PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Shapeshifter Romance: The Vampire's Stolen Bride (BBW Fantasy Alpha Male Romance Books) (New Adult Vampire Fun Mature Young Adult Billionaire Steamy Love and Romance Novella)

by Sophia Hunter

  “Where are we supposed to go?” he says, smiling politely at a cluster of seniors waving from their table.

  “I think we go over to the donation table?”

  “After you,” he says.

  “By the way, there’s no press here.”

  “Good. I’m not in the mood.” I jump out of my skin when he places his hand on my lower back. A polite gesture, I’m sure, but completely unexpected.

  Chapter 5

  Earth, Wind and Fire’s “Reasons” comes on. People rush a small area in front of the platform riser to take advantage in the slower pace the DJ spins.

  “Would you like to dance?” he says, placing his napkin down on the empty table we found. It’s more unorganized than expected, but we’re just going with it.

  “Sure.”

  I’m surprised to see him offer his hand, a little shy about taking it at first. Seems like such a personal move. He’s treating me like a person, not an employee. Plus, chivalry makes me blush, especially when a man is attractive and extending the gratitude toward me. I get nervous and fidgety. I mean, even if it’s gratuitous, it still makes me feel wanted. I might also add that this is one of the most romantic songs I’ve ever heard. I can’t keep my thoughts professional when I’ve already reserved this song for the all-nighters I’ll be having in bed with George Clooney when he realizes I’m the woman of his dreams.

  “I hope you don’t plan to leave me hanging. I love this song.”

  I take his hand, “What do you know about Earth, Wind, and Fire?”

  I loop my arm into his elbow as we head to the dance floor. This feels brave. We both know damn well what people may be thinking. He smiles at me when we turn to face each other, a gentler version of himself that I’ve never really seen before.

  He places my arms around his neck, holds my hands there.

  Something’s going on with him right now; this totally feels like a moment. He’s peculiarly focused on me. If I wasn’t partially clouded by my confusion, I’d say he might be feeling a little romantic?

  “You really look gorgeous tonight, Chantelle.” His voice is low, rumbling.

  Holy crap, what’s happening?

  “Thank you?”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  He brings his hands down to my lower back.

  “Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”

  “I don’t drink, you know that.”

  This is true.

  “I have to say, I’m glad I listened to you this morning. You changed my mind, and I happen to be having a really great time.”

  “You can stop pretending you want to be here. It’s just me, and you already know you have my vote,” I say sarcastically.

  “I’m not pretending.”

  The music ends. I go to turn to clap with the crowd, when he pulls me in.

  “Hold on.”

  “But sir-“

  “I need a second.”

  “Huh?” We’re still standing in the middle of the dance floor at ballroom dancing’s version of ten-and-two.

  I realize he’s trying to tell me something. He draws my eyes down with his.

  The bulge in his pants is undeniable.

  “Now do you believe me?”

  I want to crack up, but can’t, not right now. Not while the room is silently waiting for the council’s presentation.

  “I can fix a lot of situations for you,” I whisper, “but I can’t fix this one.”

  His eyes tighten on me, “There are ways.”

  I smack him on the arm, blushing, “Stop that!”

  What the hell, is he serious? I’ve never seen this side of him.

  ****

  “Without further ado, I’d like to officially welcome our guest of honor, Congressman Dave E. Orange!”

  “I hope they don’t expect me to go on stage.”

  “I told them that you wouldn’t be giving any speeches.”

  “Come on up and say a few words!”

  Christ.

  The room begins a low looping chant of the word “Speech!”

  “Are you kidding?” he says under his breath, through his teeth like a ventriloquist.

  “Want me to go up there with you?”

  “Yes.”

  I turn, stretching both of my hands behind me. I wait for him to take them and walk in front of him to the stage.

  ****

  “Congressman Orange, we also have one more thing we wanted to share with you.”

  We ended up standing on stage for what seemed like an hour. I swear every single council member—all thirteen of them—was given the opportunity take as much time as humanly allotted to give regards to everyone on the planet for “making this night possible.”

  I mentally jump for joy when Chairwoman Harris says, “And for our final presentation of the evening…”

  I look at my watch. To my surprise (and delight) we’ve actually only been here for one hour and fifteen minutes.

  A woman I recognize as being Ida May Jackson, Parramore’s oldest living resident, is wheeled out onto center stage by Chairwoman Harris. A volunteer hands her a microphone.

  “On behalf of the Parramore Residents’ Preservation Council, and because of all the tireless work Congressman Orange did to make sure this neighborhood is never forgotten, I am humbled to inform you that this center, now and henceforth, shall be named the Dave. E. Orange Parramore Community Outreach Center.”

  The crowd erupts. Even I have to fight back a tear or two. I look up at him, never seen him so moved. This is a huge surprise, and even bigger news for his campaign.

  He cannot speak. He’s filled with emotion as he approaches the mic. He gives Ms. Jackson a hug, goes on to explain that this is the stuff that people don’t see. That communities like Parramore thrive when given the opportunity to survive.

  “When people come together, they can do remarkable things by passing on opportunity to their fellow man.”

  As he speaks, I fall in love all over again with politics. The man who inspired me to seek out public service, unwittingly reaffirms my belief of goodness in all people.

  “I would also like to point out that none of this would have been possible if it weren’t for the most beautiful, loving, kind-hearted human being I know, Chantelle Williams.”

  He holds his hand out for me to go over, gives me a huge hug. As I start to pull away, he holds me close, and whispers into my ear that he hopes I’m free after this.

  I say, “Of course.”

  He kisses me on the temple and releases me as he wraps up the evening, giving thanks and working the room in the same he would a meet and greet.

  ****

  “I’m happy you convinced me to attend.”

  We walk out of the center. The parking lot was empty, save my car and his. He slides his left hand to the small of my back.

  “You were hilarious in line earlier with your paper plate, waiting for your scoops of collard greens, macaroni and cheese, and fried catfish. You looked sooo out of place.”

  “What can I say? This has all been a very organic experience.”

  “I’m happy you insisted I be here, too.”

  The parking lot is really dark. He holds me close, kisses me on the temple again and suggests I wait for him by my car.

  “Are you riding with me?”

  “Yes,” he says sternly. “Remind me to check with city on getting this place lit.”

  “Will do,” I say as I he waits for me to climb into my car.

  “Lock your doors.”

  “Sir, I grew up in this neighborhood. This block is Beverly Hills compared to others.”

  All that has unfolded tonight intrigues me: Neiman’s, his insistence on me attending this event with him, the handholding, temple kissing, and the overall feeling of closeness. It’s all very out of the ordinary.

  He waves to his driver and heads back over to me. I’m a little embarrassed about the condition of my car, just now realizing I still have empty Starbuck’s cups in both cup holders
and loose change in various compartments. He knows I’m a coffee fiend, so there’s no real surprise there.

  “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” He climbs into my car like this is normal for us or something.

  “To say the least,” I say, moving the empty cups to the floor behind the passenger’s seat. I’m not sure what to say, or do next—and as it appears, neither is he. The only thing that seems logical here is to start the ignition, drive somewhere, or…

  He reaches over, slides his large hand up the side of me, around my waist, pulling me into a kiss. The other hand molds to my neck.

  I feel myself lean into him, and rest my left hand on his knee.

  He’s an amazing kisser. He growls as he takes my bottom lip between his teeth and nibbles.

  “Sir,” I push through my heavy breath. He moans in reply. Closing my eyes, I’m captivated by the heavy, unexpected desire we both seem to feel. He delicately slips his tongue between my parted lips. He relaxes his leg, giving me the green light to continue sliding my left hand up his thigh. I go higher… Find my way to the bulge between his legs; well on it’s way to hard. I press and begin to massage him.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Of course I do,” I hear myself say, “I’m getting you nice and hard.”

  I can’t believe I said it, but I can’t help it. The way he kisses me, pumping his hips, his strange behavior all night? Now it all makes sense.

  I breathe against the back of his perfectly trimmed hair. Trying, but failing to hold back a moan. “What do you plan on doing once you get me nice and hard?” He smells fucking delicious. It’s something woodsy and citrusy.

  “Chantelle.”

  “Yes?” I leak at the low rumble of his voice.

  “I asked you a question. What are you going to do with it?”

  “What.”

  “My hard cock.”

  “I’m gonna, I’m gonna…”

  “Put it inside you and let me fuck you with it?”

  Oh my god, is this happening?

  “Yes…” I croon.

  “What else?” I’ve never talked dirty, but I could listen to and answer these questions all night. He finds a place on my neck and lingers there with his lips. His breath warms as he presses his mouth to the most exposed parts of my highly sensitized skin.

  “Do it,” I hear myself say.

  “Do what,” he prompts, “Let me hear you say it.”

  He gently tastes me, caresses the confession right out of me.

  “Put your dick inside me, and fuck me.”

  I have no idea what’s come over me. Well, yes I do: him. I suppose it’s not difficult to find the words when you’re unbelievably turned on and know exactly what it is that you want to feel.

  Chapter 6

  “Lay your seat back all the way.”

  After he says it, I realize I have no clue of how we’re going to pull this off. I’m not exactly driving the largest of vehicles, and I’m no puny girl. My 2010 Honda Civic is a two-door coupe, and Congressman Orange is well over six-feet tall.

  This could get awkward.

  I shoot for not killing the mood, so I begin on my seat as he removes his coat. In such a tight space, I’m grateful I’ve worn my high-waist, shaper briefs. The undergarment quickly transitions from modest compression apparatus to crotchless, sex-ready lingerie within seconds. All I have to do is figure out how to gracefully pull my dress up, reach between my legs, and release three very conveniently placed snaps.

  “Aah!” I feel a rush when he pushes his way in, penetrating the tightness of my pussy. I’m not in the most comfortable position, one leg up, one leg down, but it’s not such a big deal that I can’t enjoy the fact that I’m totally getting nailed by my boss right now.

  My thoughts are random: Genoa from Neiman Marcus; this amazing thing he keeps doing with his hips; what I would say to the press if we get caught; the message he left the day he hired me, telling me to come back to his office because he knew very quickly that he wanted me for himself.

  And now, here I am, getting completely rammed by him in an empty parking lot.

  Hot.

  I slip my hands into the back of his pants, holding onto his ass, feeling the motion of his hips as he thrusts against me.

  “Ooo…” I can’t hold back.

  “You feel so good,” he replies, thrusting faster, harder.

  The force of him presses my body over the back of the seat. If my head weren’t against the back seat, I’d practically be upside down.

  “Aaaah!” My moans grow longer and louder, drowning out the not-so-subtle squeak of the car. I spill out of my strapless bra, my breasts moving in large circles under my dress. He tugs it down, uncovers them completely. My nipples are more taut than I’ve ever remembered them getting. I didn’t even know they could poke out like this.

  He grabs hold of my boobs immediately. He doesn’t stop fucking me as he tightens his grip, flicks his tongue over one nipple, then the other, a sensation that communicates directly with my clit… I’ve got full on stimulation in three places at the same time. He’s straight up about to send me into orbit.

  “Oh my God, like that. Don’t stop…” I have a million other things I’d like to say right now but seem to fall silent. I’m about to come.

  “That’s it, give it to me,” he says digging deep.

  Auuuugh…!

  Did I yell? I just yelled. Oh, wow…

  Chapter 7

  “We can’t stay here all night, sir.” I try to say something responsible as I check my hair in the mirror—which is a disaster. I look like I’ve been struck by lightning on one side of my head—and the flower? Forget about it, I have no idea where it’s gone.

  “Why don’t we head to the office. I have a few things I still need to wrap up before calling it a night.” He contemplates something, hesitates then, “I mean, if you want to.”

  “Yeah, of course. Totally.” I sound ridiculous—so my age. When will I learn that indifference doesn’t work when trying to play it cool?

  I turn the ignition and shift into reverse, my body still outside of itself. If in fact this is all happening, I am ill-equipped to comprehend the very intoxicating implication that Congressman Orange is into me. Either I’ve had one epically long day and have no idea I’m hallucinating, or I’m totally having an office affair with my boss, an elected official, who also happens to be the most eligible bachelor to ever call Central Florida his home.

  ****

  On the way to headquarters he takes a call from his campaign manager who, as I’ve gathered from his incessant apologizing, has been trying to reach him all night.

  He places his hand on my knee, strokes it with his thumb, “Yes Bryn, I know, I’ve been…” his grip tightens then releases, “busy.”

  He leans my direction, glances and smiles over at me occasionally, reassuring me he’s right where he wants to be. He tells Bryn he’ll give her a call as soon as he gets to the office.

  I’m humbled that he slips off his shoes, sets his things on my back seat. These actions provide a sense of comfort for me. It calms me to see him relaxed in my world.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Confused, maybe surprised…” I say honestly.

  “About?”

  He shuts down his phone, is genuinely interested in my thoughts.

  “I mean, what’s actually happening right now, why are you doing this?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  ‘Girls like me just don’t get picked by guys like, you,’ I wish I had the nerve to say. There’s no way to clarify my apprehension without sounding completely insecure.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. This night has been just all so… unexpected. I’m not sure that this is even happening.”

  “Me neither,” he admits.

  The conversation between us grows very human the closer we get to the office.

  He says his feelings have been difficult to come to terms
with; but a combination of the timing being right, and how beautiful I looked tonight, it really forced his hand. I ask him how long he’s been feeling this way about me, and I wonder how someone so outspoken, so unafraid to confront people could hide something like this for so long. He says it was for all of the obvious reasons. Some people would find his association with me taboo; maybe even frown upon how unpopular or unbecoming it is of a man with his influence to venture so far away from the mainstream norm.

  “There are people in this world who really do judge you for things like that. It’s scary to be bold in this way—especially when you want to be taken seriously in some circles. I’ve worked very hard for the things that I have. I’m not the most brave person in the world. My style is to do things safely, conduct myself within certain boundaries to make the most of high-risk situations. That includes my personal life.” He points out that it takes some serious courage on his part to go against the grain in more ways than one. Not only am I a black woman, I’m not the stereotypical mold one associates with beauty. He admits to finding himself attracted to women with curves. “Voluptuous women just do it for me,” he affirms.

  Taking a deep breath, he turns down the A/C, and tells me the real reason he wanted me at the event tonight. He just didn’t want other staff there; he needed to be alone with me and saw an opportunity. He goes on to explain that he saw how much this community meant to me, and wanted to be there not just to thank them first hand, but to show me that he wasn’t a dick.

  He says his campaign staff is always up his ass, that I’m the realest person in his life. That all of these years he’s trusted my judgment, grown increasingly impressed with how honestly I approach my work, and is inspired by my insight.

  “Really?” I say, completely at a loss for words. I’m stunned by his admission, his humility. He’s exactly who I thought he was, and more.

  “I don’t know, Chantelle. You just have a unique way of helping me see clearly. When you come into my office every morning, your radiance reminds me of why I got into politics in the first place. Real people can do remarkable things if you truly see them as your equal, and learn from one another. You remind me to consider other perspectives when I lose sight of what’s important. I truly love that about you. You’re…” he glares at me quizzically, trying to find the right adjective I suppose.