Breaking the Alpha Beast Read online

  All the while, Ian stands watching the lusty tableau, arms crossed. Crooked, lascivious smile on his face. That steady amber stare boring into her. Her arousal grows as she returns his stare. He’s fucking her with a look.

  The men servicing her disappear, leaving her body buzzing with the aftermath of a perverse pleasure. “It’s done,” Ian says and turns away from her.

  “But the chains,” she calls after him. “Are you going to just leave me like this? Just fuck me and leave me manacled to a wall?”

  Ian doesn’t turn around. “All you have to do is wake up.”

  * * *

  Claire swims to the surface of consciousness, gasping for air and feeling the beginnings of a panic attack. Blearily she sees the glowing numerals of her alarm clock: 3:38 AM. With a long sigh she falls back against the pillow. Her tee shirt and boy shorts are soaked with sweat, the crotch of the shorts are sodden and fetid.

  She runs her fingers through her layered auburn hair from scalp to crown and throws the covers from her legs. She pulls her tee shirt off and tosses it to the floor, her shorts follow. She groans as she sees a generous puddle of her fluid on the sheet under her butt. She jumps from the bed and furiously drags blankets and sheets from it leaving a bare mattress. It’s almost four o’clock in the morning and she’s staring a naked mattress and a pile of sullied sheets.

  She’s afraid to fall asleep again. Afraid of the intense dreams that might chase after her. Her alarm is set to go off in another hour and a half. She shrugs her shoulders, giving up. She heads for the shower and puts herself beneath the warm sharp spray. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the loofah. She rolls her eyes and groans.

  FIVE

  When she arrives at the amphitheatre office she knows that she needn’t fear running into Ian l’Argent, near recluse that he is. Other than the previous evening she’d only glimpsed him a total of three times—and each time only in the distance, lurking and never saying a word to her. Yet she knows that the next evening she must lay with him—a thought that both embarrasses and excites her.

  Claire has had only two embarrassing one-night stands in her twenty-five years, and each had been facilitated with alcohol-fueled bravado—or impulsive stupidity, however one wished to look at it. Both had happened during college and each involved fucking someone she didn’t want to confront sober afterward. The worst having been sex with the student teacher from one of her communications classes.

  It happened during the first semester of her junior year and she hadn’t yet turned twenty. She didn’t belong to a sorority but nevertheless received plenty of invitations to parties. The student teacher was six years older and against better judgment found himself at a raging kegger. After physically bumping into each other and laughing about it, both feeling an exhilarated buzz quickly turning into full-blown inebriation, they had tumbled into a bathroom. Despite the amount of alcohol coursing through his system the student teacher managed to achieve a decent erection. They coupled awkwardly in a stained clawfoot bathtub, Claire’s legs, bent at the knee, dangling over the edges as he thrust against her bare crotch fitfully. She vaguely remembers a sore unimpressive orgasm afterward. The next school day she dreaded seeing the student teacher in class. They couldn’t do more than glance at each other, ashamed of the memory. Apparently they hadn’t been drunk enough to forget that experience.

  This is worse. Much worse. She’d never had sex with anyone from work, never so much as a date for dinner and a movie. She’d been exceptionally careful about that rule. But this is different, she reminds herself. This is what she is supposed to do, no matter how shameful it might appear.

  Shameful. The word arouses her, bringing with it memories of last night’s dream. She closes the door to her office and leans against it, feels the crotch of her panties dampen quickly against her cunt. She unsuccessfully tries to convince herself that she should dread tomorrow evening. It’s no use fighting that part of her.

  She feels the door handle move against her lower back. The door pushes her a little and she moves away and turns to face it. The door opens and Ian l’Argent is glowering at her with his dark amber eyes. She takes a step backward. “Is there something you need…?” she says and instantly regrets the wording. His eyes tell her what he wants. She feels a stone pass along her esophagus as she swallows hard.

  He shuts the door behind him and locks it. “I know what you are,” he says, ignoring her question. “I didn’t know until I tasted you.”

  Claire squares her shoulders as the accusation makes her bold. “And what am I? Tell me. Tell me what you believe I am.” I do know what I am, but I want you to tell me. I need someone to tell me.

  “You like naughty things, but you want people to believe the opposite. You have a wanton, animal side.” He grins. “An animal side, like me.”

  “Except that a full moon won’t transform me into a wolf.”

  “You’re wild inside.” He moves toward her and traces a line with his index finger from below her chin to between her breasts. “Starting here.”

  Claire’s breath grows shallow with desire and she feels dizzy. He hasn’t said anything that isn’t true, she acknowledges. She flushes as she remembers the torrid dream from last night. “I thought we were supposed to…do this…tomorrow night.”

  Ian takes a step closer, slips an arm around her waist and presses her belly to him. Something round, hard and insistent, rising fast like baking bread dough, fills the space between her thighs. She doesn’t have to guess what that is. “Just a preview,” he whispers against her cheek. Hairs lift from the back of her neck and a jolt of adrenaline ricochets against her breastplate.

  He doesn’t wait for an answer. As he nuzzles behind Claire’s ear, he deftly unbuckles her belt and slowly unzips her suit pants, revealing the silk of her thong. He slips two fingers beneath the low waistband and her breath catches as she feels his fingers slide down her belly and touch the downy soft patch of pubic hair, then separate the labia, sliding and sawing back and forth. Instinctively she opens her thighs.

  “Been thinking of me, have you,” he says as he gently nibbles at her jaw. “Your pussy is soaked and I’m rather thirsty for a taste.”

  “What if someone…”

  “Sees us? Comes in unexpectedly? Wouldn’t that be a thrill.”

  Without warning, Ian savagely grasps the waistband of her slacks and pulls them, along with her underwear, past her hips and they pool at her ankles. She is naked from the waist down and trembling, breath coming in fast gulps. She leans against her desk, bracing herself with her palms, and crouches a little, opening her thighs wider for him.

  Ian kneels beneath her, his dark head in line with her crotch. “That’s a helpful girl,” he croons. “You know what I want—what you want.”

  He grips her hips and probes her naval with his tongue. He trails his tongue down her belly, softly at first, then harder as he reaches her clitoris. She closes her eyes and turns her head to one side as he takes the swollen nub into his mouth, gently scraping it with his teeth, teasing her. As he does this his fingers are working her cunt: probing, stroking, rubbing. Her heels slip as she lowers herself into a wider crouch.

  Ian pulls her to the carpeted floor and lays her on her back. She offers no resistance as he grips her knees and pushes them apart. She no longer cares if they are interrupted; in fact, the thought of intrusion thrills her. “You’re wild inside.” Yes, I am.

  As he laps at her Claire caresses his head, her fingers sliding through his soft black curls. Pressing him into her, she grinds her pelvis against his mouth, feeling him drink the juices that won’t stop flowing from her cunt. She wants something more. She wants his cock slipping into her, the smooth hard tip seeking the swollen bean of her G-spot. But she must wait.

  For tomorrow night.

  She feels the beginning strings of orgasm tugging upward from her core, crossing her belly, and she wishes she could suspend it for a moment more. The delicious anticipation of release before the thick ti
ngling wash of pleasure crashes through her. Her climax comes hard and she bites her knuckles to keep from crying out.

  Claire rolls into a sitting position, then sways forward into a crouch as her knees plant themselves into the carpet. Her face is in line with the waistband of Ian’s jeans. She fingers the zipper tab, drawing it halfway down, index finger tracing the rest of the way. As she does this she gazes up at him. Her eyebrows rise and slant diagonally, eyes wide, asking for approval, for encouragement.

  He offers no verbal reply, only stares down at her, lips curving in a sardonic smile: waiting, challenging her to proceed. You’re wild inside, his eyes tell her. Do what you want.

  I can’t help myself, she replies with her upturned gaze. But you knew that when you…tasted…me. The people beyond her door seem to disappear; the office disappears, too. Erased. Ignored. The damp weighted tingling between her thighs urges her on.

  Claire pulls the zipper all the way down and slips her hands inside the pants, palms sliding over the rough curves and dips of Ian’s muscular hips. He isn’t wearing underwear. Of course.

  Ian’s cock rises, time lapse of a plum-colored bean sprout unfurling. She takes the swollen shaft in her hand and brings it to her mouth. Her tongue traces along the underside of the dark and glistening glans as if she’s licking an ice cream cone. When she finishes, her tongue lashes the firm shaft mercilessly then laps at the length of it slowly like a cat.

  Claire glances up at Ian as she continues to tease his prick with her lips, teeth and tongue. She’s nonplussed that he is staring fixedly down at her instead of looking heavenward, emoting from the pleasure of her ministrations. Despite the indifference in his gaze she feels his cock pulse warmly through her palm, ready to erupt in spunk and orgasm.

  Claire pulls her face away from him and rocks back on her heels, hands bracing the carpet. Staring up at him, defiant. She arches a single quizzical eyebrow in an unspoken challenge. If you want to come, finish on your own. She expects some rage to flare in his eyes, but he continues to stare down at her, a corner of his mouth hitching up slightly, bemused. Now she’s the one to betray a hint of rage in her own eyes, she’s sure of it. Well, perhaps annoyance, not rage.

  To Claire’s surprise Ian grasps his thick member and stuffs it back into his pants, zips up with a determined finality. His cock shows no sign of going flaccid, pushing firmly against worn denim and metal zipper. “We’ll finish properly tomorrow night, then,” he tells her, his voice husky and a little hoarse, yet controlled.

  Claire feels like a disheveled and discarded doll as her knees collapse sideways on the carpet, arm bracing her balance from behind. “So what was this,” she asks, her voice recklessly sarcastic, “an appetizer before the main meal? Primed for coming attractions? Why are you so damned…enigmatic?”

  Ian arches a single heavy eyebrow, favoring her with that irritating lopsided grin: boyish and mocking all at once. “I’m a lycanthrope—we’re supposed to be enigmatic. Would you expect me to skip round you tossing lavender and rose petals whilst I ply you with romantic poetry? That’s not me, nor will it ever be. The beast within me makes sure of that.” As he opens the door to leave, he turns to look at her, “And yes, I wanted you ‘primed’ for tomorrow night. I want no hesitation—not the slightest trepidation from you.” His eyes darken a little as he adds, “To put this bluntly, hesitation on your part will get you torn to shreds and leave a bloody mess for Mal to clean up afterward.”

  As Claire watches Ian’s muscular ass ripple the worn denim, she feels a delicious shiver start at her shoulders, then spiral and vibrate deep in her groin. She presses her thighs together tightly, straining for a last bit of sweetness from her clitoris. She is primed indeed.

  SIX

  Claire is laying in bed, her body rigid with desire and anticipation. She’d barely made it through a day of busywork, running errands and making calls for Mal. Her mind buzzing and the space between her thighs thrumming, panties sodden. She was certain that had she seen Ian again that day she would have felt a explosive spontaneous orgasm. Fortunately she caught not the slightest glimpse of the rock star.

  Now she’s fitfully twisting and untwisting her body in her 1800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets (that she bought on sale at Bed Bath & Beyond), trying to avoid what her super-charged libido is urging her to do.

  You’re wild inside. The mantra, endless and insistent. The space between her thighs thrumming and aching again.

  Impulsively, Claire flips onto her belly and molds her pillow into a proper mound, drops her head in the middle of it and bucks her body into a comfortable position. She pictures Ian, perhaps at this very moment, priming himself for Saturday night’s ritual. In her mind’s eye she watches as he slides a moist palm up and down that impressive shaft of his, thumb caressing the large vein on its underside, then swirling the swollen glans. She imagines his cock a cannon, prepped by fondling and rough caresses, pulling back and ready to fire ropes of giz.

  Claire groans deeply into her abused pillow and arches her ass just enough to allow a trembling hand to brace her damp cunt. She spreads her thighs, knees bent, pressed froglike on the bed and humps her knuckles until the peak of arousal lights a fire along her tumid labia. She flips over onto her back, hand still working her cunt feverishly, legs pressed flat and wide open on the mattress. She flings the sheets and blanket to the side and watches her hand bob up and down, pressing harder and deeper against her cunt.

  Before she can stop herself she feels the rush of orgasm soak her groin and she rolls onto her side, knees brought up to her chest, sealing in the pleasure. She’s never felt so obsessed; it’s as if Ian l’Argent has cast a spell of intense libido upon her, forcing her to masturbate endlessly. He’d told her that he wanted her primed so that she would not hesitate when it was time for the ritual. Well, whatever sorcery he’d used upon her was certainly working. She’d never wanted sex so badly, so intensely and frequently, before.

  Her skepticism of the story of his family’s curse is beginning to wane. She rolls fitfully back and forth, moaning helplessly as she plunges her hand between her legs.

  It’s going to be a long night, she thinks to herself .

  * * *

  Claire had a long night, indeed—and is in store for an even longer day. She tries not to glance at her Tag Heuer chronograph watch, but she does anyway. Nothing she can do to make the second hand tick any faster. As she moves from one task to another the air thrums around her as if it’s alive, reminding her of the night to come.

  The night—tonight. She wonders again how Ian prepares for his performance; no one has bothered to enlighten her, as if it mattered that she know. Does a lycanthrope have a ritual the day before he transforms into an ginormous wolf bent on rending and consuming any flesh nearby. At least, that’s what will happen if she doesn’t succeed in taming the beast with the chemistry within her vagina.

  Claire sensed something shatter between them when she met Ian’s icy stare. Something passed between them and despite his sardonic words, she’d sensed a protectiveness in his tone. It obviously went against his character: the almost callous and unsentimental persona he presented to the world and his fans. But she’d broken in somehow, slipped through a capillary-thin crack in that persona.

  It’s lunch time and she orders an intern to run down to a nearby deli to pick up a turkey sandwich on flourless sprouted wheat bread and a smoothie. She closes her door and crumples into her office chair with exaggerated fatigue. She can’t stop thinking of Ian. Is he chained in the bowels of the mansion, waiting for the full moon to rise? Or is he lounging in luxury, anticipating the chains? Either scenario makes her incredibly aroused and she resists the urge to scissor her thighs together like a horny cricket.

  She leans her elbows on her desk and presses fingertips against her temples. Stop thinking about Ian l’Argent in chains, writhing as he feels the beginning of the feral change in his body: the bones elongating, the fingernails growing, thick hair follicles worming their
way from his flesh, incisor teeth lengthening and pointed. That muscular, sinewy body dripping with sweat. Just stop it! She creases her eyes shut tight and digs her index fingers deeper, leaving a depression. It doesn’t work. She can’t stop the images.

  * * *

  It will be hours before Ian l’Argent will feel the intense tickling travel through his veins as his blood informs him of his impending transition, a transformation that will be halted before he can fully become the wolf that has lived inside of him since birth. There will be just enough lupine to scare and thrill the audience now lining up outside the amphitheatre.

  Ian smiles, but there is no mirth in the curve of it. There are no mirrors on the walls in any of the rooms. He has a reflection, but has no interest in gazing at it. Ever. He’d watched his first transition, and that was the last time he’d glimpsed himself. He has people to groom him, yet he can shave his face without slicing his skin. His hands have measured the changes in his face over the years: the broadening, the slight creases and the firming jaw, the rough stubble in the morning. He allows himself to ‘see’ his appearance through touch only. He closes his eyes when he takes a shower and whenever he takes his cock in hand.

  With practiced discipline he now resists the urge to slide his palm beneath the waistband of his jeans. Thinking of her, the scent of her cunt still on his fingers. He shouldn’t have visited her, shouldn’t have indulged. But, he reminds himself, he didn’t plunge himself into her. She wanted it desperately; he saw it in her eyes.

  Ian closes his eyes, leans his head back on the pillows, arching his neck and stretching his full length on the long sofa. He brings his fingertips up to his nostrils and wriggles them like an anemone, takes a deep whiff. He feels a hot wire in his penis. The musky scent fetches a buried memory from somewhere deep, but that memory is not his own. It’s known and unknown at the same time. He’s never felt this way with any of the other girls, this familiarity that is also unfamiliar.