Red Hot Alphas: 11 Novels of Sexy, Bad Boy, Alpha Males (Red Hot Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  My heart pounds against my ribs. How far is he going to take this, exactly? We both know how this scene ends, and I know he's not going to do that. I know it, the same way I knew that good-looking kid with the loud dirt bike in my high school drama class was not going to kiss me, in our practice scene. Even though the stage directions called for it, even though we were playing John and Elizabeth Proctor, so it didn't exactly need to be a passionate tongue-battle. Just a chaste peck. But I was too unappealing, even for that.

  And in this case, we're not just talking about kissing.

  I have to remind myself that Lily doesn't know any of that. Lily is naive, but at the same time, she's driven by nameless desires she can't understand.

  She takes a step forward. I take a step forward. I try to forget about Josh and just see Mr. Steele, my boss, who's upset that I broke a whole pot of coffee in front of the senior partners.

  Lily expects punishment. She's mortified to have disappointed her boss. She can't possibly know what's coming next, the turn of events that's going to change her life forever.

  "I'm so sorry, Mr. Steele." I don't have to look at the book, this time. "I...I didn't get enough sleep last night."

  He sneers at me. "Up too late last night with your boyfriend?"

  The line's not quite right, and the delivery - no, it shouldn't be so disdainful. He's toying with her, but he's flirting, not actually trying to intimidate or humiliate her. He doesn't need to. She's frightened of him, because of what he can do to her. Though she certainly doesn't know the full extent of that yet.

  He knows full well that she doesn't have a boyfriend. But he wants her to say it.

  "I don't have a boyfriend." My voice sounds too flat and detached, but there's nothing I can do about it now.

  "You don't have a boyfriend?" he echoes. "Oh, Lily, I think you're lying to me. There's no need to pretend. Not with me. I won't judge you, even if you are living in sin."

  Mr. Steele is making a joke, but Josh doesn't seem to understand that. The whole point of the line is to make him say the word sin, to hear it dripping from his lips like a promise.

  "He's her boss, not her pastor," I hear myself blurt out.

  Josh looks up, his eyes momentarily cloudy with confusion. "That's...sorry?"

  "I don't mean to break character," I say, a little too loudly, forcefully, like I'm trying to highlight the difference between me and Lily. "But you're talking to me...to her, like you actually disapprove of what she's doing. You need to be more playful, less overtly menacing. Lily's supposed to be intimidated because she's confronting feelings she doesn't really understand, not because he's actually scolding her."

  "So he doesn't care about the coffee?" Josh glances down at the book. "Because he seemed pretty pissed when it happened."

  "It's just an excuse to talk to her." I fold my arms across my chest, feeling defensive again. "Of course he was annoyed, but he's over it."

  "He's her boss, he doesn't need an excuse."

  "But this way, he's tipping the scales even more in his favor. She feels like she needs to make something up to him, so she won't..."

  "Call Human Resources?" Josh suggests, flipping through the pages. "I gotta admit this is a pretty hot fantasy, but I don't think anybody's gonna be using this book in sexual harassment classes."

  "I didn't exactly invent this kind of thing, you know." I'm frowning at him, simultaneously grateful and incredibly fucking upset that the mood is now broken. "This is just a safe way for women to explore a fantasy that would be a terrible idea in real life."

  "I'm not judging," says Josh, sounding incredibly judgmental. "But you're not exactly convincing me that this guy should come across as anything other than super fucking creepy."

  "Just take my word for it." I'm quickly running out of patience. Hell, I knew this scene wasn't really going anywhere. I knew it wasn't actually going to end with something that would help to dissipate the tension that keeps winding itself tighter and tighter in my body. But this is just awful. I hate having to defend my work, and I particularly hate feeling judged by some tattooed wanna-be bad boy with a blue collar drawl. He thinks he knows everything. Probably has his "Education" status set to "School of Hard Knocks, University of Life." That's assuming social media isn't too bourgeois for him.

  "Okay." He frowns down at the page. "Did you want to start over?"

  "No," I blurt out. "Just pick up where we left off. Do the 'living in sin' line again."

  He does, and it's still pretty far off the mark. But I just plow on forward.

  "I'm not living in sin," I insist. Lily insists. It's getting more difficult to keep my own hard edges out of her lines. "Mr. Steele, are you going to fire me?"

  "Lily!" he exclaims, laughing. "Of course not. I assure you, all the stories you've heard about me are greatly exaggerated."

  I snort. I can't help it. The way he says I assure you is so ridiculously over-the-top, and he just doesn't sound like a guy who'd ever say that. I know that Mr. Steele's dialogue is a little stilted - it's supposed to be, and his overly-formal way of talking stands out in sharp contrast to the way he talks dirty once things start to heat up.

  "What?" Josh looks offended, and he has the right to be. I feel pretty bad, now, but I can't help it. Why did I think he could play this part?

  "Nothing," I insist. "Just, try to make him sound a little more natural."

  "I can't," he mutters. "Nobody talks like this."

  "Some people do!" Now I'm really pissed. He's been dancing around the edges of outright criticizing my writing, but now he's really stuck his foot in it. "If you have a problem with the way I write, maybe this is a bad idea."

  He lets out a frustrated sigh. "I don't have a problem, I'm just saying people don't talk like this. It's not going to sound natural. That's fine, dialogue's not real speech, but if you want me to make it sound like real speech, you're gonna need some vicious editing."

  "Oh, look who's the expert all of a sudden," I snap. "You sound like Eliza Fucking Doolittle."

  "Right," he says, his mouth twisting. "I knew it was gonna come back around to that. Sorry I'm not high-class enough for the spank-bank of middle America's horny housewives. Can't help what I was born into, can I?"

  What the fuck is he talking about?

  "Plenty of women like your type," I tell him. As if he doesn't know that. But apparently, there's some confusion. "That's just not who Landon Steele is."

  "Landon Steele is a fictional character." His jaw is clenched. Why the hell is he so pissed off at me? "Maybe the real-life guy behind the facade is just an average bricklayer who went to community college. You ever think of that?"

  No. That doesn't work. I don't know how to start explaining it to someone who's already so judgmental of the whole thing, but I've already said that the distinction between Landon Steele, author and Landon Steele, fictional protagonist is blurry. Readers are going to think it's dishonest if the "real" Mr. Steele acts nothing like he does in the books.

  I can't bring up the concept of honesty, though, because that's a whole other can of worms with Josh.

  I'm biting my lip. I think it's a weak gesture and I hate it - it's something Lily would do, not me. "Do you want this part, or not?"

  "I can't exactly afford to turn it down," he says, mouth twisting again.

  Well. That's a ringing goddamn endorsement.

  "I'm not exactly sure what we're doing here," I mutter.

  "Shut the door, Lily," he says. "Sit down."

  I swallow hard. He's snapped back into his role like nothing, and even if it's not the role I meant for him to play, it still makes my base of my spine tingle. His eyes are stormy-dark and I find myself wanting to remind him, once again, that Mr. Steele is not angry.

  But Josh is. Right now, that's all that matters.

  I don't shut the door, but I do sit down.

  His eyes flash like he's going to say something, but ultimately, he sticks to the script. "I take disciplinary matters very seriously, Lily. I do.
I know this is just a mistake, and it could happen to anyone, so I won't fire you. But I don't want you to forget this. I want to make sure that you remember how important this is. Every little move you make represents the company. Represents me. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir," I say, faintly. "I understand. I won't forget."

  He smiles indulgently. "Oh, no, Lily. No. This is just going to be another conversation, in your mind. You might feel like it's sharp and memorable now, but it won't be. In just a few weeks' time, you'll forget. And you'll make another mistake. That's not acceptable. I have to make damn sure this sticks in your mind as something other than that time my boss got a little irritated with me." He gets up and circles around the desk, just like it says in the book. "Stand up, Lily."

  Lily stands up, but it's my shaky legs that necessitate grabbing the edge of his desk - my desk - to steady myself.

  "You feel guilty, don't you?" he says, softly. "Wouldn't you feel better if I helped you release some of that guilt?"

  "I don't know what you mean, sir," I whisper.

  "Oh, I think you do," he murmurs. "Don't you feel it? Your back is arched, you're presenting yourself to me. Just like an animal in heat."

  I make a small noise of protest, and he tuts softly.

  "Don't, Lily. It's nothing to be ashamed of. We're all animals. You've always found me attractive, but just now, you're really starting to think about the possibilities."

  Here, he's supposed to rest his hand on the small of my back. I stand there waiting, actually anticipating his touch, until I remember. Just like college, it's not really going to happen. Just because I wrote it doesn't make it true.

  "Don't be afraid," he says. "I know what you want. What you're too afraid to ask for."

  This is when his hand is meant to slide down to my ass.

  This is when, instead of protesting or pulling away, I sigh and arch into his touch.

  This is when he slides his fingers between my legs and finds my plain white panties damp with my arousal. This is when he touches me, this is when he asks me if I want him. This is when I tell him yes, and he slides in to the hilt, and he gives me just enough to make me desperate for more. And then he stops. He leaves me wobbly-legged and frustrated, utterly unsatisfied, just to prove a point. To assert his dominance over me.

  That's my punishment.

  Except, of course, none of that actually happens. Instead, we just stand there, with nothing but the sound of our breathing to break the heavy silence. I can't look at him. I stare at the desk, cluttered with pens and old junk mail and notes I no longer recall the meaning of. I've never felt so much like a fraud. I feel stripped-down, small, humiliated in a way that no real-life version of Mr. Steele could ever make me feel.

  This was a mistake. This was all one big, terrible mistake.

  "I don't think this is going to work," I say, softly.

  There's a moment where Josh processes this.

  "What?" he asks, finally.

  "It's a bad idea," I tell him. "All of this. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." Lead you on is the first thing that pops into my head, but that's not right. "I'll pay you for your time."

  I still can't look at him, but I can feel the anger radiating. He has every right to be mad. I would be, too. But I can't do this. I'm too wrapped up in this mess, and he's uncovering too much that I don't want to confront.

  "Don't worry about it," he says, finally, his voice suddenly flat and emotionless. "Thanks for the opportunity."

  And then, he's gone.

  I realize I must have been standing there, leaning on my desk, for ages. I don't know how long it's been since I heard the front door click.

  I can't understand why I feel like crying.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I'm dancing.

  Okay, so it barely qualifies. I'm doing dance aerobics, which only requires as much form as it takes to not twist your ankle. But it feels like dancing, and Enrique Iglesias is pumping through the speakers, and for a few minutes I'm free of all the fears and worries and mundane concerns of everyday life.

  For a few minutes, I'm just dancing.

  It's been almost a week since I last saw Josh, and I know time is slipping away. Precious time, time I don't really have to waste. But I can't deal with it just yet. I have no idea what I'm going to do - so I just dance.

  I know Enrique's not singing about a girl like me. My hips may not lie, but my body doesn't exactly scream "come and take me," either. At least, not to most guys. I've had my fair share of run-of-the-mill hotties, but our encounters usually end with a very obvious note of finality - or the ever popular: "you're gonna be cool about this, right?"

  None of that matters right now, though. When the music finally stops and we move on to our cool-down song - Beyoncé's's "Halo" - I feel a pang of disappointment.

  "See you next week?" one of my classmates asks, pulling out her earplugs.

  "I hope so. Things have been kinda crazy." I towel off, resisting the urge to glance out the windows behind me. With the streets dark and the studio lit up in fluorescents, I'm already well aware that we're on display for all the passers-by. I just try not to think about it, and most of the time, it works.

  But tonight, something catches my eye. A figure loitering, leaning on a lamppost. Watching us.

  Watching me.

  I don't dare look at him too closely. If he's not actually staring at us, then I'm going to make it even weirder. And either way, I don't want to acknowledge it.

  "What's up with that guy?" another classmate asks, staring openly at him. Okay, so much for subtlety. "I think he's watching you, Kim."

  "Nah," I tell her, even as my heartbeat quickens. "I think we all know how unlikely that is. But we should probably stick together in groups while we're leaving, just in case."

  "Don't worry, I got your back," says another. I feel bad for not being able to pull up their names, but there's a constantly-revolving cast of women in this class and my memory works about as well as a half-broken sieve.

  We move out onto the sidewalk in a throng, and one of them is saying, "he looks pretty hot, actually. Nice tattoos." And that makes me wonder.

  I have to know.

  Right, like he's the only guy in the city with tattoos. Ignoring my mocking inner monologue, I turn and I look.

  It's him.

  A couple of the women notice I've stopped, and they slow down. One says: "You okay?"

  "Yeah," I tell her. "Go on without me. It's cool."

  "Oh, so you know the tattooed hunk," another giggles. "Told you he was looking at you."

  Glancing down the street to make sure my way is clear, I walk briskly across the pavement and come to a stop, a few feet from him.

  My mind's swimming with possible explanations for what and why and how, and I can't stop thinking about how this seems like a scene in a book I'd write. There's a kind of poetic justice in that.

  Maybe Josh is some kind of crazy stalker that I just happened to stumble across. I'm clutching the tiny bottle of pepper spray in my workout bag. It's been so many years since I took that self defense class, I'd probably end up spraying myself with it by accident.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask him, finally, because it's obvious he's just going to stand there with a Mona Lisa smile if I don't.

  A moment later, I realize he's holding a cigarette between two fingers, casually. Going for a James Dean look, minus the jacket, because of course that would cover up the canvas of his arms.

  "Frankly, Kimberly, I'm here because you pissed me off." He takes a thoughtful drag from his cigarette, and then collapses into a coughing fit for a moment.

  "I didn't know you smoked," I say, mouth twisting into a humorless smile.

  "Obviously, I don't," he says, eyes watering a little as he tosses the cigarette away. "I just thought it would look cool."

  "None of the book boyfriends smoke," I point out.

  He just shrugs. "I took some artistic license."

  "Yeah, well." I shift my weight
from one foot to other. Something's not letting me leave, and it's certainly not him. He's still standing about ten feet away, not blocking my path, not giving me any indication that he's going to. Yet, I feel frozen in place. "I'm sorry I pissed you off."

  Shaking his head, he takes one step closer. Just a single step, and despite the lingering wheeze in his breath, I melt a little. Maybe I was wrong about him.

  I should be more creeped out than I am, but now I have an inkling of why he did this. Folding my arms across my chest, I fix him with an assessing look. "So, how'd you find me?"

  He grins, scratching the back of his head in a sudden flash of sheepishness. "You mentioned dance aerobics that one time. Your keys were right on the coffee table, I saw the membership tag for this place. It wasn't hard to put the two together."

  "So you figured being a creepy, controlling dickhead would get my attention." I smirk, and he does a little half-bow flourish thing. "Well, you got it."

  "Give me another chance," he says. He clears his throat. "Please."

  The power balance has shifted back to me, ever so slightly. He seized it at first, by tracking me down like this, but now he's giving me a taste of control again. Just enough to keep me hooked. Oh, yeah, he's much better at this than he was last time we met.

  I smile at him, holding eye contact for longer than I usually can. There's something about him. Something magnetic. Usually, if I look into somebody's eyes for more than a second, it physically hurts me, like sticking my hand in hot water. There's that instant reaction, your body jerks away, basically without your permission. I think it's one of the reasons why none of the companies I temped at would ever hire me; they thought I was nervous, or untrustworthy, or something. Eye contact means so much. We like to convince ourselves that we can see people's secrets.

  I don't know what I see in Josh's eyes, exactly. But for some reason, it's not quite like other people's. It's still like hot water, but only slightly too hot - the kind where you dip your toe in, and you think maybe, just maybe, if you give yourself some time to adjust...

  It might feel really good.

  "Are you in a bad spot, Josh?" I ask him, softly, with a knowing smile.