Taming Her Curves
The Alpha's Obsession
Book Two
* * *
Bella B. Wilde
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events reside solely in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters are eighteen years of age or older.
©2019, BELLA B. WILDE. No portion of this work can be reproduced in any way without the prior written consent fron the author with the exception for a fair use excerpt for review and editorial purposes.
This title is for adults only. It contains explicit sex acts, adult themes, and material some folks might find offensive.
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Contents
* * *
1 | Max
2 | Chloe
3 | Max
4 | Chloe
5 | Max
6 | Chloe
7 | Max
8 | Max
9 | Chloe
10 | Max
11 | Chloe
Epilogue | Max
Epilogue | Chloe
Before You Go...
Also by Bella B. Wilde
1
Max
* * *
It is 12:07 AM, and Chloe is late coming home.
I shouldn’t care. It’s not my place to care.
All I should be concerned with is that she comes home safe, at whatever time she chooses.
That’s what I have to keep telling myself.
But I haven’t been able to listen to what is right or rational for weeks now. My mind has become obsessed with one thing, and one thing only.
And the constant sleepless nights don’t help much either. Working my day job is hard enough, but a month or so ago, a long–time friend asked me to do him a favor, and I couldn’t refuse. Loyalty is worth too much these days.
My father worked for Edward Harris when I was just a kid, later becoming friends and business partners until that honor was passed on to me. Edward is a good man, a rare breed amongst the uber rich elite these days, but he’s had a hard time the last few years.
That's why I couldn’t say no when he asked me to keep an eye on his daughter, even if it meant taking a step down and returning to my days as a doorman. I have my own security business which pulls in more than enough for me to live comfortably and never have to worry, but here I am, stood outside an expensive New York converted brownstone, trying to fight the need for sleep.
I still can’t figure out if it was a good idea or not. Chloe Harris is a stunning, confident, brilliant young woman, the kind of girl that just grabs you and shakes up everything you thought you knew. But she’s troubled, and her father worries about her.
A few years back, her mother was hit by a car whilst leaving one of your typical socialite parties. Cameras everywhere. It was splashed all over the papers. They said some unkind things, typical tabloid speculation – though not necessarily untrue. It wasn’t my place to get involved, so I didn’t.
I don’t think Chloe took it well, and I know her father certainly didn’t, though you’d never hear him mention it. Edward was a man who kept his cards close to his chest, and I suspected Chloe was attempting to do the same, but the strain of holding it all together was getting to her. You could see from the way she’d been acting – the cracks were beginning to show.
And so, as I said, that’s where I come in. Stood outside her building, waiting for her to arrive back from whichever club or party she’s allowed herself to be dragged to tonight. I shudder at the thought. Chloe is too good for those kinds of places; too good for most places. I remember a time when she seemed to have the world at her feet. Even as a child, she was a gifted artist with an almost sure–fire–future planned out before her – but she’s thrown all that aside in favor of a life of endless parties with vapid friends, many of whom I suspect just follow the sound of money.
She needs someone to help steer her onto the right path again, but for now, all I can do is make sure she gets home safe every night.
It’s then that my eyes snap to the end of the block on instinct. Her familiar laughter floats through the cool night air, and I see her stumbling out of an Uber with some balding, middle–aged asshat draped over her. He has a bit of a belly, and a slimy grin, with his eyes locked on Chloe’s cleavage. I can already feel the anger rising in me.
The two of them lean against each other for support as they swerve their way towards the door, with his one hand a lot lower on her hip than I’d like to see. I have to stop my hands from curling into fists. When he leans down to whisper something into her ear, his lips dangerously close to her neck, I almost lose it. As he approaches, I’m almost overwhelmed by the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with overpowering cologne.
“Sorry, no visitors tonight,” I cut in, placing a hand squarely on his chest and stopping him firmly in his tracks as Chloe looks at me, confused.
“Oh, he’s with…” She begins, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. It’s hard enough watching her walk by every day without saying anything. I know those crystal blue eyes would melt me.
“Sorry, Miss. Harris. I’ve been given strict orders. No visitors tonight.” I keep my gaze fixed on her “date”, though it pains me to think of him like that. A smug smirk creeps across his face as he takes a step back from my hand.
“Look, it’s her decision, so why don’t we just keep this between us and let this one slide?” I can tell he must be used to being able to talk his way into or out of anything. He flicks his eyebrows upwards at me, trying once again to slip past me, before I step to the side, blocking the door with my body.
“I said, no visitors.” My voice is firmer, colder than I had intended, and I can tell from the way his face drops that he doesn’t like being spoken to like that.
“I don’t have to take this kind of attitude from some doorman,” he scoffs, and foolishly, tries to shove past me with his elbow.
Big mistake, pal.
Grabbing hold of his shirt, I send him tripping backward, out onto the pavement, taking a few steps forward until I’m sure the traffic will drown out the sound of what I’m about to say. Chloe is still stood just inside the lobby, clearly a little shocked and frustrated, but not bothering to argue back. She doesn’t need to hear this.
“Look,” I growl through gritted teeth, “I’m going to give you ten fucking seconds to get out of my sight. And if I see you anywhere near her again, even catch you looking at Chloe, you’ll have more than my attitude to deal with. Got it?”
I catch him glancing over my shoulder towards Chloe, before turning back to me with a sour expression. “Fine. Wasn’t worth the effort,” he shrugs, and I let go of him with a short, sharp shove.
I find myself counting my breaths as I try to cool my anger. I watch him brush himself off, and within seconds he’s on the phone to someone else, evidently trying to find some other company for the evening. Good riddance.
I turn back to Chloe, expecting to see her looking angry, but her eyes narrow at me, and for a moment, I think I see a look of recognition flash across her face. Her eyes are slightly glazed over though, and it’s clear she’s had a little too much to drink. The pain in my stomach, the fear of what might have happened had I not been here, is becoming all too familiar these days. I don’t know how much longer I can watch her throw her life away like this.
She opens and closes her mouth a few times, her fingers fiddling with the clutch bag she’s holding. God, she looks amazing. The bright red fabric of her dress wrapped around soft, womanly curves, coming to a point mid–way down her calf, with her golden hair tousled ever so slightly, and her lips painted to match the dress. She knows
how to dress well, how to make the most of every incredible inch of herself. I know she must feel my eyes raking up her body as I take in the view.
When they reach her face though, she looks a little flustered, a pink hue that spreads over her face and down to the tops of her breasts. She opens and closes her mouth, stuttering, stammering for a moment, before she pauses and takes a breath, giving herself the chance to find the words.
“It’s not your job to tell me what I can and can’t do,” she begins, as I watch the fire reignite in her eyes. Her hand goes to her hip, she cocks her head – this is the Chloe Harris I recognize.
Is it completely sick of me to want to put that fire out? Maybe. But I want to snuff it out, put her in her place, just to watch the flames burst to life again when I tell her that she’s mine.
“You didn’t have to…” She continues, evidently about to give me a telling off for putting a stop to her night.
“I did,” I cut in, coldly. She needs to hear the truth, like it or not. “You’re drunk, and you shouldn’t be bringing guys home with you. Especially not guys like him. Go to bed, Chloe. I’ll come and check on you in a few minutes.”
With that said and done, I have to turn my back on her, as rude as it might be. I know that if I stare back into those blue eyes for a moment longer, I won’t be able to resist carrying her up to bed myself.
2
Chloe
* * *
Sent to bed?
Sent to fucking bed?
Am I dreaming right now? Did my doorman just tell me I wasn’t allowed boys in my room? Did he just try to send me to bed, like I’m a little girl? Does it turn me on more than I ever thought possible?
Oh my god, yes.
So what if I am drunk. I wouldn’t be the first person to do something stupid or a little reckless after one too many cocktails. I’m 21. I’m supposed to be out in the city, living my life, having fun for a change. But with the way he looks at me, telling me what to do...
I have to take a slow breath inward, shocked by my arousal pooling in my panties. He motions towards the elevator with his chin without another word before he turns around again, putting his back to me, and clearly, that’s the end of the discussion.
As I wait for the elevator, it occurs to me that this might be the first time anyone has ‘sent me to bed’. Not even my father was the kind to tell me what to do. I had a bedtime as a child, yeah, but I was a good girl, that was always seen to by my mother, or our nanny, anyway.
Now, I’m 21, and being sent to bed without dessert by my fucking doorman.
God, how have I never noticed how hot he is before?
I could swear I vaguely recognize his face, or maybe it’s just ingrained in my mind from passing by him every day for the last few months. Surely, his face is one you’d remember – the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Thick black hair with flecks of grey, dark eyes that you can feel following you, and he must be 6’5” at a minimum because he seems to tower over absolutely everyone else.
And he’s coming up to tuck me into bed.
The second I’m alone in my apartment, I kick off my shoes behind the door, wriggling myself out of my dress as I make my way across the open–plan space towards my bedroom. Yeah, I’m fucking soaking wet and can feel an unfamiliar yet primal ache between my legs. If he wants to treat me like a little brat, well, two can play at that game.
A quick check in the bathroom mirror confirms I still look as good as I suspected, before I arrange myself out on my bed, fanning my blonde hair over the pillow behind me, propped up on one elbow, leaving my bedroom door wide open. It helps that lingerie is a little guilty pleasure of mine – I can’t help it, I like having pretty things that are (mostly) just for me.
But oh no, tonight this is going to be all for him.
I begin to wonder if perhaps I’ve jumped the gun here, that his promise of ‘coming up to check on me’ was just a way of ensuring I’d get to sleep – yeah, like there was ever any hope of that happening – until there’s a polite but firm knock on my door. I debate answering for a moment, but that might give the game away. I know he has the code to get in.
He lets himself in so casually, pausing out of sight for a moment before his enormous frame appears in the light of my doorway. God, he looks even bigger now, somehow, and I can’t help wondering if he’s quite as big all over.
There’s just silence, the two of us locked in the most erotically charged game of chicken ever. I give myself the pleasure of taking my sweet ass time to look him over, head to toe, knowing he must be just barely holding back from doing the same. When my eyes reach his face again, his own are fixed on mine.
I guess I’ll go first, then. “I saw how you were looking at me,” I begin running a finger up my thigh, my nipples already poking through the fabric of my bra. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me for months. Were you jealous when you caught me bringing a guy home?” I pout to disguise my smirk, tilting my head and brushing the piece of hair that falls from my face.
He begins to step towards my bed, and I almost gasp, surprised someone so large can make such sudden but silent movements. He passes by me though, reaching for a t–shirt hanging over a chair in the corner before callously tossing it at me. “Put that on, Chloe. That isn’t what this is about. Plus, you’re drunk. I’m not that guy.”
Jesus, why does everything he does or says suddenly turn me on so much? Everyone else calls me Miss. Harris, but this guy, this unnamed security guard, apparently has no problem calling me by my first name. Such a small detail, but it already makes things feel intimate like we’re sharing a sordid little secret.
I do as he says. Not because I want to, or that he’s right – although yes, okay, I’m drunk – but because he’s just so hot, and I’ve never really been told what to do before. Especially not in a way that makes my pussy beg for attention. Needless to say, I love it.
“Okay, done,” I announce once I’ve slipped the t–shirt over my head. He turns back to where I’m still sat, 90% of my legs on display on top of the covers. I give him a playful smile, wiggling my shoulders slightly. I know I shouldn’t. I know he’s made himself clear. But goddamnit, I can’t help it. “Aren’t you going to tuck me in now?” I tease, pouting again.
3
Max
* * *
What is this girl doing to me? Good God.
My hands are itching to reach out and touch her. Her perfect skin looks so soft, I can’t stop myself imagining my rough hands digging into those thighs. Groping them, spreading them, revealing the sweet little pussy I know she’s hiding in between.
And she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s no idiot. Her eyes are begging me to come and play, but although I’m fighting with myself to keep my cool, I just can’t resist giving in to her, just a little.
I step forward and watch her gasp again, apparently surprised to see me going along with this. “Legs,” I say, and she just blinks at me for a moment. She realizes what I meant when I start to tug the covers out from under her, and she obliges, allowing me to flip the sheets back. I pull the covers back over her thighs slowly, intentionally, allowing my knuckles to graze against her skin, feeling her shudder, and the shock of electricity that sparks between us.
It’s so fucking wrong of me – I feel like I’m taking advantage because lord knows she wouldn’t be acting this way if she were sober. But I just want to be close to her, for a moment – no, I needto be close to her.
There’s something inside me, something between us, that is pulling us together. That something has been pulling us together for months now – every look we’ve shared, every small smile that’s gone unnoticed. I realize then that I’ve just been waiting for her to make the first move, or to give me a reason to do so. And this is it. The first move.
Better make it count then.
“Lie down.” She slips herself further into the bed, and her eyes are already looking heavy. When I bring the sheets up to her waist, leaning over he
r, our faces are mere inches apart. I can feel her breath on my cheek, and my cock straining against the fabric of my jeans. I should stop. I work for her father. She’s drunk. She’s too young for me. She’s damaged. She needs help.
But whatever reasons I tell myself, none of them stick. I know they’re just excuses. There’s something more here, something between us. We’re both still, silent, for what feels like forever, until I reach up to brush a piece of hair from her eyes. I need to see her, to get some idea if she’s feeling this too. It can’t just be me.
When I do, she instantly leans into my touch, brushing her cheek against my hand like a cat, needy for affection. “What about a kiss goodnight?” She breathes, as she presses her lips to the heel of my hand.
I shouldn’t be doing this. Time seems to slow, my eyes locked on her mouth, slightly parted, as a million thoughts run through my head. What if she’s not ready? What if she ends up running scared? What if she tells her father, and I never get to see her again?
They’re all valid reasons why not.
But there’s one reason why I should – should kiss her, should give in, should let her feel how much someone wants her. I can feel it clawing its way up from my gut, one little feeling that is just desperate to be acknowledged.
Because she was made for me.
My hand cups her cheek, softly at first, before my fingers find the back of her head, lacing in her hair, and I pull her towards me with a raw, primal passion, our lips colliding. She tastes of sugar and mint, her lips parting instinctively to allow my tongue to roam her mouth. They’re even softer than I could have imagined.
Her hands slide down, over my shoulders, feeling her way down my shirt. She’s trying to pull me down to her, while I pull her up, forcing her to arch her back, and slipping one arm around her waist to hold her against me. The kiss is incredible, electric, and it only confirms what I’d already thought – that Chloe wants me just as much as I want her, and now, it’s only a matter of time.
Taming Her Curves Page 1
