MC ROMANCE: Wanted by the Alpha Biker (Motorcycle Club Alpha Male Bad Boy Romance) (MC Romantic Suspense Contemporary New Adult Short Stories)

by Alix Labelle

  “Not... here.” She managed, her eyes half-closed, her cheeks pink.

  I nodded. I understood. Anyone could come upon us here. I felt surprised I did not think of it. Desire had overwhelmed all my other senses.

  With my hand in hers, she led me to the barn. Soft hay lined the floor.

  She stood with her back to me as her fingers, more clever than mine, found the strings of her bodice and untied them fully. I heard a soft protest in my own throat. No. I will do this.

  I moved behind her, and slowly peeled the dress to her waist. My mouth found the skin of her shoulder and kissed it. My teeth nipped her flesh, taking a soft bite of her smoothness as I nuzzled her throat. Her body was warm and scented, and my loins throbbed with my need.

  I eased the dress down her body and kissed her skin as I went. The scent of her grew stronger, a cinnamon-sweetness that cloyed as flowers and which fired my desire beyond anything I had ever felt. My tongue explored her body, running down her thighs. She gasped, and the sound ignited me.

  Then I was taking off my clothes with all the urgency that flooded my veins like fire. She lay before me, and then we were sinking into the straw, as my body covered hers. The need to be within her drove me like nothing I had ever known.

  Inside her. Finally.

  I drew back and thrusted into her, and the sweet pleasure of her tight damp well proved too much to bear. She cried out once and I kissed her throat, distressed to cause her pain. I knew of this, the loss of maidenhood.

  She seemed unhurt. I thrusted in again, slowly this time, and she moaned, in pleasure now. The sound was too much for me, and I withdrew and move in again. Withdrew and thrusted. Until my body was riding a driving, unconscious rhythm which was within me and greater than me, driving me on to a peak of pleasure so intense I thought I would die, I pressed into her silken dampness. I heard the blood sing in my ears as the pleasure flowed through me and into me, a rising tide.

  I cried out, my voice throaty and primordial, as I had never heard it. To my amazement, she cried out too. Our voices join together, our sighing breath.

  I do not know how long I was transported away from myself. But when I awoke, she rested in my arms. Her cheeks were damp, and so are mine. I kissed her, and she kissed me.

  We were together in this. For all time. Whatever happened.

  ***

  Now, I sit here in this monastery and write as if the fires of Hell were on my heels. That is as I remember it. That was how it was.

  I am a man tormented. My blood sings her name. My heart, too, longs for her gentleness and closeness.

  But it is impossible.

  I am only half-human. And, worse—far worse –I am condemned to live forever. Or at least, much longer than her fully-human life.

  I will love her and I will see her die. I cannot bear it. Cannot give my heart to her, and have her take it with her.

  Perhaps worse, her life throbs within me. I feel her memories and I hold them in my heart. I am no longer of my own experience, but hers as well. The lives marry in my mind and I clutched my chest at her thought.

  What can I do?

  There is nothing anyone can do to remedy it. There is no cure for my curse, no end to my torment. And so I write madly, every day. I want to set it all down, make a record of each of our precious memories.

  It seems I have. There is nothing left to say. I close the book and sit back, exhausted, tears streaming down my face.

  I will leave this mad, passionate narrative for her. It is written in a leather-bound book, a gift from the prior. It is all that I can give. Then I will leave.

  ***

  “Luca? Brother?”

  That is him, now. Prior Alexy. I hear his limping step behind me. He crosses the floor and comes to sit beside me at the desk.

  “Prior.” My voice is grating and harsh. When did I last sleep?

  “Brother?” His voice is gentle. “I repeat my offer. Tell me what torments you. Please, my friend. Trust me. There is nothing so terrible that it is not redeemable, you know.”

  Can I tell him? I am certain he would think my love a sin, would condemn these longings of the flesh. And yet he is a good and holy man, a learned scholar, not a bigot. I can trust his opinion.

  I tell him. Everything, almost as it is set down here. Leaving out the bit about bears, of course. And about immortality. I love my friend and would not scare him so.

  At the end of my story, he looks up at me, his eyes clouded with pain. “My brother, that is a hard story.”

  I incline my head. It helps to hide the tracks of tears that weave across my cheek.

  “I believe you are right in your choice.” He says, his hand covering mine. “You should say farewell to your sweetheart. Return to your vows.”

  “I know.” I choke. I cannot bear to say it.

  “You will leave now, to say your goodbye?”

  I nod. I cannot say it.

  “When you return, perhaps we can discuss a pilgrimage?” he asks, his voice soft. “I have documents to deliver to a brother in Constantinople. Perhaps you would take them?”

  He must believe the traveling would be good to help me forget. He does not say it, but it is clear that that is why he asks.

  I nod, my throat closed with my reined emotions. “Thank you, Brother.” I manage. The kindness he shows me is a fresh cut to my heart. I did not know we were so close, that he feels my pain as I do.

  He nods gravely and squeezes my hand. Then he leaves, his steps slow and echoing in the silence.

  So it is I come to my decision.

  I end my account, close the bindings, and find my feet on the road towards the farmhouse.

  It is the first day of summer. I have had all spring to love her, and now I must leave. Turn my steps to pilgrimage and a long, slow life without her.

  I kiss the leather binding of the book, pack it carefully, and set off on the path.

  ***

  Kiryla is at Alena's house. Still light, this summer evening passes without scene. They have been discussing a case of Alena's, but Kiryla is not listening.

  “What is it, dear?” Alena's voice is soft.

  “Nothing.” Kiryla's voice is dreamy. She is silent a while, considering, and then continues. “Actually... I would like to tell you. To share this pain.”

  And she does. She tells her teacher all of it. Her meeting, her loving, the depth of her feeling. And why she is so sad.

  “He is immortal. He told me so last time I saw him. I can do nothing about that.”

  “No.” Her teacher looks at her from the corner of her eye. She pauses for a while, then carries on.

  “There are things I have not told you, Kiryla.” She says. “One of these, is that life is truly endless, when we move beyond form.”

  Life is eternal, beyond form and after death; she knows that. It is scant help, and sounds trite. Kiryla looks up, as if stung.

  “I know all souls may persist eternally.” Her voice is harsh and cold with hurt.

  “Quite so, Kiryla.” Her teacher nods.

  Kiryla looks down then, immediately regretful.

  “Thank you, teacher.”

  Alena only nods.

  They are quiet a while, and then Kiryla rises.

  “I must leave. Let me take those jars and collect more celandine.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Her teacher inclines her head, her flawless skin pale in the dying light. She has forgiven the earlier outburst, and is serene as ever.

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Kiryla.” Her teacher nods farewell. Kiryla nods back, and walks, stiff, from the hut.

  Life is truly endless, beyond form.

  The words play through Kiryla's mind, again and again, as she walks. The basket of bottles hits against her leg with each step. She uses the anger of that sudden bruising pain to spur her on.

  Yes, she thinks angrily. I know that! Life is truly endless, beyond form. Truly endless...

  She stops. Almost walks into a tree. Oh, heavens
!

  She almost screams it. She feels euphoria rush through her, lift her up so that her soul sings with the stars.

  “I have it!”

  I must tell Aurelius. Aurelius is at the monastery. Her feet find themselves running up the path towards the church in the woods.

  “Aurelius. Aurelius!”

  Just shouting his name is a joy.

  After ten minutes of breathless running, she stops to catch her breath. As she starts forward, she runs straight into a man in gray robes.

  “Aurelius?”

  He stares at each other. His gray eyes are filled with horror. She is laughing, not noticing the graveness of his expression.

  “Aurelius! Are you alright? I have something to tell you! Something wonderful.”

  “And I have something to tell you.” His voice is low.

  “Very well.” She says. Her smile teases him, her eyes warm and entirely unreadable. “You go first.”

  ***

  I say my farewell. I remind her why I have to go, now. I cannot look up at her face. I feel her thoughts creeping towards me, her memories in our time since passed. The life she has lived without me all these days begs for my attention and I steel myself against what I know she has been thinking.

  “I leave this for you Kiryla. It is a poor tale, my life, but you have filled it with light.” My voice chokes back on the words, and I pause, then continue. My hands, holding the book, are shaking. “Care for it, will you? It is all of me there is. My life is good as ended, knowing I am without you.” I place the book beside her, gather my things, turn to leave.

  I am about to leave the clearing, when her voice rings out behind me. It is light as spring air.

  “Aurelius! Wait! You have not heard my words.” And she is laughing. Laughing.

  I am afraid my words have touched her sanity. I turn back, gentle.

  “Kiryla, dear...”

  “Aurelius!” She is laughing, still. And sobbing. “Aurelius. Listen to me.”

  “I know what you will say.” I shy away from her reaching thoughts. “Even when I am not with you, I am always with you now.” If my words appeared cryptic, her smile did not reveal so. “Kiryla, I know you think we can stay together.”

  “But I can stay with you. Forever.” Her eyes shine as she steps forward. “If you already know my account, you know that truly I am always with you. Listen, Aurelius. Feel my heart.”

  I think about what she has said and what she has thought. As water from a stream, I allow in her account, unhampered in its flow. It sounds almost too wonderful, too fantastic for belief. But I am dubious.

  “That sounds very... dangerous, Kiryla,” I caution.

  “No, it's not!” Her eyes flash, voice sharp. “And even if it was, I would do it. What is my life without you?”

  “And mine?” I ask. “I would not see you harmed. I would rather never see you again, than see you perish for my sake.”

  “Perish.” She is smiling. “My dear, I love you. But I have never before heard you sound ridiculously dramatic.”

  “I'm not dramatic.” I say, wounded. “I love you, too.”

  We smile. We have never said it before. Then we laugh.

  “I love you!” I say it louder. It feels so wonderful to say that. My arms are around her, and my lips on hers.

  We spend hours in the woods, together. Our love is as it ever was, and deeper. For now we can be truly free to love.

  ***

  It is the first day of Winter. We are in my cave.

  I am about to change form. I know the feeling now: it feels as if my skin were transparent, the other form a hand's breadth from me. It heralds my transformation.

  The sun slants through the cave-entrance while we make our preparations. It is a pale, ghostly light, threaded with mist off the water of the neighboring stream.

  We are ready now and the day is drawing to a close.

  All the things Kiryla needs for ritual are laid out on the floor. In the center is the book I gave to her. The love with which I made that makes it a bridge between worlds, she says. It is a powerful object, imbued with care. She says it forms what she needs to complete the magic.

  It is garlanded with flowers. Other things mark out a circle on the floor. A feather, clear water in a carved stone bowl, a bright, reflective stone.

  Then she is ready. She stands in the circle, before the entrance of the cave. The last light, blue-edged, slants through the opening behind her.

  She starts to sing.

  Near the end of her song, she raises her arms. I feel the air change around her, grow cold. She is a picture of impossible loveliness. She glows. Bright light fills the cave.

  In the midst of that burning halo, I see a face. It is her face, yet not her face. This image is truly her, the beloved my heart has known down all the ages.

  My soul knows her. I see in her eyes the moment when that soul sees mine. She smiles.

  Then, she changes. There is a blinding glow of light. It pulses, stronger and stronger. It fills the cave with its radiance, explodes into a splendor so fierce I almost recoil from it, as if the interior of a star had touched the earth burns us away with its brightness.

  Then she is gone. But she is everywhere. The air is her sweetness, the river is her voice. The tree below the waterfall has golden flowers.

  Goodbye, Aurelius. I hear her voice, the faintest echo. I will see you next year.

  And with that, and the faint scent of honeysuckle—her scent—I find myself drifting into sleep.

  ***

  Springtime. I feel the light lancing into the cave. My head aches.

  I close my eyes again and listen. Outside, I can hear the singing of the water as it cascades free of ice down the rocks.

  With the song comes memory. My heart sinks. Where is she?

  I need not have asked. With the song of the river comes also the sound of her voice.

  Aurelius? It thrums from the air around me, as soft as a moth's flight, permeating the air of the cave.

  It is not in my memory, but present now. It is truly her voice.

  Kiryla.

  My eyes open.

  There is a haze in the air, a soft diffuseness, like light reflecting off the mist. Except there is no mist inside the cave. This glowing light is something else, not of this world.

  It shimmers and hovers. It gathers. And then, suddenly, just as I am expecting that nothing else will happen, it condenses.

  “Aurelius!”

  It is her. At least, it is her form. It pulses and glows, as insubstantial as the mist. I strain to reach it. My heart aches.

  Then, the sparks of light pull together and are gone, and the warm, soft form of a girl stands before me, as natural as if she had just walked in through the door.

  “Aurelius? My love?”

  “Kiryla!” My heart feels as if it will burst.

  My arms find her waist and wrap around it. Her body is against mine. And, suddenly, the flesh knows its urgency and its desire.

  I am still so weak. I find myself laughing, if a little hysterically, as my wasted body teeters backward, far too weak for anything at all.

  I notice suddenly in that moment that my form has changed. I am in human form again. No wonder I feel so weak! I have never shifted so soon. Have never had the motivation, I suppose. I have it now.

  “Shall we go outside?” She smiles at me. “The sunshine will help us to get stronger.”

  I nod, fervently agreeing.

  “Come, then.”

  We walk out of the cave together, into the light of the spring morning.

  We spend each day together, and each night we sleep, sated, in each other’s arms.

  Each winter and each spring we change and transform back. And with all you know, we may be here forever. Life is cyclic, after all. And hearts eternal.

  THE END

  Addicted to the Vampire Billionaire

  Vampire Billionaire Romance

  Addicted to the Vampire Billionaire

 
; Chapter One

  The old Arbor house sat at the top of a hill overlooking the little town nestled in the valley, a gabled Victorian mansion of grey stone. Once home to a wealthy and illustrious family, it had sat empty since World War I. No one had dared touch it. The property was owned by some distant descendant, but he had never set foot beyond the wrought iron fence, nor even, so far as they knew, inside the county line. The locals whispered that it was haunted, and even reckless teenagers searching for a place to hide their goings on from the prying eyes of adults didn't risk its shadowed interiors.

  Hank Mead, on the other hand, didn't appear to care. Which was why he and his niece were currently bumping down the pitted road that led through the pass in the hills the little town sat on the other side of, his ghost-hunting partner in the passenger seat. Hank Mead was determined to see the ghosts that haunted the old Arbor home for himself. And to make certain that he caught them—and his claim to fame—on film, he had recruited Lily, who'd been laid off from her job and had been staying with him for three months, unable to make rent on her apartment. She'd picked up a job at one of the local cafés in their own city, for the moment, but it wasn't exactly paying the big bills. So when Hank had insisted she come to film his escapades, she hadn't felt like it was right to refuse.

  She wasn't particularly pleased to be sitting in the back of the rattly old van, cradling her expensive camera carefully to her chest, making certain it wasn't jostled onto the floor. It was the only thing of much value that she owned, and no way was she sacrificing it for her uncle Hank's crazy ghost-hunting expedition, even if she did feel obliged to help him since he was letting her stay in his guest room.

  They rolled into town just before sunset, and drove through the quiet streets, people occasionally looking up to follow the van with their eyes, not particularly curious about its appearance, though Lily knew they must be aware that it carried strangers into their midst. Maybe they just didn't care.

  When they drew closer to the mansion on the hill, she saw the glances cast at them change. The locals did care, then. They were shaking their heads as they watched the van roll on its way, and Lily wondered how many others had come here before her and her uncle and Fred. Maybe they were only the latest in a long line, and that was why the locals didn't seem to find the sight of an unfamiliar van carrying unfamiliar people through their town out of the ordinary.