Ladies Prefer Champagne Alpha Male Romance Mega Bundle

by Champagne Jackson

  At the very least, I told myself, I could pay my way through college and never have to think about Mr. Shaw again.

  The idea of never seeing him again, never thinking about him again, though—that broke me inside. God, could I live with that? I had no idea if I could.

  Maybe, just maybe…

  Maybe I could change him?

  Was that even possible? Aren’t you supposed to never try to change a man?

  Still, the fantasy was there and god, was it a seductive one… The idea that maybe, just maybe, I could change him, make him good to me, teach him to love me and treat me like I wanted to be treated… While still being submissive, while still luxuriating in his profound, controlling dominance—the dominance that made me weak in my knees, that made my insides tie themselves up into a squishy, wet knot.

  God, but it was so difficult—the temptation, the belief that maybe, I could have it all—have the man I wanted, have him touch me like he did, have him fuck me like he did, have him…

  Did I dare say it? Or even think it?

  To have him love me like he did?

  Could I have it? Was it possible? Did I dare?

  I wanted to. God, but I wanted to. Everything I thought I knew about myself, myself as a strong, independent woman, a woman who forged her own destiny, who wasn’t beholden to anyone, much less a man, it had all gone out the window.

  I wanted to serve him, but I wanted to be the only one serving him. He had given me something I had never had in my life, but I wanted it exclusively.

  Wasn’t that fair? For me to demand exclusivity from him in return?

  It made sense to me. And after a certain point… Well, I wasn’t really a whore anymore. We were…

  Again—did I dare say or think it?

  Dating.

  No, I was getting ahead of myself. I forced the thoughts, seductive and tempting as they were, from my exhausted mind. I would go to the club the next evening and I would see him again.

  And I would work, just like I was supposed to.

  The Last Night

  The club gave its girls an allowance for lingerie and offered special deals if we ordered in-house. It was nice stuff, fancy stuff, prototypes of next year’s line from all the top retailers. The men who patronized the club didn’t realize that they were fairly fashion forward consumers in the world of women’s undergarments.

  It was a white, lacy little number that I squeezed my voluptuous body into when I arrived at the club the next evening. Mr. Shaw had specified a room he wanted to meet me in. And it was there that I found my lingerie laid out for me, with a suitcase for me to put my own street clothing and other personal possessions.

  He had even picked out what he wanted the club to provide for me to wear. They had made the suggestion and I agreed to it, with the cost coming out of my lingerie allowance. A lacy white silk bra that cradled my full breasts nicely, with an even lacier thong, complete with a little heart amulet hanging off the back. Something that a true sex kitten would wear.

  The white fabric all but glowed against my dark skin.

  I had instructions to pour a drink for myself and Mr. Shaw. There was an expensive bottle of scotch—a MacAllan 18-year single malt—with two glasses already prepared. Mr. Shaw had gone to the trouble of selecting the scotch for us, so I wouldn’t have to.

  That was nice, I guessed.

  I poured the drinks and waited. I was tempted to try my scotch but when I smelled it, I recoiled a little. The thick, heavy smell of the alcohol, smoky and musky, hit me hard in the face and turned my stomach. I was making a disgusted face when I heard the key to the room turning and the ornate oak door sliding open.

  “Ayesha,” Shaw said as he saw me, stepping into the room and easing the door closed.

  It was all I could do not to run to him right then and there and leap onto him, throwing my arms and legs around him, tearing his clothes off his body.

  He wore a fine, double-breasted suit which seemed like it shouldn’t have gone with his broad, powerful frame but nonetheless did. It was navy in color and he wore an almost optic white shirt beneath it, with a matte black tie.

  Simple. Elegant. Classic. I was already wet.

  “Good evening, Mr. Shaw,” I said softly, smiling at him, unsure how much of my smile was forced and how much of it was genuine. I gestured to the drinks. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I apologize if I’m a little late,” he said coolly, undoing his jacket and tossing it onto a chair with a careless, cavalier attitude, the attitude of a billionaire who doesn’t care about his playthings because he can always buy a new one if he wants to.

  I was one of his playthings, I realized.

  “Not a problem,” I said, offering him his glass as he approached.

  “Cheers,” he said as he raised his glass. I clinked mine with his and took a sip. The warm, smoky booze slid down my throat like a snake made of fire and I found myself coughing a bit. Shaw laughed.

  “The secret with scotch is to take small sips. Swirl it around in your mouth. Let it wash over every part of your mouth. You taste with your whole mouth, you know. Not just your tongue.”

  I tried again, taking a tiny sip and swirling the truly miniscule amount of whisky around my mouth, letting it wash over as much of my mouth as I could. It was far more tolerable now, but I still didn’t like it.

  Shaw set his glass down and beckoned me to stand. I did, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he growled hungrily in my ear. “You haven’t been with anyone else since last week?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Shaw,” I replied, looking him in the eye.

  “That’s my good girl,” he whispered, grasping my ass cheeks hard. I gasped, recoiling from his touch for a second before I pressed into him.

  “Oh… Mr. Shaw…” I whispered, equally hungry for his touch as he was to touch me. He leaned in to claim my lips, seeking my tongue with his own as we dueled, dancing in the fire of our passion as he led me to the bed.

  He bent me over the bed, running his fingers down my bed, digging his nails into my flesh as I gasped at the pleasure and the pain.

  “Ah… Mr. Shaw…” I moaned as he reached my thighs and spread them apart, the scent of my desire washing over us. He slid my thong to the side and even though I was totally exposed to him, I felt myself flushing, heat rising to my skin as he took in the vision of my most tender, secret spots.

  I heard his pants coming unzipped and a moment later, felt his cock pressing at my entrance.

  “Mr. Shaw, please,” I begged, needing to feel him inside of me. The lust took over, destroying all of my doubts as he seized me hard by the hair and plowed into me, piercing me in a single powerful thrust. I arched my back, grunting like an animal as he took me, his thrusts speeding up as I pressed back into him.

  His hand found my neck, choking me hard, harder than before. That alone made me hotter, made me want him more, made me want him to destroy me, force me to submit, make me… Make me his.

  I gasped through his choke as his hand loosened and precious, life-giving air flooded my lungs. I bounced my ass harder and harder against him as he plunged himself into me, deeper and deeper, his hands finding my breasts and all but tearing my bra from my flesh as he claimed them.

  His sharp nails dug into my nipples as I cried out, teasing and torturing me as he made me his. I was ready to do anything for him. I wanted him in any way he would give himself to me.

  Suddenly, he slid himself out of me. He turned me around and pushed me down on the bed, climbing atop me, putting my legs on his shoulders as he pulled my thong to the side once more and again penetrated me, his cock digging into my most tender spot, each thrust grinding his body into the center of my pleasure, pressing my clit into my flesh and making me buck my hips hard against him.

  “Oh, god, Mr. Shaw!” I screamed as I pressed myself into him. God, but I had wanted him all week, been fantasizing about him all week, even if I didn’t realize it. I ne
eded him, needed to feel him inside of me, feel his seed flooding me, filling me up, making me feel so pleasantly full…

  “Harder! Harder!” I squealed as he gripped me tight by my voluptuous behind, riding me hard, his grunts and groans coming in time with his thrusts as he pounded me, harder than before, almost manic, with a desperate ferocity that made me ache.

  “I’ve been wanting this all week,” he growled into my ear as he rode me, as he dug his pubic bone into mine, sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body.

  “I’ve been waiting for you all my life,” I blurted out, looking at him hard in the eye. Our gazes locked completely and I felt myself beginning to cum, my body spasming around him as I gripped him tighter and tighter, whimpering and shaking, the pleasure deeper and more ripping than it ever had been before.

  My climax brought him over the edge and ass I felt my body start to relax, my muscles still slowly spasming, he slammed himself into me one last time and groaned, his eyes glazing over as he released himself inside of me, his seed spilling deep into my hungry womb. I gasped, shuddering in delight as I felt his hot essence flooding my insides. It was amazing and I wanted to be able to feel this pleasure every single night of my life.

  He slid himself out of me and collapsed on top of me, our sweaty bodies rubbing gently against one another, lubricated by the sweat and bodily fluids clinging to our flesh—mine dark, his light.

  “Was this what you wanted?” I asked, looking him in the eye.

  His dark eyes flashed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, is this how you want me? Just like this, spreading my legs for you every single weekend?”

  Shaw didn’t respond. He pulled himself off of me, strode over to the whisky, and began to pour himself a drink.

  “Ayesha, I don’t know what you’re…”

  “You want me to just fuck you, and only you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you want to fuck other girls, don’t you? You want me to be your private little whore.”

  He scowled, downing the glass of whisky before pouncing on me, holding me down as he drove himself inside of me once more. I groaned in delight, hating myself for loving it as he took me again, working his hands through my hair and pulling hard as he rode me.

  “Oh, god…” I found myself groaning over and over again, tears welling up in my eyes, partially because I was still sensitive, and partially because I had no idea what would happen to us after he was finished.

  He came inside of me once more, leaving me a sloppy mess. I sighed as he rolled off of me again, my loins warm and sore from the hard love making.

  “I want to see you,” I said finally. “Outside of the club.”

  “That’s not allowed.”

  “Nor is demanding that I only sleep with you. If that’s what you want… That’s called a relationship.”

  “I don’t do relationships.”

  “Then you don’t do me.”

  He sighed, retreating to the whisky again.

  I got up, his seed dribbling down my thighs as I went through a nightstand near the bed. I found a pen and paper and scribbled the name of a café around the corner from my apartment, plus the cross streets.

  “I’m quitting. I’ll be here tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. Come see me if you want this to continue,” I told him, looking at him fiercely. “I want to see you there but if you don’t come… Then I guess I don’t care.”

  Shaw took the piece of paper, looked at it numbly. He smelled of whisky and sweat and I thought for a second he would bend me over his knee and spank me, or maybe throw me down on the bed and take me all over again.

  Instead, he crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the waste paper basket. So. That was that. He dressed and stalked out of the room.

  One O’Clock

  Still, I kept my word, my end of the deal I had proposed. Even though I had spent the evening drowning my sorrows in a tub of Ben and Jerry’s and a Netflix binge, I had to get up and go to class. Afterwards, I stopped for coffee at the café, more out of habit than anything else.

  As I sat down with my coffee, I looked at my phone. 12:55. He was no where to be seen. So. That was probably it, wasn’t it?

  I had been a fool. A fool to think a man like that might be interested in me as anything more than a sex toy. As anything more than a tight piece of ass to indulge in, in his big boys’ playground.

  He could have any woman in the city. Why would he want me? Why would…

  The door to the café tinkled as someone walked in. It wasn’t Shaw.

  Why would he want me? What did I have to offer him? I wasn’t rich like he was, nor was I a super model. My acting career had only just barely begun, and it didn’t seem like it was going anywhere soon.

  The only thing, the only thing I could think of that he might be attracted to was the fact that I had challenged him, talked back to him, told him what I wanted.

  The door tinkled again. I looked up, out of habit, not unlike the reason I was in this coffee shop to begin with.

  A man in a double-breasted navy suit had just walked in. He plucked a pair of sunglasses from his face with precise, practiced movements and his eyes fell on me.

  “So,” Shaw said. “Where do we begin?”

  Conquered By the Werebear

  Table of Contents

  The Gladiator

  Night

  Take Me

  Morning

  Revelation

  Conquer Me

  Battle

  The Gladiator

  The sound of swords clashing has always filled my stomach with a mix of fear and excitement. Fear, because I know I will see blood today, see men torn to shreds by wild beasts from the orient, see them beg for their lives and sob like newborn babes. And excitement because, as much as I hate myself for it, I love to see those gladiators, magnificent specimens of men, destroying one another. Their bodies, their muscles, they glisten in our unflinching Roman sun. Their sweat runs off them in rivulets and I can’t help but find my nether regions filled with delight, with lust, as I see their muscles work hard, their tendons stretch and strain in mortal combat.

  My name is Abeba, daughter of the Nubian nobleman and diplomat-in-residence attached to the Roman senate, Kashta Axum. I have passed eighteen summers now and, as my father says, I am become a woman.

  Not that I feel like a woman. Not that he treats me like a woman. I am still confined to my father’s house, to the women’s quarters, where I sew and play the lyre and trade stories with my sisters and our handmaidens. We go to the market once a week with Lephora, the slave woman tasked with keeping us out of trouble. And that’s it. Otherwise, my life is an endless parade of tutors hired by my father to teach me to be a suitable wife—from them, I learn how to run a household, how to order around servants, how to speak politely and intelligently to my future husband. I also learn, once a week, how to please a man. My father hired a Frankish woman, a former slave and now owner of one of the largest brothels in Rome, to school me in the arts of satisfying men…

  There is one other aspect of my life, of course. The fights—the gladiatorial spectacles held every Saturday in the Coliseum in the center of Rome. Everyone who’s anyone in Rome attends them—there’s no other way to see and be seen here, especially for young women.

  My father especially loves the games. He’s a rich man, a former senator back in Africa, who has more or less retired. He owns many farms outside of the city but he doesn’t even bother to visit them anymore. His only occupation in life, now that my mother has died, is buying and selling slaves to fight in the arena. He wins and loses fortunes weekly, betting on the games and winning prize money on behalf of his fighters.

  Maybe you’ve heard of some of them—there was Alpinus, the huge Frankish beast, covered in hideous scars and tattoos, who was undefeated for over sixty fights in a row before my father gave him his freedom and command of his own personal school for gladiators. Then, there was Longinus, a disg
raced centurion whose military precision and ruthless efficiency led him to victory in twelve engagements, all in successive weeks, before finally the emperor himself, determined to see a man who had broken his oaths die, ordered him to face a squad of twelve Scythians all at once. Longinus distinguished himself even there, dispatching seven of the Scythians before succumbing himself. My father could only watch in silent bitterness as he watched his invest collapse on the dusty field, gutted like a fish and crying crimson tears of blood.

  “Abeba!” I heard my father’s voice ringing through the halls of our villa. I looked up from my sewing. I am not very good at sewing, so I was delighted to have any opportunity possible to escape my studies. My father burst into my chambers, a grin on his plump old face. His toga was all disheveled and he was clearly excited.