Last Alpha: A Highland shifter romance

by Ruby Fielding

  After a few seconds she steered herself away, so that he had to stretch to keep his arm around her, and then finally they drifted apart.

  She’d never been anywhere so quiet. All she could hear was the sound of their footsteps on the road’s hard surface.

  She stopped, and a second or two later Billy stopped too.

  He opened his mouth to speak but she held her hand up, silencing him.

  She held her breath, closed her eyes.

  Absolute silence.

  “I meant it,” he said.

  The thump of her heart. The breath slipping away. Fresh air being sucked in.

  “I’ve never felt anything like this.”

  He was closer now.

  She knew it was going to happen. Was that why she’d stopped? To engineer this moment? She didn’t know.

  All she knew was that she had come so close twice now, to kissing him. Something had stopped her, interrupting the moment, and at the time she hadn’t understood why. Some instinct on her part, not to let things go that far?

  But now, when she had every reason not to even be alone with him, she knew they had crossed the point of no return.

  His hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb lying lightly against her cheek, his fingers threading themselves through the hair that hung down over her ear.

  She shouldn’t be doing this, she knew that. Every sensible bone in her body was telling her that.

  But his touch had already taken her way beyond rational thought. Way beyond sensible.

  His lips were hard against hers. Eager. Hungry.

  If she’d even paused to think she would have expected clumsiness from a man so inexperienced, hesitancy, but no.

  Lips pressed, forcing hers to part. His tongue drove home, then, and suddenly the hand that had gently cradled her cheek now steered her, held her.

  His free hand came to the other side of her face, holding her firmly as his tongue drove deep. He tasted of beer and salt and something else, something raw and musky. His evening stubble scraped against her, and now a hand slipped down her body, looping around her waist and drawing her hard against him.

  She moved her hands to his hips, more to balance herself than anything.

  A mischievous part of her mind wondered what they would do if a car came now, with his heightened wolf senses distracted?

  It was a long time since she’d been kissed like this. If she ever had.

  Controlled.

  Taken.

  He pulled her even harder against him, their legs pressing, thighs, hips. Her breasts were squashed against him, her mouth against his.

  His fingers deep in the hair at the back of her head, he pulled her head back, almost brutally. His mouth came away from hers, and his lips dragged down across her jaw, his teeth sharp against her skin. That scrape of stubble, sending thrills stabbing right through her.

  His teeth against her neck.

  She felt a surge of something somewhere between panic and thrill, didn’t know what it was and no longer cared.

  Felt herself tipping backwards, an arm around her waist, another slipping beneath her thighs, lifting her clear of the ground.

  Carrying her.

  Away from the road and into the first trees of the forest.

  On her feet again, she slumped back against the rough bark of a tree.

  His hands were on her, pulling at her clothes, parting them, slipping inside.

  She’d worn those boots to come out, over tight jeans. Why had she done that?

  She felt a hand inside her top, against her ribs. Skin against skin.

  Felt his hard thigh drive between hers, lifting her to her toes against the tree.

  His mouth on her neck again, the teasing of sharp teeth and stubble, the heat of his breath, the softness of tongue and lips.

  A hand cupped her left breast, squeezing, finding the hardness of the nipple and pressing, flicking.

  She reached down, pressed the heel of one hand against the hardness in his pants, exploring its bulk, its contours.

  Found the first button and released it. The second.

  Another, and there was room for her hand to slip inside.

  His shaft was long and broad.

  She was panting now, her responses urgent, animalistic, as his thigh ground against her through her jeans.

  She wrapped fingers around his shaft, and teased it round to the side and then upright.

  Now clear of the waistband of his pants and the elastic of his shorts, she could feel him properly. The coarse tangle of hair, the hard column of his manhood. The bulbous head, smooth and slippery with his juices.

  She rocked her hand from side to side, pressing hard against him.

  Pushing her hand down, he slid against her palm and then the inside of her wrist and forearm. Then she gripped him hard and pulled up along his length again.

  All coordination fled them then. He pressed and pushed; she squeezed and slid, testing his responses, savoring every thrust, every tensing of his body, every involuntary pulse in his shaft.

  He started to groan, and suddenly she sensed a new tension in him. She pushed down, then drew her hand up, hard and slick against him.

  She felt a throb against her wrist, another thrust of his hips. She slid her hand up to cup and squeeze that bulbous head and felt another pulse, and then an explosion of wet heat in her palm. She squeezed harder then, pressing her hand against him, and another surge of wet heat erupted.

  He started to soften, his frame slumping, but she wasn’t done.

  Just the feel of him reaching his climax... the tensions in his body as orgasm stole through him...

  She was so close herself now.

  She pushed him back, pushed him down until he was lying on his back on a bed of pine needles.

  She straddled him, ground down, adjusting position until the still-upright length of his shaft lay against her.

  She started to rock her hips and then, when he understood what was happening, he pressed up, arching his back so that he was rigid against her.

  She tipped her head back, gasping. So close!

  He reached round, put a hand on the small of her back, and drew her down even harder against him and that was all she needed, a new pressure, a yielding of control, giving herself to him.

  Tightness gripped her, deep in her belly, surging upwards and outwards. The intensity took her by surprise, the way every muscle in her body seemed to be taken over, a whole-body thing.

  She clung on, her fists balling, gripping his shirt and jacket hard.

  She had cried out, but she didn’t know how loud, only that her ears seemed to be ringing and her throat hurt.

  She looked down, saw his pale features in the gloom of the forest, the darkness of his eyes.

  Spent, she slumped down against him, on top of him. Barely able to breathe, so consumed with what had just happened.

  21

  “We can’t be doing this. We shouldn’t...”

  He held her hand, fingers entwined, pulled her back towards the roadway.

  He was laughing. Why laugh when she was telling him this was all wrong?

  She stumbled after him, fighting his infectious enthusiasm.

  “I barely know you.” Not that that had stopped her before. “I’m flying back to the States next week.” You think you’re a goddamn werewolf.

  He stopped and flicked his wrist in a single powerful movement that pulled her into his strong arms. He kissed her softly on the forehead, then dipped his head down and kissed her on the lips.

  “You worry too much,” he told her.

  As if she didn’t have plenty to worry about.

  They started to walk, fingers still entwined.

  “Will you at least give this thing a chance?” he said. “See how you feel in the morning. Then see how you feel tomorrow night, the next day. You know this is right.”

  The morning. Just what kind of complicated mess would this be by morning? Not only had she just gotten hot and steamy with a man who w
as clearly suffering from some kind of pretty serious psychosis, but one who had saved himself for this moment, for her. It was clear he really was besotted with her, but where does that cross over and become something that’s, well, another kind of personality disorder?

  Even as she thought this mad rush of things, she knew herself well enough to understand she was scared. Unable to believe a man could feel like this about her. Any man who fell for her had to be damaged, flawed.

  And there was no doubt about it: Billy Stewart was a damaged individual.

  Could simple chemistry overcome such massive obstacles?

  Just what was she letting herself in for?

  He’d stopped, pulling her to a halt. Now he drew her back into his arms and kissed her again: slow, delicious, that perfect balance between tender and sensitive and hungry passion.

  “Just because,” he said, pulling away. “Because I can.”

  §

  She didn’t know what she should be feeling, but she was sure of one thing, at least: she shouldn’t be walking alongside this dangerous, deranged man, fingers entwined with his, and fighting the urge to swing her hand, skip along at his side, and smile so hard and wide her face might split.

  So she didn’t, but it was hard.

  They let themselves into the castle, and Jenny led the way to her room. No words exchanged now, no discussion: there was unfinished business to take care of.

  She pushed at her door, stepped through, turned, and he was there. She rested her hands on his chest as his arms came around her. Dipped her head into that hollow between neck and shoulder. Breathed him in deep. She could hear and feel his heart, thumping hard.

  He held her, as if sensing that they both needed this moment, just to catch their breath, catch themselves. Not a hesitation, but a pause to savor and anticipate.

  She turned her head up, stretched to kiss him on the lips.

  “I’m going to shower,” she said, stepping away from his embrace. Then she moved past him, back out into the narrow passageway.

  Smooth stone slabs covered the bathroom floor, white tiles on all the walls. A Victorian-style claw-foot bath occupied one corner of the room, a shower with a wide head opposite – no shower curtain or screen, just a half-wall projecting to separate it from the toilet area.

  She pulled the cord, adjusted the dial, and stepped back as water jetted down from the shower head.

  She drew her top over her head, pausing to look down at her forearm. The skin shone wetly, the trail of Billy’s semen just starting to tighten and flake. She closed her eyes briefly, remembering how he had felt in her hand. She reached back to unclasp her bra, let it drop to her forearms and then turned to place it on a chair beyond the reach of the spray.

  The door opened, but she didn’t turn.

  Instead, she bent, found the zipper on one of her boots and slid it down.

  The door shut again as she reached to unzip the other boot, then she straightened and kicked them clear. Only now did she turn.

  His eyes were all over her, hungry.

  He reached for her, cupped a breast, squeezed.

  Now, in the stark light of this bathroom, she saw the hesitant, uncertain Billy.

  Was all this really completely new to him?

  He’d left his jacket in her room, so now she reached for his shirt, found the top button and released it. Moving down to the next one, she allowed her knuckles to slide against his chest. The skin was taught, the muscles tight, a thin mat of hair brushing against her fingers as she moved.

  His shirt at the bottom was wet with his juices from earlier. Such a messy, urgent business! She remembered holding him, squeezing, feeling the hot eruptions of his climax.

  She pulled the shirt apart and moved into his arms, pressing her breasts against his ribs, feeling the hardness of bone and muscle, the scrape of body hair.

  She stepped back, after a time, and reached for the waistband of her jeans. So difficult to even contemplate removing out in the forest, now she just popped a button, slid the zipper down, and gave a little wriggle as she slid them down over the curves of her hips and thighs.

  His eyes followed every move.

  She hated being looked at. Was always so self-conscious about those extra pounds, the generosity of the curves. But now... with Billy it was different. She’d never been looked at like this. So hungrily enjoyed. Appreciated.

  She lifted a foot and pulled the leg of her jeans clear, lifted the other and repeated.

  Stood before him in only a pair of white lacy shorts.

  Reached for them, hooked a thumb in the elastic at each hip, started to pull them down.

  Naked, exposed, his eyes still roaming her body. She stood with legs slightly apart, sensitive to the coolness of the air, even as the steam from the shower spread its warmth through the room.

  She nodded towards him. His turn.

  As he flipped the first button of his jeans open, she couldn’t help but move her hands to her body, one to cup a breast, the other lower, sliding across her belly and down to the smooth folds of her sex. Such contrast between the coarseness of his body hair and her own delicate smoothness!

  Another button popped and briefly his hands moved away. He stood there, jeans hanging partly open, revealing the thickening of belly hair, the white waistband of his shorts.

  Two more buttons and it was his turn to hook thumbs, pull down.

  Jeans around his thighs, his manhood was filling out steadily, straining against the stretchy fabric of his shorts.

  He pushed his jeans down further, treading on them in order to kick his feet free.

  Now he stood before her. Lean, with a hard, muscled frame, a thin covering of hair across his belly and chest. Square shoulders, narrow waist and hips. Those shorts really were straining, again, so soon!

  She moved toward him, reached for him, pressed her palm against his hardness.

  Eyes locked on his, she dropped to her knees. Reached for the waistband of his shorts and tugged them partway down, revealing the broad base of his shaft, pointing downwards but straining so hard to stand free.

  She kissed him, closing her lips around the swollen end of his manhood through the fabric of his shorts.

  He groaned, a deep sound that sent tremors through her body.

  With one hand she took the weight of his balls, and with the other she pulled his shorts down further until almost his full length was exposed.

  She moved her mouth upwards, passing the rucked up fabric of his shorts, finding the smoothness of the skin on his shaft, working her way up its length until her face was buried in his lap, her mouth wrapped around the base of his shaft.

  She pulled his shorts clear, felt his manhood spring up, now only trapped by her mouth and face against him.

  And, slowly, she drew her lips and tongue back down its length, forcing it to stay down just below horizontal.

  When her lips hit the ridge around the head she opened wider, turned her head, took him into her mouth.

  She swallowed, a burst of salty sweetness, a wetness that was not her own.

  Shifting position, she came to face him full on again, one hand still cupping his balls while the other folded around the base of his shaft. Eyes fixed on his, she squeezed, then started to pump with her grip clamped tight.

  He watched her, his mouth sagging open.

  She pressed the fleshy softness of her tongue against the underside of his manhood, squeezing and sliding. When she began to bob her head, almost imperceptibly at first, his eyes widened and his jaw fell further.

  She started to pump her fist hard now, matching the movement with the bobbing of her head. Taking him deep until he hit the back of her throat, then squeezing her mouth shut and drawing away sharply.

  In her mind she relived that moment in the forest, the hot, wet explosion of his climax.

  Next time, when she drew her head away, she kept going until his shaft sprang free.

  She rocked back onto her heels, released him, stood.

 
; Gave a coy little smile and turned, knowing his eyes would be all over her.

  Walked across the room to the shower area and stepped under the hard jets of water, gasping at the needlepoint pressure and heat.

  He came to stand behind her, the length of his shaft pressing against her spine, his balls against her ass.

  She allowed herself to relax into his embrace, his face buried in her hair, one arm across her belly, the other across her ribs, forming a shelf to take the weight of her breasts.

  She pressed against him, felt a tensing of his body, a twitch of his shaft against her.

  It was a beautiful moment, made so much more so by his patience, his tenderness.

  She turned, reached down, steered his shaft between her legs, its base hard against her clit. She squeezed her legs together and he gasped. Started to rock her pelvis, stabs of pleasure darting through her abdomen.

  She scooped water against him, letting it run, rubbing her hands over his back, his sides, down to his tight, firm ass.

  His arms stretched either side of her now, his hands flat against the tiled wall, his body tensed as she rolled her pelvis, sliding against him, soft against hard.

  He tipped his head back, let the water play over his face and run down his neck, across his shoulders and chest.

  She strained forward to kiss him on the collarbone, tasting his salt in the water.

  He drove forward then, a shift in balance, a transition from him standing there as she rubbed against him to, now, her pinned back against the tiles, him thrusting with sharp piston-like movements of the hips.

  He paused then.

  “I...”

  She knew what he meant, shook her head, smiled, said, “It’s okay. I’m on the pill.”

  She curled a foot, sole inwards against his calf, slid it upwards so her leg bent, opening her up to him so that when he bent more at the knees and pushed up, all of a sudden the head of his shaft was pressing against her opening.

  She reached down, curled fingers around his shaft, adjusted the angle a fraction, and now when he pushed she felt that delicious parting, the moment of penetration.

  He held himself there for a second, two, three.

  Dark eyes locked on hers. An intensity that was quite staggering. To be wanted and needed so fervently.