences with men, I have nothing, absolutely nothing worthwhile to add.

  Oh, I’ve had a couple of near misses or chances, depending on your point of view, but something always stopped me and it’s amazing how everything comes crashing to an abrupt halt when you say ‘No.’ I’m always grateful at the time, but afterward, looking back, I always wonder what would have happened if…?

  I should have taken care of it in College, but I was on a mis
sion to get my degree. So while my sisters were out partying, I had my nose stuck in books. Lil’ Miss Goody-Two-Shoes…When they took off for holidays with friends, I opted to stay and work instead, and interned with Simeon & Taylor Architects. I was taking a fine arts degree, and discovered I had a talent for architecture that quickly became an all-consuming passion. Once I knew what I wanted, I focused completely on my goal. And Simeon & Taylor? Only the most sought after and renown firm this side of the Mississippi, head hunted me the minute I graduated. I’ve been with them nigh on three years now. I love my job, it’s exciting!

  My sisters eventually figured out where they were headed too, and actually settled down enough in college to pursue careers in medicine. Tallulah or Lulu, as we call her, the middle sister, is half way through her training as a radiologist. Youngest sister, Shelby is a speech therapist.

  Funny thing was, most people in our college days, thought they were identical twins, not two of three, as I was so rarely with them.

  Anyway, they think it’s hysterical that I, as the eldest, am also the old maid. In fact, they’ve given me such grief over the years about it that I’ve actually decided to take matters into my own hands, and do something about my pesky virginity.

  So I waited for my opportunity until both of my sisters had disappeared for the weekend—we live together, and though I knew I’d share all the gory details afterwards, I had no interest in them thwarting my plans ahead of time. I packed a knapsack, stowed it in the side saddle of the bike and went to get ready.

  The plan was simple, pick up some guy in a bar or a dance club, not too close to home, and preferably not a creep, then go with him somewhere private and let him fuck my brains out. Short, simple, problem solved, end of story. He becomes a footnote in my history, and I move on with the rest of my life as an experienced woman, ready to take on the world.