Wolf's Secret (Alpha's Hunger Book 2)

by Carina Wilder

  “That’s my girl,” he moaned, pulling himself almost completely out, staring down to watch my fingers work. “That is so fucking hot. Now squeeze my cock. I want to feel how tight you are.”

  I clenched around him when he buried himself inside me again, my eyes locked on his own.

  “Hot, is it?” I asked, knowing full well how much it aroused him to watch me touch myself. I moved my other hand up to my right breast and pinched my nipple gently, rolling it between my fingertips. “You like it when I do this, too?”

  He nodded. “You’re being naughty. I’m going to have to punish you for it,” he growled, thrusting hard again. I cried out, overwhelmed once again by the shock of his massive dick. Best punishment in the world.

  “You’re everything to me,” he growled. “I want to fuck you for decades. I want to live a long life with you, and no one but you. Do you hear me?”

  I nodded. “I hear you,” I whispered.

  When he pulled out, I felt my core tighten under my touch, my arousal tipping me over the edge. “Oh, God…Tristan…I’m coming…”

  He slammed into me again and pressed forward, his lips crashing into mine as he reached for my hands, pulling them to my sides. Heat exploded inside me even as my channel grasped him, throbbing with intense, mind-blowing pleasure.

  My body never wanted to let him go.

  And neither did I.

  Chapter 22

  At three a.m. I found myself standing in the open floor-to-ceiling window of the suite’s bedroom, pressing my hips into the waist-high wrought iron railing that kept me from tumbling into the street below. The night was dark, humidity misting the air, tiny droplets of moisture flitting like specks of dust under the street lamps.

  My red robe was slightly open, but I didn’t much care if anyone saw me from below. Maybe it was the time of night. Maybe it was being in the Big Easy, where anything goes. But somehow I’d lost my former self-consciousness, at least for the time being.

  Tourists strode down the middle of the street, their gaits uneven after a night of drinking in local bars. Loud peals of laughter rose up and met my ears, bringing a smile to my lips. I was so glad not to be young and stupid anymore. So glad to find my intoxication in the gorgeous eyes and voice of my lover rather than in a bottle. So glad that fate had led me to him…despite the challenges that faced us on a daily basis.

  As I stared down at the sporadic parade of noisy strangers, Tristan crept up behind me, pulling my hair back and away from my shoulders, and draped something around my neck. A long necklace of ivory pearls fell between my breasts like liquid.

  “Oh my God, they’re beautiful,” I said, looking down. Something about the sensation of the cool spheres slipping along skin was starkly erotic, arousing me all over again.

  It didn’t hurt that the sexiest man I’d ever met had his hands on my waist, his glorious scent wrapping itself around my head like silk.

  As if reading my mind, my lover kissed my neck, slipping a warm hand into my robe and over one breast, his fingers teasing the very tip of my nipple until my core throbbed with renewed desire.

  “Show your tits!” a voice yelled coarsely from somewhere below us. Ah, the New Orleans mantra. Supposedly if you exposed your breasts, people threw you strands of beads. The thing was, I already had a very beautiful necklace and zero desire to entertain a bunch of college boys.

  I peered down to see three young men in baseball caps staring up at our window. No doubt they could see what Tristan’s hand was up to. I thought about pulling back into the room, but something about their voyeurism turned me on a little.

  Tristan yanked my robe shut protectively from behind.

  “Her tits,” he half-shouted, “are not for public consumption, you inebriated meat sacks!”

  “Aw, c’mon man!” another guy yelled. “She’s sexy as hell. You should share her with the world.” He slurred his words, and there was no doubt in my mind that he’d forget he’d ever said that by morning. Tristan circled to my side to look at me questioningly, like he was asking tacit permission.

  “Really?” I asked, laughing. “You want me to flash them?”

  “It’s New Orleans,” he shrugged, “and he does have a point. You’re sexy as hell.”

  “Fine.” Chuckling, I quickly yanked my robe open and shut before running back into the room to the sound of their approving hoots and hollers.

  “Now that was something I would never have done before I met you,” I laughed, throwing myself backwards onto the bed and letting the robe fall open, the strand of pearls taking up residence around my left breast.

  Tristan, who was wearing nothing but a t-shirt and thin boxers, was on me in an instant, a renewed hard-on pressing into my belly. “Tell me why you did it, then,” he growled, but his tone was more arousal than irritation. “Tell me why you felt inclined to show a bunch of college morons your perfect tits.”

  “Because you make me feel so fucking beautiful,” I said, pushing his boxers down, reaching for his cock and stroking his length against the softness of my belly. “Because when I’m with you I feel wanted. I feel safe. Even when strangers’ eyes are gawking at me.”

  “You are wanted,” he said, pulling back enough to press his length in between the sensitive petals that were all too happy to welcome him. “I would make love to you forever if I could.” He thrust himself inside me, eliciting a loud cry that must have carried as far as the street. More entertainment for the college boys.

  I shut my eyes and sealed my mouth against the agony of the sensation as his lips met my neck, his tongue tasting the salt of my flesh. But my eyes opened as a jolting thought stirred up in my mind.

  A sudden agony consumed me at the thought that I would die long before he did.

  I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him deep inside, my hips bucking hard under him as we became one.

  I told myself to enjoy every single second I had with Tristan. Because our time was limited by the curse of mortality.

  Tristan’s plan was for us to remain in New Orleans for the rest of the week, though that was all I knew. He hadn’t told me anything about a schedule, about what we’d see or do. I could only assume that he wanted each day to be a surprise, just as yesterday had been.

  When I awoke on Tuesday morning, I fully expected to hear that we’d eat breakfast then visit another of his haunts. But instead, I saw that he was already awake and fully dressed. He slipped around to my side of the bed, gave me a kiss, and told me he had to head to a meeting.

  “Seriously? A meeting?” I asked, propping myself up on my elbow. It seemed a bit weird that he hadn’t mentioned anything about it. “Who with?” I eyed him suspiciously, a sting of insecurity biting at some ugly place inside me.

  “No one important,” he replied. “Rather, what I mean by that is they won’t be important, not after today.”

  “Do I even want to know what that means?”

  His lips eased into a grin. “If you’re wondering why I’m being secretive about it, let’s just say it has to do with securing our future. I’m taking advantage of an opportunity to iron out some wrinkles so you and I can move on with our lives together once and for all.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at those words. Moving on with our lives together. “In that case, go nuts,” I yawned, stretching my arms over my head as my body and mind relaxed. Thoughts of yesterday’s stresses aside, I was more than pleased to hear that he was as serious about us as I was. “Thinking about the future is all I want.”

  “Well, once I’ve sorted out what I need to do, we’ll have nothing but that to look forward to,” he told me. “You have a good morning, sexy. There’s an excellent breakfast place on the corner. Oh, and Kara is in room 217 if you need her. I’ll be back in the afternoon, hopefully with a big smile on my face and an even bigger hard-on for you.”

  I laughed and didn’t ask any more questions. Tristan was a man who enjoyed being mysterious, and I liked his surprises—at least the good ones—too much to protest
.

  “Fine. I think I’ll go for a wander, then,” I told him. “I’d like to get to know this town a bit.”

  “Okay, but do me a favor and stick to the tourist areas,” he said, perching on the edge of the bed and stroking my cheek with his thumb as his piercing eyes took me in. “Don’t wander too far on your own.”

  “I won’t.”

  Something told me I didn’t need to worry too much; I was fairly sure Tristan still had his allies keeping watch over me, despite the fact that we were many miles from home. I suspected that he had friends in this city.

  “I’ll be back sometime in the afternoon, I hope,” he repeated, giving me a final kiss. “Be good.”

  When he’d left, I rose and got dressed in a long, dark blue cotton maxi dress, then headed downstairs and outside into the heat to look for the breakfast place Tristan had mentioned. I hadn’t walked too far when I came upon what had to be it—an ancient café with potted ferns dangling from their planters outside the front door.

  When I stepped inside, a shot of air conditioning hit me, a sharp relief for my already overheating body. I drew myself up to the counter and ordered an iced coffee to go. When the barista had moved away to prepare it, I looked around a little, inhaling a satisfied breath. I was on holiday yet again, enjoying a fleeting moment of perfection. Given our track record, I knew it wouldn’t last long, so I chose to revel in it for a few minutes.

  Tourists were seated at the various tables lining the walls, which were coated in old black-and-white photographs of New Orleans and its environs. Ceiling fans hung high overhead, lazily shifting the cool air around. This place probably hadn’t changed in fifty years or more, and I loved it.

  I smiled to myself, a delicate sense of happiness settling inside my soul. It was nice to know that I had no more secrets, and Tristan’s were slowly but surely coming to light. The gaping chasm that had scarred our relationship from the start had finally begun to seal up, and I had every faith that we were growing stronger as a couple than ever before.

  When I had my iced coffee in hand, I wandered back towards the door, only to pull to a stop when I spotted a billboard coated in colorful flyers advertising live music, art galleries, rental homes and other appealing aspects of life in the Big Easy.

  For some reason, a teal-colored sheet of paper caught my eye. At its center was the image of a crystal ball, two slightly gnarled hands holding it from either side.

  My heart started beating a little faster as my eyes caught the images of a wolf and a dragon in the upper corners. It seemed too much like coincidence for me to dismiss.

  Madame Lola, the flyer read. I will tell you your future, your past, and the secrets you’ve searched for all your life…that is, if you think you are strong enough to bear it.

  Clarissa had once had her palm read at a county fair. The woman had told her she’d become a school teacher and have six children, both of which had made us cackle. So basically, I had no faith in fortune tellers.

  Still, something about Madame Lola’s flyer intrigued me. I figured that if I wanted to truly experience New Orleans, what better way to do it than to waste fifty bucks on a tarot card-reading hack?

  The address said she was on Chartres Street, which was just around the corner, so I took note of it and pushed the door open, only to be assaulted by another blast of oppressive heat. I sipped my frigid, sweet coffee through the straw, enjoying the way the southern air forced me to slow down. I felt heavier, weighted down by the humidity that lingered in the atmosphere around me. In Manhattan, it didn’t matter how hot it was out; people still rushed everywhere. They still raged that the person in front of them wasn’t moving fast enough, still yelled at yellow cabs that came too close to running over their toes.

  But here, everything seemed to move in slow motion, if only out of necessity. Pedestrians stopped to take in the view of a balcony, a hanging plant, an ornate front door. No destination particularly mattered. If anything, time stood still. The only thing of consequence was whatever surrounded you right here, right now.

  So I was going to make my way slowly to Madame Lola’s, and slowly, she’d tell me my alleged fate. It would be some good, silly vacation fun.

  What’s the worst that can happen? I asked myself.

  It was a question I would come to regret.

  Chapter 23

  Madame Lola’s was everything I could have hoped for in a fortune teller’s shop. Fake cobwebs hung from the sign over the ancient iron and glass door. A male mannequin wearing a shiny, stuffed satin turban stood in the window, his hands fixed on a sphere of glass that sparkled with tacky flashing lights.

  I chuckled as I stared at the display of tarot cards, voodoo dolls and alligator heads on display, wondering what had infiltrated my brain to convince me that it was a good idea to even think about wandering into such a place.

  Still, I pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  Lining the walls of the shop’s interior was more of the same. Tiny shrunken heads that were probably actually made of ancient, desiccated leather. Charts mapping the lines on palms and what they meant, posters featuring the signs of the Zodiac, others categorizing the various patterns of tea leaves. You could buy all these things and take them home, of course. That is, if you were crazy enough to want to.

  For a second I pictured Tristan’s fancy marble mantle coated in shriveled, eyeless heads, and I had to suppress a snort-laugh.

  Alone in the shop at first, I wandered around and examined the goods. Moody, ethereal music came at me through speakers set up in each corner, so I didn’t hear the shuffling of feet by the cash register in the back.

  “May I help you?” asked a rich, feminine voice tinged with some exotic accent. I spun around, shocked to see a set of bright green eyes staring back at me—eyes that were strange and familiar at once. They weren’t quite human, but nor were they those of a shifter. All I could tell was that they were set in the face of a woman whose age I couldn’t begin to discern.

  I was beginning to understand why her flyer had featured the small drawings of a wolf and a dragon. Somehow, this woman was connected to Tristan’s world, though I didn’t yet begin to understand how.

  She was a study in opposites. Jet-black hair framed a face lined with shallow wrinkles. Her body was a little hunched but her lips and eyes were oddly young, as if age hadn’t yet figured out how to claim them.

  “I was wondering if you could give me a reading,” I said, feeling foolish just for letting those words come out of my mouth.

  “Yes,” she replied, smiling. “I knew that, of course.”

  I laughed. “I see what you did there. Retroactive fortune telling. Clever.”

  She winked at me and pulled out a sheet of card stock with a list of prices, handing it over as I moved towards the counter.

  “I don’t care about price,” I told her. “I’ve always wanted to see someone use a crystal ball. Could we do that?”

  “Very good,” the woman said. Her accent sounded French, or at least something near it. I supposed it made sense, given her name. Part of me wondered if she was ancient like Tristan.

  Maybe she’d come over from Paris hundreds of years ago.

  No, I thought. That’s absurd. Stop assuming everyone’s some magical being. She’s probably just a con artist making her living in lies.

  She took me through a set of beaded curtains at the back of the shop into a small room, where a little round table was set up amid piles of cardboard boxes. A dark red cloth was draped over it, and over that, a broad silk scarf made up of many pieces of fabric stitched together like patchwork.

  On top of all of it sat the crystal ball.

  As I approached, I stared at the shining globe, eyeing the upside-down reflection of the room in its roundness, a world flipped on its head by the glass. A quick shudder overtook me, though I wasn’t entirely sure why. This was meant to be an adventure, purely for my own amusement. A typical tourist activity on my little holiday.

  Still, for
some reason I wished Tristan was with me to hold my hand.

  “Sit,” Madame Lola commanded in that strange voice of hers.

  I took my seat, placing my hands in my lap, and stared at her. Plopping herself down in the chair on the other side of the table, she gazed into the ball, slipping her hands lightly over its surface, her eyes narrowing as though she’d already spotted something that intrigued her.

  All I saw was my own upside-down reflection, distorted, screwed up. The story of my whole damned life.

  “You came to this city with a man,” she said. I did a quick calculus and figured out that probably ninety percent of women in New Orleans showed up with a man. Hardly an impressive proclamation.

  “Yes,” I replied politely, fighting back the sarcasm that wanted to lace my voice.

  The fortune teller stroked her fingers over the ball gently, like she was caressing the strands of a feather. “He’s doing something important today.”

  Again, not impressive, I thought. Though I supposed she could have told me he was off having an affair. That would have made the story intriguing, at least.

  “Yup,” I said, growing slightly impatient. Tell me something I don’t know, Madame Fraud.

  “Patience,” she said as though reading my thoughts. She set her palms on the ball and held it, shutting her eyes and humming quietly to herself.

  Well, at least she was putting on a bit of a show now.

  I crossed my arms, holding in the desire to let out an exasperated sigh. I was more annoyed with myself than with her—I was the idiot who’d thought this would be entertaining enough to be worth the money.

  After what felt like a solid minute of soft, melodic music coming from between her lips she gasped, her eyes shooting open, hands yanking back like the ball had burned her.