The Naughty Boxset

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Can I taste you, Mara?”

  She scraped her hands over my scalp to clutch the back of my head. “I’ll be pissed if you didn’t.”

  I slid my tongue up her slit, tasting her juices.

  “Oh fuck, Zane, fuck that feels so good.”

  “I’m just getting started, babe.”

  She watched me lick her pussy, and with each slow lick she moaned louder and her hips flexed and pushed, telling me she was getting closer and closer to orgasm. And then, just when I was sure she was seconds from coming, she pushed my face away. “Wait. Zane, wait.”

  I stopped immediately, but frowned up at her. “I thought you wanted that?”

  “I did—I do.” She didn’t try to pull me to my feet, just stared down at me for a moment. “I just need to make sure we’re on the same page about one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That this is…no strings. Just for tonight. That neither of us will make it weird in the morning.”

  My heart squeezed at her words. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted weird. I knew, from the few short moments I’d had with her so far, that this one night wouldn’t be enough, no matter how many times we fucked. I’d want more. But I wasn’t about to lose my chance at what I had in front of me, so I squashed my hopes.

  I slid two fingers inside her channel, and flicked my tongue against her clit.

  “No strings, no weirdness,” I agreed.

  But I wasn’t sure I was telling the truth.

  Or maybe I was just making a promise I wasn’t planning to keep.

  That wasn’t honest though, but right now I didn’t care.

  I knew I would do whatever it took to keep Mara in my bed for as long as I could.

  * * *

  BADASS: A Badd Brothers novel

  Now available at all ebook retailers

  ALPHA

  ALPHA

  Copyright © 2014 by Jasinda Wilder

  * * *

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations. Cover art copyright © 2013 Sarah Hansen.

  Created with Vellum

  This book is dedicated to four amazing women:

  Vilma, Ivie, Rachel, and Angie.

  For loving me and for loving my books.

  I am eternally grateful for your support and encouragement.

  The Envelope

  “Miss St. Claire. Come in, please.” My boss, Mr. Edwards, waved a hand at the two chairs facing his desk. “Have a seat, Kyrie.” He said it wrong, as always, pronouncing it Kye-ree.

  “My name is Keer-ee,” I couldn’t help correcting him for what must have been the eighteen-thousandth time.

  Mr. Edwards slid into his modern black leather desk chair and then unbuttoned his suit coat. “Yes. Of course.” He tugged at the cuffs of his pressed white button-down shirt, cleared his throat. “Well, Miss St. Claire, I’ll cut right to the chase. We’re letting you go, I’m afraid. It’s nothing to do with you — it’s simply that we’re streamlining our workflow, and as the newest, and least experienced member of our team…well, your services have become somewhat superfluous.”

  I blinked. Twice. Three times. “I’m…what?”

  “Superfluous. It means—”

  “I know what superfluous means. I just don’t understand why this is happening. Just last week Don said I was next in line for a permanent position—”

  Mr. Edwards cut me off with a raised hand. “Don was incorrect, and I do apologize for the misunderstanding. You see, Don had a rather unfortunate habit of making promises he had no authority to make, and no wherewithal to keep them. He, too, has been let go.” A discreet clearing of his throat indicated the subject was closed. He opened a drawer and withdrew an envelope. “Your final paycheck, Miss St. Claire. It includes a two-week severance allowance. You’ll clear out your desk immediately. Should you require a referral, you may submit a request in writing through the appropriate channels.”

  I shook my head. “No, please—Mr. Edwards, you can’t do this. I need this job, you don’t even know. I’ve never been late, never failed to do my job better than anyone else in my pool. Please, give me a chance—”

  “Miss St. Claire. Begging will not change the facts. The matter is closed. You were assigned to us through a temp agency. Temp, meaning temporary. As I said, this isn’t a punishment. We are not firing you—we are simply letting you go now that your position is no longer necessary. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a conference call in a few moments.” Mr. Edwards arched an eyebrow at me expectantly.

  “Fine.” I stood up, smoothing my navy pencil skirt over my hips, turning away. “Prick.”

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Edwards rose to his feet, a fist clenched at his side. “What did you say?”

  I lifted my chin. “I said, prick.” I used the same condescending tone he so often affected. “It’s a derogatory term meaning penis. Meaning, you…are…a…dick.” I turned away again, and grabbed the doorknob and twisted it.

  I was stopped by a hand on my wrist. “Now, now, Miss St. Claire. You don’t want to go name-calling, do you? I can very easily call your temp agency and make sure you never work in their pool again.” His fingers tightened on my wrist, and I felt his breath on my neck. “And…you know, there may be one way you could keep your job. Possibly even get that permanent position you mentioned.”

  I felt him press up against me, felt the evidence of what he wanted from me. And, I won’t lie, the thought crossed my mind. Once. Very, very briefly. I needed this job. I was already two months behind on rent, three months behind on my electric bill, barely keeping up with my tuition and my brother’s, plus the ever-mounting costs of caring for Mama. I could do what this doucheknob wanted, and keep my job. It wouldn’t take long. A few unpleasant minutes, if that long. He was old, past sixty, I’d guess. Fit enough for his age, but by no means virile.

  But…no matter how desperate I might be, that would never happen. Not like this. Not with this guy. If he was hot, and I wanted to, maybe. It would be one thing if this were a kick-ass job that really paid the bills. But it was a temp job. Hourly, and a shitty hourly rate at that. Barely enough to cover one bill, much less all the bills I had to pay.

  I turned, letting him hold on to my wrist. For the moment. I lifted my eyes to his, putting on my best poker face. “Yeah? Just like that? That easy, huh? Suck you off, and you’ll let me keep my job? Let you fuck me over the desk, and I’ll get the permanent position, too, I bet.”

  He missed the dangerous calm in my voice. “Now you’re thinking.” He licked his lips, lifted a finger to touch the apex of my cleavage—the little of it that showed in my conservative work outfit. “You’re a very attractive young lady, Miss St. Claire. I’m sure we could come to an agreeable arrangement.”

  God, I hated the arch, faux-formal way he spoke. An agreeable arrangement. I forced down my revulsion for a few more seconds. “What did you have in mind, Mr. Edwards?”

  My spine crawled with disgust as his eyes leered and his tongue flicked out over his thin, pale lips. He made short work of his belt, and I heard the telltale zzzzhhrip of his zipper going down. I didn’t look, didn’t want to see what he’d just pulled out.

  “Well, let’s just see how you do, and we’ll go from there.” He leaned back against the edge of his desk, a greedy smirk on his face. “And…unbutton the blouse a bit.”

  I toyed with the button of my shirt, staring into his sludge-brown eyes. “You want a little show, huh, Mr. Edwards?” I freed the top butto
n, which I would’ve done on the elevator anyway. I felt my breasts loosen a bit, no longer quite so constricted. His eyes devoured the expanse of cleavage. “How’s this?”

  “Very nice. But…how about a bit more?”

  I nodded, as if this was perfectly reasonable, still refusing to look down at his crotch. And then, without warning, I snapped my head forward, felt my forehead connect with his nose, felt cartilage break. I stepped away as crimson blood sluiced from his nose. “How about fuck you, Mr. Edwards?”

  I left him bleeding, sagging against his desk. I shuddered as I caught an accidental glimpse of his wrinkled, veiny, now-flaccid penis hanging over his zipper. God, I could’ve gone the rest of my life without seeing that.

  I opened his door and walked out, glanced down at my shirt, and cursed as I realized I had a few droplets of blood on my blouse. I stopped in the women’s room and dabbed cold water onto the stain, then retrieved my belongings from my desk. I didn’t have much to get, a few granola bars, some spare tampons, and—most importantly—my framed photo of Mom, Dad, my younger brother Cal, and me. It was taken several years ago. Before. Before Dad was murdered. Before Mom got sick. Before I went from innocent, naïve, privileged college girl to primary breadwinner for three people, one of whom didn’t even recognize me most days. Before life went completely down the drain, putting all my dreams out of reach, leaving me desperate, exhausted, stressed, and frustrated.

  I stuffed my things into my purse and walked with as much dignity as I possessed toward the bank of elevators, hiding my mirth as I saw Mr. Edwards being escorted out by security. His pants were buttoned, but not zipped, and his once-impeccable suit was spattered with blood. Two more security staff members were going from cubicle to cubicle, looking for me, I supposed.

  I took the stairs and exited the building.

  Since my temp agency never had any parking spots available, I caught the bus over to their offices, hoping I’d be able to find another job right away.

  My contact, Sheila, tapped on her computer for several minutes, then turned to me with a slight frown. “I’m sorry, Kyrie, but we just don’t have anything else right now.”

  “He sexually assaulted me, Sheila.”

  Sheila let out a long breath. “I understand that, Kyrie, and he will be dealt with accordingly, but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have any work available at the moment.”

  I tried to keep breathing. “Can you check again? I’ll take anything. Literally anything.”

  She looked again, and then glanced back up at me with a shrug. “Nothing. I’m so sorry. Maybe try again in a few weeks.”

  “I won’t have an apartment in a few weeks.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. Things are tight. What can I tell you?” She laid a manicured hand on mine. “Do you need a few bucks? I can spare you—”

  I stood up. “No. Thanks.” I did need the money, desperately. I’d skipped lunch today, just to have a bit more cash to go toward the rent. But I wouldn’t take pity charity. “I’ll figure something out.”

  Slowly, I walked back to get my car from the parking lot. I started it, and then remembered that, because I’d just been fired, I wouldn’t get my parking slip validated. Shit. There went another fifteen bucks I couldn’t spare.

  The drive home was long in more ways than one. I’d been working in an office downtown, but I lived more than forty-five minutes away in the suburbs north of Detroit. My car was running on fumes by the time I got home, and my stomach was empty, rumbling and growling and gurgling.

  I struggled to hold back the tears as I checked the mail. I was fumbling through the envelopes, muttering “fuck…fuck…fuck” under my breath at each new bill. There was DTE Energy, Consumers, AT&T cable and Internet, water, gas, Cal’s tuition, my tuition, Mom’s hospice bill…and a plain white envelope with no return address, just my name—Kyrie St. Claire—handwritten in neat black script in the center, along with my address. I tucked the other bills into my purse and stuck the envelope between my lips as I inserted my key in the lock.

  That, of course, was when I saw the white notice taped to my apartment door. Eviction Notice: pay rent or quit within 3 days.

  I was still a hundred dollars short on rent. Or rather, short of the one month of rent I could scrounge up. I had been hoping to avoid eviction long enough to be able to catch up on the past due amount. But that wasn’t going to happen now. I’d just been fired.

  Still holding back tears, I opened my door, closed it behind me, and stifled a sob. I let the envelope fall to the floor at my feet and covered my mouth with my fist, tears hot and salty in my eyes. No. No. No tears, no regret, no self-pity. Figure it the fuck out, Kyrie. Figure it out.

  I pushed away from the door, knelt to retrieve the bizarre envelope, and flicked the light switch.

  Nothing.

  Of course the power had been turned off.

  On top of everything, I was starving. I’d had one of my granola bars on the drive home, but I needed something more. The only food I had in the kitchen was one package of ramen, some ketchup, two-week-old Chinese carryout, and a bag of baby carrots. And a single, lonely little cup of black cherry Chobani.

  Thank you, Jesus, and all the Greeks for Chobani. And thank you for the fact that the yogurt was still cold.

  I took my yogurt from the dark, still-cool fridge, opened it, grabbed a spoon from the drawer, and stirred it up. I opened my blouse all the way, unzipped my skirt, and perched on the counter, eating my yogurt, relishing every bite. Apart from the meager amount of food, I had one paycheck for not quite eight hundred dollars for two weeks of temp office work, plus my severance pay. That was it.

  Finally, I couldn’t hold back the sobs any longer. I gave in and let myself cry for a solid ten minutes. I tore off a piece of paper towel—my last roll—and dabbed at my nose and eyes, making myself stop. I’d figure this out. Somehow.

  The strange envelope caught my eye. It was sitting where I’d left it on top of the microwave. I reached over and grabbed it, slid my index finger under the flap. Inside was…a check?

  Yes, a check. A personal check.

  For ten thousand dollars.

  Made out to me.

  I took a deep breath, put the check face down on my lap, and blinked several times. Hard. Okay, look again. Yep. It said, Pay to the order of Kyrie St. Claire, in the amount of ten thousand dollars and zero cents. At the top left of the check was the payer: VRI Inc., and a P.O. box address in Manhattan.

  And there, in the bottom left-hand corner, on the single line opposite the illegible signature, was a single word. YOU. All caps, all in the same bold, neat script that appeared on the envelope. I examined the signature again, but it was little more than a squiggly black line. I thought there might be a “V,” and maybe an “R,” but there was no way to be sure. I guess that would make sense, given the fact that the payer was VRI Incorporated. But that didn’t tell me much.

  No note, nothing in the envelope except the check. For ten thousand dollars.

  What the hell was I supposed to do? Cash it? Ten thousand dollars would pay current rent due, as well as the past due amount; it would get the electricity turned back on after paying what I owed them…ten thousand dollars would pay all my bills and still leave me enough to get the brakes on my car fixed.

  Ten thousand dollars.

  From whom? And why? I knew no one. I had no family other than my mom and brother. I mean, yeah, I had Grandma and Grandpa in Florida, but they were living off Social Security, and were about five minutes from moving into a nursing home…that I couldn’t pay for. They’d asked me for money last year. And I’d given it to them.

  What if I cashed this, and it was…like, the Mob? And they’d come for what I owed them, and they’d break my kneecaps. Okay, that was stupid. But, for real, who on earth would send me money at all, much less this much? I had one friend, Layla. And she was almost as desperate as I was.

  Nonetheless, I called her. She answered on the fourth ring. “Hey, bitch.
What’s up?”

  “Did you—this is going to sound really dumb, but you didn’t mail me a check? Did you? Like, you didn’t secretly win the lottery?” I laughed, like it was joke. “I mean, you didn’t, right?”

  Layla guffawed. “Have you been drinking? Why the hell would I mail you a check? I don’t even have checks. And if I did, and if I had money to give you, why would I mail it to you?”

  “Yeah, right. That’s—that’s what I thought.”

  Layla caught the tone in my voice. “What’s going on, Key?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. “I. Um. Can I come over? For…a few days?”

  “Your electricity got shut off?”

  “I also got evicted.”

  “No,” she breathed.

  “And fired.”

  “What?” Layla shrieked. “Didn’t you just tell me you were going to get the permanent job?”

  “I was sexually propositioned by Mr. Edwards.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “He said I could keep my job if I sucked his cock. I mean, he didn’t say it in so many words. But he made it clear…by pulling his dick out.”

  “Key. You’ve got to be kidding me.” Layla’s voice was flat, disbelieving.

  “Wish I was. I’ll never get that mental image out of my head. Ugh.” I didn’t fake the shudder of revulsion. “Know what I did?”

  “What?”

  “I head-butted him. Broke his nose.”

  “You did not!”

  I nodded, and then realized I was on the phone. “I did. I totally did.”

  Layla was silent for a minute. Then, “Damn, Kyrie. That’s a hell of a shitty day.” I heard the light bulb go off. “What was that about the check?”

  “Can I come over? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I had to force my voice to stay calm.

  “Of course. Bring your blankie, bitch. Let’s have us a sleepover.”