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

by Jo Raven

  He shrugs. "Never too late," he says, continuing to work his magic on my neglected calf. "But I don't know if I believe you."

  Now that the pain is starting to fade, I'm free to notice how nice this feels. The warmth that spreads from his hands is intoxicating, and in spite of my emotional turmoil - or maybe because of it - my body's responding.

  He obviously didn't intend it like this. I actually feel kind of dirty for getting excited, because he's mad and he's just trying to help un-hobble me. All that flirting, and of course our almost-but-not-quite encounter last night, have left me with all kinds of unfulfilled fantasies floating around in my head. But he doesn't want me. He can't want me. He just got caught up in the moment - that's all.

  Josh is still lost in quiet, dark thoughts, and I realize I haven't said anything in ages.

  "I don't know what to tell you." I'm having trouble focusing now. Is it my imagination, or are his fingers working their way up higher? I don't remember him being this close to my thigh, before.

  He's just working on the connective tissue right under your knee. He's being nice, Kimberly. Stop it.

  He snorts. "That's pretty obvious." After a moment, he glances up at me, his fingers slowing a little bit. It's all I can do not to moan a protest. "Don't worry. Once I do my signing, this whole thing will be over with, and you won't have to deal with me anymore."

  Deal with him? What does that mean? Is he just referring to the fact that he's all pissy because I blue-balled him, or something else?

  He's worked his way up to my quad, now, and it feels too good for me to put a stop to it. I'm biting my lip, both to keep quiet, and to keep still. I've never had such an intense massage that actually turned me on before, but there's a first time for everything. I have to concentrate hard to keep from squirming in my seat.

  He says: "Tell me to stop if it's too much."

  I'm trying not to read any additional meaning into his words.

  His hands go higher, higher. "Kimberly, did you hear me?"

  It takes me a second to find my voice.

  "Yes," I half-whisper, finally.

  "I said tell me to stop." His fingers are under my dress, now. "Tell me to stop, Kim."

  Josh's eyes meet with mine, burning, and I notice how quickly his chest rises and falls. Holy shit. He's turned on, too.

  "If you don't tell me to stop, I'm not going to," he rasps, his fingers now inches from where I need him to touch me. "Cause right now, if you'll let me have you, even just a little taste, I don't really care what you think of me."

  What does that mean? I'm too far gone to care. He said taste, and now my whole body's throbbing.

  "Please," I practically whimper. "I don't want you to stop."

  With a growl, he grabs me by the ass and jerks me forward on the chair, tilting me up and back. He looks completely feral as he grabs my panties and rips them out of the way, then bends down and buries his tongue between my folds.

  Oh, God.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm vaguely aware we are in a dressing room at a television studio. That he's expected, any moment now, to set up for a book signing that might last for hours. If we're interrupted now, I might actually die.

  He's not gentle. His tongue spears against me, hot and fast, and it's exactly what I need. I'm gripping his hair so hard it must hurt him, but that only seems to spur him on. I'm fighting to keep quiet, but it feels less and less possible with every passing moment.

  When the first shuddering waves of climax wash over me, I lose the ability to control my voice. I moan his name, loud, every part of my body rippling with ecstasy.

  More than anything, I want, no, need him to fuck me. But unless they stash these dressing rooms with condoms - wait, do they? - that's probably not a good idea. But there is a next-best thing.

  As he stands up, wiping his sleeve across his face, I kneel. I can't help thinking about the fact that he's going out to that signing with me on his clothes. I just came so hard my legs are jelly, but I'm still so horny I can hardly see straight.

  He shoots me a tortured look. "No time," he says, even as he grasps the obvious hard-on in his dress pants. He squeezes it, hard, eyes closing a little at the momentary relief before he swallows heavily and looks at me again. "No," he says, again, roughly.

  My mouth waters. "Please."

  There's a light tapping at the door.

  A voice says: "Mr. Steele, they're ready for you."

  There's an intense battle being waged from in front of me, and I know I can win. I might not be the most alluring candidate, but I'm here, and I'm willing - more than willing - and he's about to explode. He won't be able to resist me.

  "Just give me a few minutes," he snarls, unzipping. Then, to me, he whispers: "Beg."

  I'm quivering all over, and every sensible part of my brain says fuck off, fuck you, but there's nothing sensible about this. Nothing at all.

  "Please," I whisper, unsure if the PA is still lurking outside the door. "Please let me..."

  He's pulling it out. It's magnificent. A benevolent deity trying to create the perfect romance novel hero couldn't have done better.

  "Make me believe it," he murmurs.

  "Please," I'm almost moaning, hardly caring anymore if somebody hears me. "Please, please..."

  I don't know if I have it in me to use the words he probably wants to hear, but it doesn't matter. He snaps. He shoves it in my face, hips jerking towards me, and I should probably be offended at his roughness as he grabs the back of my head and urges me forward, but this is exactly what I want from him. Exactly what I need. He knows, and he's going to give it to me.

  His taste is sharp and masculine and I'm instantly addicted. I relax my throat for him, doing something I've never been able to do for another man, and let him overwhelm absolutely every part of my senses. He's pure lust and pure anger, claiming me, not even about to let me control this situation.

  I hate him. I hate that he's perfect as Landon Steele, and I hate that he's perfect just the way he is. I hate that he's mad at me and I hate that he's so sexy I can't let myself want him. Because I know how it will end. I hate that I know. I want to forget, to pretend there's some kind of future for us that doesn't end in tears.

  A future? With Josh? Is that what I really want? This is hardly the time to be thinking about it, but I can't help it. My jaw aches and I can feel tears starting to leak out of the corners of my eyes. All the same, I feel like I could do this all day. But if his harsh breaths and tightly-closed eyes are any indication, I won't be doing it for much longer.

  When he floods my mouth, I moan around him, swallowing eagerly and savoring the burn of his fingers gripping my hair tighter. I won. Just for one moment, I own him.

  There's another knock at the door.

  "Mr. Steele, everyone's waiting."

  "I said give me a minute," he exclaims back, heatedly. "Jesus."

  He glances down at me with an expression I can't quite read, and tucks himself back in his pants with a rough gesture. "I have to go," he mutters, before turning to the mirror to smooth down his hair. He looks completely debauched, and I probably do too. I don't even want to find out.

  "Might want to get off your knees before I open the door," he says. "They're right outside."

  I do, on shaky legs, turning my back just in case everything will show on my face.

  "Is your assistant not joining you?" one of the PAs asks.

  "She'll be along in a moment," he says, in perfect, smooth, overly-formal Steele. Something deep inside my chest aches.

  He's been gone for half a second, and I already miss him.

  ***

  The signing is utter insanity. I'm there to fetch Josh water, to keep the line orderly, and to make sure everyone has their books ready. Without asking him, I set the rule of "no body parts," and spread the warning down to anyone I notice standing there empty-handed. Those glossy 8x10s are going to come in handy.

  Somehow, it's both the longest and shortest two hours of my l
ife. After the scheduled time is over, there's still a line out the door, but the station staff can't spend any more of their time dealing with our fans. His fans. So they send everyone home, and usher us out the back door and right into a car to the hotel.

  Josh doesn't say anything, and neither do I. When I get to my door, and he keeps walking, I almost do. It's on the tip of my tongue, just to turn around and say something.

  Wait.

  But I don't.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I have to talk to Josh.

  I can't stand the thought of another cab ride, another interminable flight, this time in stony silence. I have to figure out what's going on, and clear the air between us. Even if it's the most awkward thing I've ever done, even if it means the trip home will be even worse because of it.

  Pacing my room for a while, I debate this for ages, until I finally realize I'll never forgive myself if I don't try.

  Tentatively, I go and knock on his door.

  At first, I really think he's not going to come. I can vaguely hear the murmur of the TV, so I know he's there, but he clearly doesn't want to talk to me.

  Finally, he yanks the door open. He's half Landon and half Josh, still in his suit but with the jacket gone and sleeves rolled up, the promise of wickedness that's painted on his arms in full display. His hair, carefully styled for the show, is mussed and misbehaving.

  "Yeah?" His mouth is a thin line.

  I'm biting my lip, which I know doesn't exactly put me in a position of strength and authority. I don't want to come across all unstable, especially after last night, but he obviously doesn't know. He doesn't understand.

  "I wanted to apologize for last night," I tell him. "Can I come in, please?"

  He closes his eyes for a moment. "I don't wanna talk about this, Kimberly."

  "Well, we're talking about it." This is a time to be firm. I push past him into the room, but he doesn't actually try to stop me. "I know I run away sometimes, I know it's not the most mature thing in the world, but you have to respect that I've got my reasons."

  "I'm not saying you owe me an explanation," Josh replies, quietly. He's not really looking at me, his eyes caught somewhere between my gaze and the floor. "I never did. I just don't want to talk about it."

  "Why not? What are you afraid I'm going to say?"

  "The truth, Kim!" he practically shouts. For a moment, he's almost frightening - feral. I thrill at the look in his eyes, and I'm ashamed to admit it. His anger is an aphrodisiac. How fucked up is that? "I don't want to hear it. I don't know want to know about your bullshit inner conflict, how you want to live out your fuckin' Nicholas Sparks fantasies, slumming it with some blue collar guy, but you know you can't have a future with somebody like that."

  "Wait." I'm staring at him, heart pounding, trying to make sense of everything with what little brain power I have left, after the most stressful day of my life. "What do you think happened last night?"

  "What do I think?" He looks skeptical at the implication that he could be wrong. "I think I forgot for a minute that you only want Landon Steele. Not me. As soon as I let the mask slip, you reminded me." His eyes are like flint. "That's all."

  My brain stutters and stalls a few times before I can reply.

  "That's why you're upset?" I'm not sure if I want to laugh or cry, and he looks pretty confused so it must be showing on my face. "You think I don't want you? Josh, I..." Now I'm feeling particularly stupid. "I just stopped it because I freaked out. I thought it would end up like every other time I've slept with a ridiculously sexy guy."

  His face softens considerably. "You think I'm ridiculously sexy?"

  "That's not the point," I insist, feeling my cheeks turning bright pink. "Every other time I've slept with a guy like you, he never wants to see me again. I couldn't take it. Not with you. So I ended it. I don't know why, it's not like that really makes it better. But at least I felt like I could be in control."

  There's so much in his expression. Relief, hurt, confusion, and a happiness that threatens to take over everything. "Why didn't you just say something? Tell me what was going on? Hell, Kimberly, I don't know why you've found yourself stuck with such a pack of assholes before me, but..."

  "Because." I let out a little, bewildered laugh. "No guy's going to tell you the truth when his dick's hard. Give me some credit."

  Swiftly, he closes the distance between us, capturing me against his body. I briefly forget my own first name.

  "You thought I'd lie to you, huh? Just to get into your pants?" His eyes glint, and he's trying to hide a smile. "I would never. Not a lie. Not in a million years. I might exaggerate. But you'd see through me right away. I'm a good actor, but I'm a bad liar. I just can't do it. Not when it comes to people I care about."

  "I didn't know," I say, softly.

  "Well, now you do." The pretense drops, and pure honesty is shining through. "This isn't a game for me, Kim. It hasn't been for a while. Maybe since the beginning. I've always been hoping you'd show me, tell me, let me know somehow that you actually liked me for who I was, and not just who I was pretending to be."

  "Of course I did," I practically whisper. "Josh, I'm sorry. I know there's dirty talk in my stories, I know that's where you got the idea. And I like it. I really do like it, normally. Just, the last guy who did it..." I suck in a breath, willing away the tide of panic. "It was a bad experience. And I'd almost forgotten until you..."

  "Shit." He steps back a little, his face twisting with pain and regret. "Shit, Kim, I knew it. I knew I did something wrong. Fuck. I'm acting like a fucking spoiled baby about this. I'm so sorry. I never should've sprung that on you without asking first."

  "I would've told you I wanted it, though." My mind races, struggling to find the words to make him understand. "That's the problem. I'm a mess, Josh. I'm a big fat mess."

  His eyes flash. "Tell me that's a figure of speech," he says, firmly.

  I swallow hard. "Come on. Let's not mince words."

  He squeezes my shoulders, a thousand thoughts and emotions flashing across his face. "Fuck, Kimberly. I don't even know what to say. I'm so goddamn angry at every man who's ever dared to touch you without appreciating you for everything you are. I'll call you any name you want, when you're ready for it, if it'll make you happy. But I won't let you call yourself anything bad. Don't expect me to."

  I'm laughing a little, though I still have that shaky about-to-cry feeling in my chest. "I know what I look like, okay? And I don't have a complex about it. I know plenty of guys want girls like me. Just not when they wake up the next morning, most of the time. I'd be an insecure mess no matter what I looked like, but this just makes it easier to focus on something superficial. If a guy doesn't like me, I can always tell myself he's shallow. Even if it's not true. Because the idea of being rejected for who I actually am, inside, that fucking hurts way more."

  I hiccup a little, and he's staring at me with such compassion, such understanding, I almost burst into sobs. But I manage not to.

  "I'm damaged goods," I whisper. "And I've got no reason to be. I was just born with a brain that hates itself. Nobody gets it. I'm strong, I'm smart, I'm confident. But I can't silence all the doubts. I can't just make myself act normal. I'm not strong enough. Last night, you said something to me that I wanted to hear, that turned me on, and I rewarded you by having a panic attack. I hate being that way."

  His mouth twists a little. "Kim, is that what happened? I didn't..." He swallows audibly. "God damn it, I knew you were upset, but I had no idea." He shuts his eyes for a second. "How many times can I apologize? Shit." He laughs a little, bewildered and humorless. "I'm a fucking idiot. You deserve better."

  "You're not," I insist. "You didn't know. I know you didn't know. You'd always give me the space I needed, if I could just tell you. It's neither of our faults, not really. I don't go around telling people that I'm a mess of anxiety, that I panic at the drop of a hat, because it doesn't exactly come across very well. Nobody takes you seriously when you a
dmit to being hysterical. And you were just trying to give me what I wanted." I take a deep breath. "So now we know."

  "Now we know," he echoes. "If I see you panic, I'll back off."

  "And I'll try to tell you what's going through my mind," I promise him. "Sometimes it's hard to put into words. Sometimes, yeah, I just need some space. But I won't shut you out, if you don't want to be."

  "I never want you to shut me out," he says, and I believe him. "I've been smitten with you since the first time I cracked the cover of one of your books, Kim. I love that dirty, beautiful mind."

  It's probably the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me, and I melt a little bit. I do. But my crazy mind can't help running around in circles, wondering if he's only putting up with my body because he likes the way I think.

  "Kim," he says, gently, cupping my face in his hands. "What's wrong? You're slipping away from me again."

  "It's nothing," I insist.

  He gives me a look, but he's not pushing.

  I sigh. "Okay. I'm going to tell you, but you have to promise not to judge how ridiculous I am, and how ungrateful that I've got a ridiculously sexy and thoughtful man in my arms right now." I sigh a little. "Of course every woman wants to be appreciated for her mind. Of course she does."

  A little wicked smile twitches on his lips. "Let me stop you right there, baby girl." He raises an eyebrow. "Is there any doubt that I want your body too? That I find you ridiculously sexy?" The sound of his voice, low and rough, rolling over the word - my throat's tight for a different reason, now. "Those curves you were trying to hide when we first met? And the way you started blooming like a flower, putting on those sexy fuckin' outfits every time you knew I was coming over? It was such a struggle not to touch you in your office that day, when we were roleplaying. I kept worrying you were gonna turn around and notice me trying to adjust my fuckin' ridiculous hard-on. But I couldn't tell if you really wanted it. I knew you were scared of something, and I didn't know what, so I held myself back. I got so hopeful after you stuck up for me at the store, and I thought maybe you really didn't care if I'm not exactly the suave billionaire type. I guess I've got a bit of a complex, too. But never, ever doubt that I wanted you. Just because I'm into your mind doesn't mean I'm not just as into your body. What do you want me to tell you, that I thought about propping your thighs up on my shoulders the first moment I saw you?"