The Alpha's Touch Boxed Set (14 Book Bundle)

by Taylor, Tawny

  She wonders where he went last night. She is sure that he has a lover outside, perhaps an older one. Perhaps he is someone’s kept boy.

  How salacious!

  “Can I go pee?” she asks him after two hours of sprawling like this. Her elbow is starting to ache.

  “OK. That’s enough for today anyway. Come on, I’ll take you shopping.”

  She gets up. “I want to see what you painted.”

  “No.” He quickly drapes a cloth over the unfinished canvas. “You can’t see it until I’ve finished. It’s one of the rules.”

  “You do realize I’m staying here, right? When you are out on one of your nightly excursions, I can take a peek.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “How so?”

  “Because you have integrity.”

  “Why do you say that?” Integrity isn’t something she thinks she’s saddled with. Not with what happened back home.

  “Because underneath it all, you’re a good person. You don’t think you are, and that’s why you won’t tell me what or who you’re running from. But you really are a good person. You have an aura about you.”

  “You can look at mystical auras?” She laughs.

  “I have my ways. Once I’ve cleaned my brushes, we can go.” He picks up his palette and smiles at her.

  Her heart leaps a little despite her trying to control it. She will have to watch out for herself where Devon is concerned. She can’t afford to have any ties here lest she has to run again.

  *

  He takes her shopping in Greenwich Village, because he is sure she would like the more arty styles there.

  “How much did that posing session buy me?” she asks, picking up a ripped pair of vintage jeans.

  “Not enough for what you’re spending.”

  “Oh, should I limit myself? I will have to pose every day then to make up my new wardrobe. Or else, you can just give me your credit card.”

  “You wish.” He laughs.

  She realizes how much she enjoys shopping with him. He is not impatient, like some of the boys she knows. She enjoys trying on a garment and parading it in front of him. Because he has an artist’s eye, he can fully embrace how it looks on her. He is always thinking two steps ahead, visualizing her attire to see if it looks good on canvas.

  She enjoys the way women of all ages give him the elevator look – checking him out from head to toe. He seems to be oblivious to it. Or perhaps he is so used to people admiring his beauty that he doesn’t notice it anymore.

  When they have finished shopping, she has a bagful of clothes and a hefty tab to repay him.

  “That will be worth ten sittings at least,” he pronounces.

  She doesn’t want to tell him that she would have posed for him for free.

  They seal off the day by having dinner at Little Italy. He takes her to a place where they serve scrumptious ravioli, basked in the light of a single candle at their table. She feels her tension snaking away from her in droves. She can almost forget all her problems.

  As she spoons the ravioli into her mouth, he suddenly grabs hold of her free hand, resting on the table. She snatches it back, but not before he sees the burns on her palm.

  “Who did that to you?” he says accusingly.

  “No one. Accident. Touched a boiling kettle.”

  “You can tell me.” His beautiful eyes are soft, but challenging.

  She shakes her head.

  He sighs, but lets her be.

  When they finish and he pays the bill, he says. “I have to go out. I’ll accompany you back to the apartment.”

  “Who’s this secret girlfriend of yours?” she asks.

  “What makes you think I have a girlfriend?”

  “Because you are so secretive about it.” She snatches the bill from him. “Wow, at the rate I owe you, I would have to be posing nude well into the New Year.”

  He laughs heartily.

  They take the subway back to his apartment. Once again in the bedroom, she watches him as he changes into something black and sexy that shows off his shoulders and arms to magnificent effect.

  “Will you be OK?” he asks.

  “Sure. Will you be coming back tonight?”

  He hesitates, and then says, “No. I don’t think so. You can use the bed.”

  I intend to, she thinks.

  She watches his back wistfully as he leaves the apartment.

  PAIN

  Devon is wary as enters the well-kept apartment building in Soho. The doorman who wears livery and the nametag of ‘Horsch’ eyes him up and down with an air of distaste.

  “Good evening,” Devon says to him, always polite. Horsch knows exactly why Devon is here and what he does for a living.

  Horsch does not deign to return the greeting. He merely sneers. “I s’pose you’d be wanting to go up to Ms. Krieg.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Horsch assumes a bored expression as he picks up the phone and stabs a series of numbers. “Ms. Krieg? Fella here to see you.” Pause. “What’s his name, you ask?” He swings to Devon. “What’s your name?”

  He does this every time, Devon knows, even though they have been through this at least thirty times over the past year.

  “Devon Fisher,” he says politely.

  “He says he’s a Devon Fisher. He ain’t bring no pizza, Ms.”

  Devon clenches his jaw, but refuses to let Horsch rile him. It will be much worse later.

  “OK, you’ve got it, Ms. Krieg.” Horsch puts down the phone and reluctantly leads Devon to the elevator. He swipes a card from his pocket on a sensor and punches Floor 22 on a silver console beside the deck of elevator cars.

  As Devon sidesteps him to go into the waiting car, Horsch says, “The likes of you disgust me. Good-looking woman like Ms. Krieg should be dating a real man. They should be payin’ her for the privilege, you know what I mean?”

  Devon knows exactly what he means. He has heard the way Horsch talks to Rachel Krieg, all slick ooze and smarmy. Horsch would probably do anything to get into Rachel’s pant if she would give him the time of day.

  The elevator doors hiss shut on Horsch’s still sneering face. Devon rides it all the way up to the twenty-second floor. The doors open, and he walks with trepidation to Apartment 22. How apt: 22-22.

  He rings the doorbell. The woman who answers it is a Valkyrie – tall, blonde and stunning.

  “Rachel,” he acknowledges her carefully.

  “You’re late,” she quips, holding the door open. “You’ll be punished for that.”

  A prickle of unease slides down his spine as he steps in. Of all his commissions, she is the one he fears most. He wonders how she can be friends with Claire. They are apparently gym buddies, but they are as like as chalk to cheese.

  He remembers the day Claire introduced him to Rachel. They were sitting at a smoky bar. He was ill at ease. He was still new to the job and had yet to come to grips with it. But it’s necessary if you want to keep on painting, he told himself.

  Claire had always treated him with a hint of amusement, like a pet, when they were out in public. It was only when they were in bed that she became the contrite submissive to his alpha male. But in public, the situation was reversed. Claire was dominant and aggressive and very much the rich lawyer’s society matron.

  Claire bought him a drink at the bar. It was a post-sex drink, and she was restless that night. She was on a high and she wanted to go out clubbing instead of spooning against him in bed, which he much rather preferred. He wasn’t much of a party animal, but since she was paying for his time, he was literally bound to go with whatever she wanted.

  His drink was a margarita. He tentatively dipped the tip of his tongue to the side of the glass to lick off the salt crystals, which he liked. The bar was one of those glowing paneled types. The stools were high and the bar itself was a smorgasbord of bottles and glasses hanging from their stems.

  A very tall woman sidled over to them and eyed him speculatively.


  “New toy, Claire? Robbing the cradle, aren’t we?”

  Claire was slightly tipsy from the two vodka martinis she had downed. “He’s twenty-one, just in case you’re asking, Rachel.”

  “My point precisely.” Rachel’s sharp blue eyes raked his face and body, seeming to penetrate his tight clothes. He was wearing denim, and the top two buttons of his shirt as well as his jeans were undone. She reached out with her sharp fingernails and seized his chin. She turned his head this way and that.

  “Excuse me,” Devon said uncomfortably. He batted her hand away from his face, but gently. It never would do to annoy a potential customer or a friend of a regular customer. He got most of his referrals from Claire.

  “How much does he charge?” Rachel said, licking her lower lip.

  The bartender overheard and grinned as he wiped the inside of a tall glass. He glanced at Devon with a knowing look. Devon felt exactly like the two-bit hustler he was. He flushed with embarrassment and looked away.

  “Five hundred for the night,” Claire replied.

  “All night? He’s pretty. Very pretty.”

  Rachel’s hand snaked out to touch his hair. Devon steeled himself not to flinch. This is what a prized bull must feel like in a meat market, he thought.

  “You want to come home with me, pretty boy?” Rachel said. Her finger trailed down the side of his face.

  Devon glanced at Claire, and she nodded. “Go ahead. We’re finished for the night.”

  “That will be another five hundred,” he said to Rachel.

  “Done,” she said, never taking her eyes off his face. That same finger traced his jawline and down the middle of his throat, burning his skin. “Come.”

  Rachel was the first woman to make him feel like an absolute sexual object and nothing else. A whore. And for the first time, the veracity of what he was doing struck home.

  *

  In the present, he follows Rachel into the bowels of her deep apartment. She is obviously rich, as can be seen from the collectibles that adorn the surfaces and recesses in the walls. Antique vases and jars and miniature snuff bottles are everywhere, lit by well-placed and unseen lights. He always has the impression that he is entering a museum.

  She doesn’t lead him into the bedroom but to another room down the corridor. She calls this her playroom. It is hidden behind a black door, and she unlocks this. The cleaning lady who comes every other day is not allowed in here.

  “Go in,” she orders.

  He knows the rote.

  Once in, he starts to strip, as is expected of him. Her burning eyes bore into every segment of his body. Although she has seen his body many times, he still feels embarrassed. Perhaps it’s because she makes him seem less than human – nothing but a sexual plaything to be toyed with and discarded.

  Once he is naked, his cock stands erect. He can always get it up, no matter the occasion, thanks to his relative youth.

  “One thousand dollars,” he says, bracing himself.

  “Later.”

  “No. Now.” It’s the only time he can be forceful in this whole interlude.

  She has the money ready, as always. She hands it to him in ten one hundred dollar bills, and he slips them gratefully into his jeans pocket.

  She holds up an outfit. “Get into this.”

  She is always ready for him. The pieces are laid out like that for a party.

  She watches him as he slips into it. With these kinds of outfits, you never knew which appendage went into which hole. The outfit is made of part leather and part PVC. Except for its gleaming buckles, the material is entirely in black.

  When he has finished dressing, most of his body is bared. Black strips crisscross his chest, abdomen and back, leaving his penis, scrotum and buttocks naked and protuberant. Leather bands with metal studs circle his neck and wrists.

  He feels exposed and very vulnerable.

  The room is filled with bondage paraphernalia. Bondage racks and furniture are strategically placed amidst rods and dangling hooks and harnesses.

  Devon braces himself nervously. Which one of these would she subject him to tonight?

  It’s his turn to watch her as she strips and changes into her bondage gear. Her outfit is black PVC, exposing her breasts and nether regions. She is a true blonde because her pubic hair is a dark golden. She picks up a long black whip. Devon flinches.

  “You’re not supposed to leave marks on me,” he reminds her, though she never listens.

  “I won’t leave anything that won’t heal in three days,” she says, turning back to him. She slides the tail of the whip across her palm. “Now come with me.”

  With trepidation, he follows her to a rack mounted in the shape of an ‘X’.

  “Press your chest and body to the wood,” she commands him.

  He obeys. He allows her to bind his wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the rack. Her knots are tight, and the leather thongs bite into his flesh. His broad back and buttocks are exposed. The wood is hard and grainy against his pecs and nipples and the flat slope of his stomach.

  He crushes his fists and tightens his back and buttock muscles. He does not turn to watch her.

  She laughs softly.

  “Why so serious, Devon? You must be used to this by now.”

  He will never get used to it. He has tried to like it. He really has. He knows plenty of people are into the bondage and sadomasochism scene, but he has never been one of them. He doesn’t mind playing dominant and submissive roles. He doesn’t even mind being handcuffed to the bed while a woman straddles him.

  But he doesn’t like being splayed like this on a rack, as though he is some captured Roman slave, condemned to be tortured.

  The first blow takes him unawares.

  Thuck!

  His buttocks flare with sudden heat from the lash. He flutters his eyelids and bites his lower lip, refusing to give in to the pain.

  Thup!

  The second blow catches him in the small of his back. He suppresses the cry in his throat. He will continue to suppress it for as long as possible, but even he knows he cannot sustain his silence indefinitely.

  Later, when he is raw and striped and marked, she will ask him to fuck her. Or perhaps she will leave him tied up to the rack and fellate him as he stands. Then she will give him a two hundred dollar tip for his obedience.

  He tries to tell himself that this is worth the money.

  BALM

  Devon creeps in at about four in the morning. Abby is already asleep, but she is a light sleeper and she awakes as soon as he closes the main door with a sharp click.

  She doesn’t say anything as he enters the bedroom. She can see his silhouette against the backdrop of the window. He is breathing rapidly and looking at her as she lies there in his bed, pretending to sleep.

  He gazes at her for a long, long time. Then he moves noiselessly to the attached bathroom and closes the door behind him. She can see the slat of light coming on beneath the door. She listens for the sounds of a shower being turned on, but there is none.

  He is in there for an unusually long time. There is no sound of a toilet flush or running water or anything associated with someone being in a bathroom. She sits up in his bed, unable to go back to sleep. She’s worried about him. Is he all right?

  “Devon?” she calls softly.

  Of course, the bathroom door is shut and he may be unable to hear her.

  She gets out of bed. She is in one of the long T-shirts he has bought for her earlier that she now uses as a nightgown. Her feet are bare, but the bedroom is carpeted. She pads to the bathroom door and presses her ear against it.

  “Devon?” she calls again.

  When there is no answer, she turns the doorknob slowly. It rotates without meeting resistance. She pushes open the door, and winces when the hinges creak painfully.

  Devon is slumped in the bathtub. His mouth is open and his eyes are shut, and he is snoring slightly. His head rests against the rim and his long legs are folded. He is shirt
less, and the shower is not on. His body is twisted slightly so that she can see his back.

  What she sees makes her gasp.

  His pale back is crisscrossed with angry red striations, as though someone has repeatedly beaten him with a stick. An opened jar of emollient cream lies beside the bathtub. He has obviously been trying to apply it to his injuries.

  Has he been beset by muggers, just as she has?

  “Devon?” She shakes his arm gently. “Devon?”

  “Wh-what?” he splutters and opens his sleep-encrusted eyes. For a moment, he cringes when he sees her, and then he remembers where he is and relaxes. “I must have fallen asleep. Did I wake you?”

  “Devon, what happened to you?’” She indicates his back. “Did someone hurt you? Were you mugged?”

  “Mugged?” He looks startled. “No. I wasn’t mugged.” He seems uneasy now that she has seen his back.

  “What happened then?” she insists.

  All sorts of horrible scenarios plague her mind. She visualizes him being set upon by gangs, torn, beaten up and left bleeding.

  “Nothing,” he says quickly.

  “Don’t try that with me. I am not a fool.”

  “I am not a fool either.” He gestures at her exposed arms. Her bruises have faded into yet a lighter shade and her scratches now wear the raised brown seams of healing. “If you’re not telling, I’m not telling either.”

  Two can play at the game, he seems to say with the challenge in his beautiful eyes, shining in the ceiling light.

  She locks gazes with him. They teeter on the impasse for an impossibly long time, and then she blinks and looks away.

  “Go back to sleep, Abby,” he says softly.

  “Let me put the balm in your wounds.”

  “They are not wounds. They’ll heal.”

  “Let me do it anyway.”

  “Only if you let me dress yours.” His eyes flicker to her arms.

  Breaking the deadlock, she sighs and nods.