Wall Street Titan: An Alpha Zone Novel

by Anna Zaires

  “More?” Marcus asks wryly, and I nod, because why not.

  It’s a delicious way to meet my weekly quota of fruits and vegetables in one morning.

  As I’m sipping on the refill, Geoffrey comes out with a silver-domed tray. Setting it on the table, he removes the dome, revealing two plates with a perfectly folded omelet on each, along with two little bowls of cut-up fruit and a basket of fluffy biscuits. The omelets are covered with some kind of creamy orange sauce and topped with a sprig of parsley, and it all smells absolutely scrumptious.

  Definitely fancier than any restaurant brunch I’ve had.

  “Shiitake and oyster mushroom omelet with crab and lobster, topped with spicy gorgonzola sauce,” Geoffrey announces, putting one plate in front of me and the other in front of Marcus. He then does the same thing with the fruit bowls and puts the biscuit basket between us, adding a pair of tongs for easy grabbing.

  “Thank you, Geoffrey. It looks amazing,” Marcus says, and I echo his sentiment, barely able to swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth. How is it possible that I was thinking of lobster only a few minutes earlier and now there’s a lobster omelet in front of me?

  No, scratch that, a shiitake and oyster mushroom omelet with crab and lobster—as in, all the foods I love and can rarely afford in one insane dish?

  The butler inclines his head and disappears back into the kitchen, and I dig into the omelet, my fork trembling from eagerness. Holy. Cow. I nearly orgasm on the spot as the spicy richness of the gorgonzola sauce touches my tongue, followed by the delicious texture of the seafood chunks wrapped in mushroom-flavored egg.

  I must’ve moaned out loud and closed my eyes because when I open them, I find Marcus staring at me like I’ve just stripped naked. His face is tightly drawn, his eyes burning with savage hunger as his omelet sits untouched in front of him.

  “Sorry about that,” I mumble, my face turning hot as I realize I must’ve looked like I was literally having an orgasm. Again. At this rate, he’s going to think I have a food fetish. “It’s just really, really good.”

  “One of these days, I’m going to fuck you as I feed you.” His voice is a low, dark growl. “I’m going to lay you out on this table, and make a meal of your sweet pussy as you eat.”

  Oh God. Said pussy clenches on a violent spike of need, flooding with warm slickness in an instant. I can picture exactly what he’s saying, and my body’s helpless reaction makes me dizzy, a squeezing band around my lungs preventing a full breath.

  “Yes, that’s right.” He leans in, blue eyes glinting as his big hand covers my knee under the table. “I’m going to make a feast of you right here, kitten, and you’re going to love every fucking second. I’m going to stuff you so full of me you won’t even think of food.”

  I’m not thinking of food now. I can’t—not with my heart thudding in my chest and my entire body burning. I didn’t know dirty talk could turn me on like this, that words could fill me with such agonizing need. It’s only the knowledge that Geoffrey is here and can walk in on us at any moment that makes me swallow and break eye contact, gulping in shallow breaths to settle the mad thrumming of my pulse.

  There are a few beats of silence, moments so thick with tension I can almost taste it in the air. Then Marcus removes his hand from my knee, and I hear the scrape of knife and fork against plate.

  “You’re right. This is delicious.” His voice is back to normal, his tone conversational, but I’m not fooled.

  As soon as we’re done with this meal, we’re heading back into the bedroom.

  And damn if the thought doesn’t make me soaking wet.

  39

  Marcus

  “I mean it this time. I have to go home. It’s already past four; my cats must be starving, the poor darlings. Plus, it’s laundry day.” Evading my outstretched hand, Emma rolls off the bed and sprints for the pile of clothes on the chair in the corner—her clean, neatly folded clothes that Geoffrey brought upstairs while we were eating. Grabbing them, she disappears into the bathroom, and I sit up in bed, biting back a frustrated curse.

  It’s not that I want to fuck her again—well, I do, my dick having decided I’m fifteen again—it’s that I hate the idea of her leaving. That, along with my incessant hunger for her soft curves, is why I’ve been dragging her back to bed and mercilessly fucking her each time she’s tried to go home after brunch.

  Damn her cats.

  I need her more than they do.

  It’s borderline pathological, I know, but now that I’ve got her in my lair, I want to keep her here. The same primitive instincts that demanded I claim her, caveman style, now make me want to chain her to my bed and throw away the key.

  Or failing that, handcuff her to me.

  In part, it’s because I’m still pissed about Florida—both the fact that she’s going, and that she doesn’t want me there. It means I won’t see her from Wednesday until Sunday, and the knowledge eats at me, sharpening my craving until it feels like a blade carving through my guts.

  I want her with a violence that scares me, and it doesn’t seem to be abating in the least.

  If my desire for her were purely sexual, I could’ve dealt with it. Nobody’s ever died of blue balls, as far as I can tell. But I’m starting to want her, all of her, not just her delicious little body. Falling asleep with Emma in my arms last night had given me pleasure unlike any other—a feeling of bone-deep contentment, a certainty that all is well in my world.

  I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt that way. Maybe I never have. When I was a child, we were always a few days from eviction, one jar of mayo from an empty fridge. I never knew what time my drunk mother would stumble in at night, and what kind of asshole she’d bring with her. Even when I got older and used the earnings from my part-time jobs to smooth over the sharpest edges of our below-the-poverty-line existence, fear of the uncertain future never went away.

  It stayed with me as I made my first million, then my first billion.

  It’s still with me when I close my eyes and fall asleep at night.

  Except last night. Last night, I felt safe. Like the small, warm body in my arms was all I needed… all I would ever need.

  Like I was home at last.

  And now she wants to leave.

  Fuck that. I’m not ready to let her go.

  “I’m coming with you,” I announce when she emerges from the bathroom fully dressed.

  And ignoring her wide-eyed look of shock, I get up and walk over to my closet to grab some clothes of my own.

  40

  Emma

  I don’t understand what’s happening, why I’m in Marcus’s car—with him in the backseat next to me—heading over to my apartment.

  “Don’t you have work?” I try again. “I thought you Wall Street types worked on the weekends.”

  He lifts his broad shoulders in a shrug. “It can wait. I’m my own boss.”

  I give up. Because there’s apparently no polite way to ask a man why he’s so determined to watch you do laundry and cuddle with your cats. Especially if that man is Marcus. Once he sets his mind on something, there’s no stopping him—I’ve learned that the hard way. And I do mean hard.

  I’m very sore from all the fucking.

  A tendril of heat licks at me at the recollection of how I got that way, and I sneak a glance at the cause of that soreness—who’s watching me with a darkly intent stare.

  Holy shit. Does he want sex again?

  Is that why he’s not letting me leave his side?

  That must be it. I can’t imagine why else he’d come to my shoebox studio in Brooklyn instead of staying in his luxurious penthouse. I certainly wouldn’t leave that place if I were him.

  I’m about to inform him that I can’t have sex for at least a few hours when my phone dings with an incoming text.

  It’s from Kendall.

  Well? Any more gifts from Mr. Wall Street?

  Then a second one: Did you text him a thank-you like I told you?

/>   Oh, crap. Kendall has no clue that we’re miles beyond thank-you texts, and why would she? I haven’t had a free minute to call her since Marcus ambushed me last night with the books, and the sex, and the dinner date, and then more sex, and—

  “Who’s that?” Marcus asks, and I look up, my face flushing betrayingly.

  “No one. I mean, it’s just my friend—Kendall, you know? That is, of course you don’t know; you’ve never met her. But she’s my best friend from college and—” I stop, realizing I’m babbling. “In any case, she’s the one who texted me.”

  “What about?”

  Is he serious?

  He certainly looks serious, his thick eyebrows arched expectantly, as if it’s a given that I’ll answer.

  “Just… something random.” I’m too flustered to come up with any kind of clever lie. “Like I said, it’s nothing.”

  My phone dings with a third text, and I can’t help glancing at the screen.

  Ems! Text him. I mean it.

  “Nothing? Really? Let me see.” And before I can react, Marcus plucks the phone from my grasp, his eyes skimming over the texts with lightning speed.

  “No! What are you doing?” I gasp in horror, but it’s too late.

  A big grin is already spreading over his lean, hard face. “So Kendall knows about me, does she?”

  My cheeks burning like Florida asphalt in July, I attempt to snatch the phone back, but he transfers it to his other hand, holding it out of my reach.

  “Yes, she does. So what?” I snap, sitting back empty-handed. To get the phone back, I’d have to lean over his lap, and I’m not about to stoop to that indignity. “I didn’t sign any kind of NDA.”

  “NDA?” He’s laughing now, white teeth flashing and cheeks bisected by those sexy grooves. “What have you been reading, kitten? Fifty Shades?”

  My flush impossibly intensifies, and I attempt to grab the phone again—to no avail. He holds me off with one arm, still laughing, and I see his other hand’s thumb land on the little phone icon next to Kendall’s name.

  “Oh my God, you just dialed her. Hang up!” I make another futile grab for the phone. “Marcus, hang up right now!”

  He glances at the phone just as Kendall’s tinny voice says from the speaker, “Hello? Emma, is that you?”

  I expect him to hang up then, or at least hand the phone over to me, but I underestimated his assholeness. Lifting the phone to his ear, he says with a wicked smile, “No, sorry, Kendall. This is Marcus with Emma’s phone.”

  There’s a moment of dead silence, during which I try to decide if I should brain him or set him on fire, and then an incredulous: “What?”

  “Give it to me,” I hiss, all but sprawling across his lap to reach the phone, and this time, he lets me have it, mischief dancing in his eyes as I scramble back to my seat, clutching my prize.

  “—are you doing with Emma’s phone?” Kendall is asking warily as I lift the phone to my ear.

  “It’s me, hi. Sorry about that. Marcus was just being a dick.” I glare at him as I say it, but instead of taking offense, he starts laughing again, his powerful shoulders shaking.

  “Are you talking about Marcus Carelli?” Kendall sounds as if I’ve just blasphemed about the Pope in the Vatican. “The Marcus Carelli? He’s with you right now?”

  “Yep.” I pointedly turn my back to him. “We’re in a car heading to Brooklyn.”

  “Wait, what? From where? Start from the beginning,” Kendall demands, and I grit my teeth, throwing Marcus a fuming look over my shoulder.

  He’s already stopped laughing, but he’s still grinning, the bastard.

  “I can’t really talk right now,” I tell Kendall, looking away lest I smack him with the phone. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Wait! Just tell me if you two have hooked up.”

  “Kendall—”

  “Just a yes or no, quickly.”

  “Yes, okay? It’s a yes.” I hang up and turn to meet Marcus’s amused—and not the least bit apologetic—gaze.

  My temper boils over. “You had no right to do that. That is my phone and my friend and—”

  “You’re right.” He catches the hand I’m waving around—the one still clutching the phone. Bringing it to his lips, he kisses the knuckles reverently. “I shouldn’t have done it, kitten. I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, you’re very cute when you’re angry. I’ve thought so from our very first meeting.”

  “Oh, we’re doing clichés now, are we? What’s next? You knew I was the one from the moment you laid eyes on me?” To my relief, I still sound pissed, rather than all gooey and melty, like my insides. The traitors have turned to mush at the tender gesture and the bullshit compliment.

  “No,” Marcus says, all traces of amusement gone. “I didn’t.”

  Ouch. I blink and try to smile, as if all meltiness didn’t disappear in an instant, my stomach shriveling into a hard ball instead. Obviously, I’m not the one for him—that would be Emmeline or someone like her—but did he have to be so blunt about it? I was using that as an example of a cliché, not fishing for a proposal.

  Still, something about my reaction must’ve given me away because Marcus’s face darkens, his hand tightening around mine. “Emma, what I meant was—”

  “Just don’t do it again.” I somehow manage to sound playful, the smile actually appearing on my lips. “This is my phone”—I yank my hand out of his hold—“and you don’t get to just grab it and look at my messages, no matter how many clichéd compliments you give me afterward.”

  “What about non-clichéd ones?” he asks huskily, the glimmer of amusement returning to his gaze. I must be a better actress than I thought. “Can I grab it then?”

  “No,” I say with exaggerated firmness, as if talking to a child or a dog. “My phone is off limits.” I make a show of stuffing it into my purse and zipping it up for emphasis.

  He sticks out his lower lip in a pout, just like a disappointed toddler would, and I can’t help laughing for real, even as some of the melting feeling returns, along with the lingering hurt from his words.

  Because in that pout, as comical as he meant it to be, I see the vulnerable little boy he had been once, and I can’t help wishing for the impossible.

  Can’t help wanting this—us—to be real.

  41

  Marcus

  I glare at the cat on the bed, and he responds with a contemptuous look, the tip of his tail swishing back and forth in a silent threat.

  “That’s right,” my eyes tell him. “I fucked her all night long, and I will do it again and again. You better get used to it. She’s mine now.”

  “I will destroy you,” the slitted green gaze replies. “You’re going to die a slow and painful death under my paws, just like a mouse. Not that I’ve ever seen a real mouse, but still. If I ever get my paws on one, it’s fucked—and so are you.”

  “Puffs, get off the clean laundry,” Emma says, reappearing from the bathroom, and I watch with grim satisfaction as she shoos the furry creature off the clothes she’s folding on the bed—a task I’m helping her with.

  She was surprised when I offered, but she shouldn’t have been.

  There’s no way I would pass up a chance to get my hands on her panties.

  Speaking of which, she needs new ones. Along with new clothes in general. Almost everything she owns is worn out or of poor quality. My hands practically itch to pick up my phone and place an order at Saks, but I resist the urge. She won’t accept clothes from me yet, and I have bigger battles to fight.

  Like getting her to come back to my place tonight.

  “Here, I got this,” she says, grabbing a stack of folded T-shirts from me. She hurries over to the closet and stuffs the clothes inside, then comes back to grab a pile of socks. I let her put away all the folded things while I sort her bras, and before long, we’re done with all the laundry.

  “Wow, that was quick,” Emma says, looking around like she expects a stray sock to jump out at her. “I can’
t believe we got it done so fast. When I do it alone, it takes me hours.”

  “What can I say? I’m good with my hands,” I say with a straight face, and she gives me a dimpled grin.

  “You are. Thank you for helping.”

  “It was my pleasure.” I mean it too—and not just because I got to handle her underwear without looking like a pervert. She doesn’t have a washer and dryer in her studio, and the laundromat she uses is three long blocks away. I have no idea how she’s always dragged her stuff there on her own, but I’m glad I was here to carry the heavy sack for her today.

  I’ll have to make sure I’m always with her when she does laundry going forward, or better yet, have Geoffrey do it for her.

  At my place.

  Where I want her to be all the time.

  I’m not quite ready to put a label on that desire yet, but it’s definitely there, and the more I look around her cramped studio, the stronger it gets.

  I don’t want her here.

  She belongs at home with me.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask when she picks up a cat—the mid-sized one, Cottonball—and sits down on the bed to stroke him. “We could grab dinner around here before heading back, or go someplace in Manhattan. Alternatively, if you’re not in the mood to eat out, I can ask Geoffrey to prep us something.”

  She blinks up at me as the smallest cat, Queen Elizabeth, jumps up on the bed and joins her purring brother on Emma’s lap. “Heading back? As in, to your place? The two of us?”

  “Of course. This bed is too small for us both, don’t you think?” Not to mention, overrun with cats—the third of which joins her as I speak. “You can bring an overnight bag if you’d like, so you don’t need to wait for Geoffrey to do laundry in the morning. Maybe also leave the cats extra food, so we don’t have to come back here tomorrow at all. You can go to work straight from my place on Monday; I’ll have Wilson drive you there.”

  Her eyes widen more with every word coming out of my mouth, and I know—I fucking know—I’m giving away my hand, but it’s too late to try to be smooth and subtle. Not that I’ve ever been able to achieve that with her. When it comes to Emma, my instincts are as primitive as it gets, my need to claim her too powerful to deny.