Alton Cox
An Obsessed Alpha BBW Romance Short Read
Lynette Wilson
© Copyright 2019 - All rights reserved.
It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Alton Cox
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Before you go…
Chapter 1
Amelia
I immediately feel out of place in this office. Everyone is hyper-focused, whether they’re seated at their desk, on the phone, or grabbing coffee. Even mundane tasks seem to be executed with a great deal of intent. Also, no one seems out of place. Each one of them interacts with the others like cogs fitting together. Then, of course, there’s the physical factor. Here, in Los Angeles, everyone is ridiculously pretty. All the men look like they walked out of ads for expensive watches, with tailored suits and chiseled jawlines. The women are petite, gorgeous, and fit. So fit. Like I can see their abs through their shirts fit.
My best friend, Bella, who’s lived out here for five years, told me to dress sexy for my first day. I can’t help but think that was a terrible piece of advice. In a skin tight black leotard and faux leather leggings (which I have to constantly hike up my waist to ensure my love handles don’t peak out between pants and onesie), my unconventional body sticks out like a sore thumb.
I’ve taken to calling myself unconventional. I’m thick. Specifically, pear shaped. My arms are thin, my breasts are B cups, my tummy is flat, but south of that, things get a little wider. My hips balloon outward, my thighs invoke the word thunder, and my ass isn’t a fan of containment. I’m a bigger girl. Unconventional. It’s an easier self-determining label when seated in screenwriting classes in the midwest, where unconventional is the norm. Here, where beauty comes to cavort with itself, my confidence wanes.
I hike up my leggings by stuffing my fingers in past the waistband and pulling them high over my hipbones. Once again, I felt the flesh of my sides raising gooseflesh to the central air. My pants have retracted over the edge of the onesie to expose the plump flesh above my hips. I don’t want to be perceived as a hoochie on my first day, especially around these cut throat women. I can only imagine their judgments already. I’ve seen them size me up. Girls back home can be vicious, but out here? I’m in a whole different ocean, and the sharks abound.
As I walk back towards my desk, crossing the floor from the kitchen to my little corner of this Santa Monica office building, I reevaluate. Perhaps I’m being too harsh. I’ve yet to have a meaningful interaction with any of these people. Though my role, as explained to me, doesn’t involve a great deal of interaction. Interns sit and read. Pretty much all day. We read all the material that comes in from writer hopefuls asking for representation. (The actual clients get read by people who actually work for the agency.) Scripts, manuscripts, and the like pile up on my desk awaiting my opinion. At twenty-two, I feel a little like a fraud, playing gate-keeper to strangers from across the country. Then again, this morning’s material demonstrated little talent. After all, I did spend four years studying the artform. I better know a thing or two about storytelling.
I cross the desks of assistants whose eyeballs I feel catch and release me, dismissed as the lowly intern. I unconsciously hike up my shiny black leggings some more and feel them wedge in the back. My face blushes and my pace quickens. I reach my seat and quickly drop into it, peering cautiously over my shoulder to see if anyone was giggling at the obviousness of my ass. They all work away at their individual tasks, unbothered by the intern’s body. I breathe a sigh of relief, until I turn my head and catch the ogling gaze of my fellow intern, a gangly blonde boy named Marcus, with an eyebrow raised and a mouth agape. I blush a little harder, then brush my brunette hair over my shoulder and turn back to my present script - a hundred forty page monster about one man’s journey through the apocalypse. Basically, a fantasy by some gun-toting weirdo in the boonies of Michigan. I close my eyes and silently wish they won’t all be this bad. Please, give me one good romance story to read. I beg you, screenplay gods.
I feel a tap on my shoulder before I open my eyes and I turn my chair to find my boss, Kylie, one of the assistants, standing over me with her arms crossed. I think for a moment she’s here to chastise me about something (probably my outfit), but instead smiles broadly. I smile back before I realize it’s probably disingenuous.
“Hey Amelia,” she starts, “how’s it going with that adaptation?”
Oh right, I think. It’s even worse, the writer adapted his own self-published novel. “Uh,” I stammer, not wanting to admit I think it’s absolute trash. “Coming along. An interesting premise.”
Her grin extends further. “Good! Because Mr. Cox wants your coverage on his desk by lunchtime, he’s taking a call with the writer in the afternoon.”
“Mr. Cox?” I repeat.
As if I’ve summoned him, he appears behind Kylie. My breath catches in my throat. Mr. Cox is tall, over six feet easy. Though it’s not just his height that makes him formidable. I inspect his body as presented to me in his silver suit and white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone (where my eyes begin their appraisal first, at the crests of his two intense pecs). His shoulders extend out from his center to form a broad frame. His sleeves bulge to withhold his biceps. Downward, his body tapers to a thin core, no doubt six, eight, ten abs concealed there. His legs appear powerful, not chicken-like as I’ve seen many older midwestern men in my life.
I grow self-conscious and my eyes snap back to his face. It’s even more intimidating. His jawline is sharp and dotted with black stubble. His cheekbones rise high towards his eyes, whose piercing green stare shoot straight through me. His full lips serve as an accent to the rest of his masculine, dreamy facade.
“Yes?” he speaks. His voice is deep, the sound of his S sharp, seductive. Jesus, Amelia.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Cox,” Kylie responds. “I was just informing our intern here to have coverage on the adaptation to your desk by lunch.”
He nods affirmatively. “That’s right, I need that pronto. I’ve got a call with this jackass in the afternoon. Think you can manage?”
Gruff, I think. And candid. Mr. Cox has bite. I imagine myself between his teeth, being chewed. Blush rises to my cheeks. “Uh,” I stammer. “Yes, yes, sir.”
He grins. His radiantly white teeth appear between his plump lips. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Amelia,” I tell him. “Amelia Lane.”
He undoes the buttons of his suit jacket and slides it to either side with his hands that plunge into his pockets in one smooth motion. “Amelia Lane,” he repeats. I never liked my name, but coming from him, it sounds melodic. “What do you want to do, Amelia?”
I hard-swallow. I’ve known the answer nearly my whole life, but now find it out of reach. Then it comes to me. “I want to write romance movies.”
He grins wider. “Romance movies,” he says. I fear he’s mocking me. “I love romance movies.”
Stars come up in my eyes. “You do?” I ask, my voice growing airy.
He nods. “Incredibly cheap, aside fr
om talent. But you get the right names, they rake it in at the box office. Problem is, no one’s making them anymore. Which makes it a terrible idea for an unknown writer to waste time writing them.”
I feel my heart quietly implode. I have no reply. This man strode out of nowhere to arrest my attention, force me to swoon, then dash my dreams on the rocky shores of his coast.
“By lunch,” he says, tapping the copy of this terrible script before marching back towards his office. Kylie and I both watch until he disappears behind his door. She turns back to me.
“Did you not know who Alton Cox was before just now?” Kylie whispers in his wake.
Still awe-struck, I shake my head, slack-jawed.
“He’s the most successful literary agent in the firm. Damn near the industry.” Kylie grins. “You better act right around him. He doesn’t like to waste time.” Her eyes fall down my body, then rise again with a scoff. “And you better dash that hope right now, girl.” She struts away, confident in having wrecked me. I scowl at her skinny backside.
But she’s right. I have no chance with Mr. Cox. Alton Cox. What a name. “Alton Cox,” I mutter it softly to myself, enjoying the flavor of it, how it rolls off my tongue, wrapping my lips around it.
“Amelia,” I hear my name called in return. “Amelia!” it repeats. Oh god, it’s real.
I twist my head towards Mr. Cox’s office, where he stands, hands stuffed into his trousers, staring over at me.
“Yes, sir?” I call back.
He only lifts his hand to curl a finger inward, beckoning me. My knees feel weak, I don’t know if I can oblige him.
Yet I stand, and like gravity, fall into his orbit, striding towards his office.
Chapter 2
Alton
I turn into my office and am confronted with the sunny view of Santa Monica sprawled out through my floor to ceiling, seventh floor windows. But I don’t see it, it falls out of focus, behind the vision of the intern supplanting reality with her innocent beauty. My god. When did they onboard her? She looks nothing like the slew of students we’ve hosted in the past.
I turn back to watch her approach, head hung innocently, perhaps embarrassed. Her hair dangles before her face, swaying with each step. She seems so sweet. I can’t imagine how she wound up out here, in this vicious environment. Most men don’t go for girls like Amelia. Out here, there’s a veritable buffet of pretty girls with tight bodies and perfect shapes. But I don’t like traditionally perfect girls. My perfect is different. Watching Amelia’s legs in those shiny black leggings, clinging to her thighs and hips to showcase her curves, I have to stop myself from biting my bottom lip. Amelia is the kind of girl I find perfect. I’m a muscular man, tall, with a broad frame. Smaller girls aren’t enough for me. They’re dwarfed by my size. I need more, and as the new intern crosses through my door, her hair brushing past my face, a flowery scent wafting into my nose, I catch sight of her backside and find exactly what I presumed was there. A gorgeous, plump, thick ass. And with her tight leggings crowding up between her buttocks, there’s little for my imagination to conjure. Yet conjure it does, because I want to know what it feels like, what it tastes like, how soft the flesh of it is, how it sounds when I spank it. There’s just a little bit of skin showing above the waistband of her pants, exposing the flesh above her hipbones between the curve of her onesie and her leggings. God, it’s magnificent. Dark olive, capturing the light in just the right way to shine, demonstrating how silky smooth it must be.
Amelia turns around to face me as I close the door and my attention snaps to her face. She’s adorable, with pouty lips, a button nose, and big brown eyes I just want to make light up. I lose myself in a fantasy of gift giving, surprising this girl with presents to see her face break out into an infectious grin.
Get ahold of yourself, Alton. She’s your intern. But it’s hard, it’s not often the perfect woman strolls into your life. I haven’t made much room for love, or even sex, focusing on my career. Women throw themselves at me, but I’ve been able to ignore them in favor of being the best goddamn agent in this town. Having risen up the ranks to dominate my industry, I can say with pride that my company is the most profitable in LA. And it is mine, having been put together with two lesser partners, Andy and Nathan, each owning twenty four percent of Star Writers. They’re not as focused as I am, but staring into the bold, beautiful eyes of this curvaceous, sweet young woman, I feel my focus waning.
“Mr. Cox?” she inquires, cupping her hands before her, awaiting the purpose of our impromptu meeting. What did I call her in here for? Just for a closer look, honestly.
“Have a seat, Ms. Lane,” I command, gesturing to the chair seated before my desk. I round its corner while she obeys, then drop into my seat. I smile across the table at her. She returns it with a glint in her eye. She has an incredible smile. “How long have you worked here?” I ask.
“Today is my first day,” she answers. “I couldn’t be more excited. I came from Chicago, where I studied screenwriting and leapt at the chance to become an intern at your company. There was a notice up at school and, well…” she trails off, becoming self-conscious. I crack a wide grin. She’s impossibly sweet. I want to consume her.
“How are you liking LA?”
She smiles, blushes, then laughs. “Well, it’s different from what I’m used to.” She leans forward and whispers, “I kind of feel out of place, to tell you the truth, Mr. Cox.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
She hangs her head a moment, staring into her lap where her thumbs press down against one another. “Everyone here is gorgeous, and driven.”
My heart pangs. I want to lift her chin and tell her what a bombshell she really is, to forget what this city tells her about beauty. Los Angeles ought to be the last city to determine what beautiful is. But I can’t do that. I can’t get involved with her. I have my work, I can’t let women get in the way of that now, not after what I’ve built. I have to tell her something, though. “Beauty is subjective, Amelia. Some men like the skinny look. Other men…” my eyes fall along her body, down to her hips, her wonderfully thick thighs pressed together in the seat. They rise up again to meet her gaze, catching my lust. “Other men appreciate curves.”
A rosy red tint rises in her soft cheeks and her plump, bottom lip slides beneath her upper teeth. God, I wish I could take her up in my arms and lay her down on this desk right now. I feel blood surge southward. I clench my jaw and hard swallow, pulling back. “Thank you, Mr. Cox,” she tells me. “I appreciate you saying that.”
“Listen, I have a dinner tonight with a financier hot shot, trying to put a package together and get something made for one of my up and comers.” Alton, what are you doing? I hear a voice in my head sound an alarm. “Why don’t you come with me?” This is the opposite of pulling back. But I can’t help myself. I want her around me. “It would be a great opportunity to learn how a movie gets made around here. Plus, it will help me to have backup, someone to break up the conversation.” Her face is astonished. Her jaw drops, her eyes grow big, and I can tell she’s intimidated. Good, I think. I enjoy it. “Think you can handle it?”
“Um,” she stammers. “Mr. Cox, I don’t know what to say.”
“How about a polite yes?” I tell her.
Her face lights up. Just the way I expected, in just the way I desired when she walked through my door. I couldn’t stop myself, I had to. “Of course!” she replies excitedly. “I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“Don’t sweat it,” I tell her, standing up. She follows suit, and I see the waistband has pulled back further, showing yet more flesh of her sides. They glisten with just a hint of perspiration, I think I’ve made her nervous. God help me, the thought of it drives me wild. I won’t be able to get the image out of my head all night. “Wear something that dazzles, hm?” I tell her.
“Yes, sir,” she replies dutifully.
“I want to impress upon this financier that the people at our company are powerful
and confident, and that starts with wardrobe.” I pull out a thick money clip from my pants pocket and open it up. I see her eyes widen with shock at the hundreds I unfold. I hand her five of them and return the rest to my pocket.
“Mr. Cox?” she questions.
“Buy yourself a new dress for tonight. Something that really shows you off.”
She takes the money cautiously from my hand. “Thank you so much, Mr. Cox.”
“All part of show business,” I tell her with a wink. I open the door for her and breathe her in as she passes me, this time brushing accidently closer to me, enough that her body makes contact with mine and I feel the softness of her form. I watch while she walks away, a little ache for the distance. Amelia has hooked me, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.
I may have to break my rule, because the thought of letting her slip away kills me.
I’ll have to make her mine.
Chapter 3
Amelia
The dress hunt was frantic and terrifying, and after two hours, with the deadline fast approaching, I was beginning to think I wouldn’t find the right dress for me. It’s hard for a woman of my shape, especially in this town. But with Alton’s five hundred dollars (oh my god! I can’t believe he gave me five hundreds like it was nothing!) I found it.
Now, standing before Bella’s bathroom mirror, I’m impressed with our find.
“Yes, girl,” she says from the doorway.
I turn my body to examine just how it fits. It’s tight, clinging to my curves with an intense grip, though it doesn’t feel strained, like it’s going to rip (as so many of its predecessors). It shimmers, the deep purple fabric made of reflective material captures the light from the room. It’s short, to the point I have to be careful when I sit not to show off the triangle of black fabric covering my most intimate region. It also features cutouts on the sides, showing off my hips and ribs, a bold feature. Bella assures me, however, that many women in Los Angeles wear this style. Having seen some of their outfits, I don’t doubt it, though I’m a little worried about pulling it off.
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