An Alpha's Desire

by Amarie Avant

  I tune out his cries, burning the cigarette into his chest. Shit, I have my own prayers too, like bargaining with God that if nothing happens with Zariah tonight, I won’t continue to pursue her. I hold my hands out so they can be weighted down with gloves. I glance at my knuckles recalling how swollen and bloody they were the first time I had to fight. In an instant, I’m transported back to Russia. What a fucking dynasty the Resnov’s are. The men are revered. There’s no space for females.

  Anatoly believes that women serve two purposes: On their back or knees. Servants to clean or for sex. My sister, his own blood, meant nothing to him. She was like Ronisha. Dealt a bad card. Stuck in a story that only would end in tragedy. The Resnov name never protected a female who wasn’t respected by a male counterpart. So, the first time I ever fought was for Sasha.

  Zariah

  This evening, I’ve washed away the grim of hospital. The salted tears on my cheeks have been cleansed with expensive French soap. Hot torrents of water bring images of Vassili Resnov’s hard body before my eyes. Damn, I breathe heavily, wondering how God made him so fine. Why? Why make a murdering criminal look like the epitome of sex? All rugged hard angles, muscles stacked for days, thick neck. In a daze, I place the loofa down, grab the liquid soap, and pour the thick, creaminess in my hands, gulping down thoughts of his hot, never ending cum.

  I hesitantly rub the soap into my skin, rubbing over my achy nipples and large breasts as the lips of my pussy swell and tremble. Damn, my eyelids twirl shut as I touch myself. It feels good, I almost whimper in thought of how much more enticing it would be for his rough hands to graze over my silky dark skin. I can still hear his voice in my ears. I reach lower, gliding the soap along my flat stomach. Lower, lower still, with an insatiable desire.

  Until my fingertips skim pass silk curls. Heart drumming in my ears over the sound of rain, I chicken out by slathering my curvy hip. Damn, I was already clean before and I have not been touched there, not in a romantic sexual way. Not yet.

  With a huff, I turn off the water sprouts. “Zariah, stop being an idiot. He is a Resnov.” Sheesh, when I say the name aloud, an errie chill claims my bones. Hot foggy steam surrounds me but ‘Resnov’ is just that sobering

  “You have obligations, Zar.” I usually talk to myself when overwhelmed, or there was a report due in Dr. Frankston’s class. Obtaining a claissical high school diploma from Pressley Prep was hard enough, but Dr. Frankston always went harder on me. My black teachers always seemed to push their students harder but he took the damn cake for expectations.

  Tonight, I do have obligations. And not that crazy statement Vassili said, about us spending the night together. Though he made no stipulations, he doesn’t know where I live, and I really don’t expect to see him ever again. This evening, my father has decided to do what he knows best. Entertainment.

  I've donned a champagne colored mini dress and equally expensive stilettos. I take a deep huff in the floor to ceiling mirror by my queen-sized canopy bed. I could go for a pair of sneakers and sweats, I’d rather be by Ronisha’s side at this moment, but my father can be callus. He sprung this last-minute dinner on me without so much as a forewarning.

  My thick hair has been straightened and tied into a bun. There’s just enough makeup on my face to plant me into the middle of high society this evening. Just enough to overlook the sadness in my eyes. I hold my chin higher,

  “I crossed paths with a Resnov, bold enough to show him my father’s business card, and … survived.” I chuckle to myself. Damn, I'm like a broken record, considering the time I spent in his presence earlier and survived.

  My father’s business card has come in handy on a few occasions. Even though I attend Pressley Preparatory Academy, I’m still a black chick. The majority of my white friends snort premium cocaine and steal their parents aged whiskey, to drink and drive in the BMW convertibles they were gifted with on their sixteenth birthday. But let me be in Ronisha’s neck of the woods –mind you, her friends prefer kickbacks and weed which is nothing as extreme—Maxwell Washington’s name is a saving grace.

  I step out of my room, at the extravagant staircase, I hear voices. Shit, it’s Phillip Everly IV. My ex-boyfriend. Just my luck, I grumble while descending the staircase.

  His clear blue eyes brighten when I step into the dining room. In Tom Ford digs, he arises from his seat as does his District Attorney father, Phillip Everly V, his trophy mother who always seems to be younger and more waxy by the second, and my dad.

  Where is the rest of the party? Or am I the token sacrifice? My father has offered me on the platter before, and sneaky ass Phil has always made for the token boyfriend. The maid hasn’t set the rest of the vast dining table for the remainder of my fathers friends and political associates. I realize I’m to be lead to the slaughter. Dad never gave me more attention than the day I started dating Phil. Let Maxwell tell it, we were perfect. Shit, we were, until I pulled the pleasantly soft wool from my eyes. And these days, the attention is only offered to remind me how much Phil loves me and how we make an impeccable couple.

  “Zariah,” Mr. Everly smells of amber and my father’s most prized brandy as he hugs me. “You look as gorgeous as ever.”

  “Thank you, sir,” my grin is plastic as I pull away from his embrace. I hug my father, as well. Mr. Everly only receives so much love because he wrote an impeccable letter of recommendation, but I offer a cordial nod to Phil and his mother before seating. Yeah, sucker, no hug for you.

  “When are you leaving for Spelman College?” Mr. Everly inquires. “We must have a toast.”

  “An HBCU,” my dad almost spits the words which causes Mrs. Everly’s eyebrows to kneed together in confusion. She isn’t aware of the acronyms for “Historically Black College and Universities.” And I force my eyelashes not to flutter or my lips to purse.

  “I think it’s a grand idea. One of the secretaries on my team attended Spelman,” Mr. Everly cuts in. His attempt to side with me about attending a black college falls short as he realizes the distaste of mentioning secretaries, because my pupils dilate with anger, with thoughts of how my dad ruined my mother over a damn secretary. Maxwell doesn’t catch the note of embarrassment his friend gets from bringing up the taboo subject of secretaries, who evidently use their knees more than their education. The DA cleans up his own blunder with, “Spelman is filled with morals and rich in history.”

  “Only wish I could follow you,” Phil jokes.

  “Ha,” I laugh. I broke up with him months ago after finding out he was more like our fellow students at the Preparatory school. Most of the rich guys are, but he’d been deceptively charming. It took a while for me to figure out just how addicted to coke he is.

  The dinner is uneventful, besides my father’s attempt to interest me in attending Harvard University with Phillip. He’d gone behind my back and had one of his assistants at work apply for that university as well as his alma mater.

  “No thanks, Dad.” Ever the smartass, I elaborate, “I read a recent article ‘Bound by History: Harvard, Slavery and Arc—”

  BOOM. Maxwell slams his fist down onto the table. “We will not discuss slavery over veal, Zariah.” He chuckles tersely. “That is vastly inappropriate.”

  “Is it?” I arch an eyebrow.

  “She’s just like her mother,” my dad says condescendingly. He chuckles again, sipping his sniffer of bourbon.

  Biting my bottom lip, I stare at the shiny gold charger and china plate before me. The company laughs half heartily at my father’s comparison of my mother with me. I can just about see her embarrassed face in the reflection of the plate. When my parents were married, Dad had this awful way about him. Let my mom say something contrary to his beliefs, and Maxwell would redirect my mother in a heart attack. I have yet to be reprimanded to the same level that my father did with my mom. Most of the time, my dad is with his girlfriend on the weekends and prior to my graduation last week, I was too busy studying or partying away the end of high school.


  Now my mouth tenses. Dad is just like Sergio. I’m sure Vassili is just. Like. My. Dad.

  Where did my courage come from as I wreaked havoc in Vadim’s Gym? Oh, I had just spoken with Ronisha’s doctor. The sun hadn’t even risen in the sky this morning when the doctor had provided the rundown: reset nose, fractured collarbone, broken jaw…

  I snapped.

  Usually I am too reserve for an argument, unless it’s preparing myself for the courtroom. But to threaten, I committed felons while at Vadim’s Gym.

  “Dad, may I be excused from the table?”

  I’m already rising when he says no. The anger momentarily reared in his eyes, and I see him backhanding my mother across the room. My father has never so much as spanked me, not even a smack on the back of the hand. He beat the shit out of my older brother, Martin though, the first time Martin decided that there'd be no beating our mom like she was a little ass kid.

  My head cocks to the side in response to his denial. Since their divorce I've tried him, and he’d cave It was either that, or I follow my mom and Martin to Atlanta. I stayed in order to complete the last two years at Pressley Prep.

  Dad smiles and backs off. “Teenagers.”

  There's a round of faux laughter as I continue out of the room. I hear footsteps behind me and turn around. Phil is rounding the corner. His blond hair combed over perfectly, everything about him is a beautiful illusion.

  “Just eat dinner, okay?” I sigh. Shit, I can’t look into his eyes without seeing powder dusted beneath his nose.

  His blue eyes are filled with concern. “Babe…”

  My gaze is emotionless. “We’ve been over for months, Phil.”

  With that, I shuffle up the stairs and slam the door behind me. I’m never falling in love, I’d be a fucking idiot too. I kick one shoe in one direction, my foot instantly chilled by the marble flooring. Cussing as I go, I kick the other shoe at the same time I pull the dress over my head.

  It doesn’t thud. Not against the wall or the floor. My senses prick as my dress falls to the floor next to me. Then my arms wrap around my large chest, as I stand, about as naked as I ever been in front of the opposite sex.

  “Vassili,” I whisper, alternating from covering my breasts to the tiny triangle shielding my innocence.

  He moves out of the shadows, placing my left stiletto onto the dresser. A long-sleeve thermal strains against his broad chest and biceps so thick. He drags a hand through his hair that was lazily laying on his forehead like a rooster. “I came to collect my payment.”

  “Did you mu…mu… has it been done?” Damn, I can’t even say the word. Murder. Ice. Kill. And the guy’s boxing name is Killer Karo. Vassili Karo Resnov, Killer Karo, has almost 57k likes on Facebook. I found that out after leaving Vadim’s Gym.

  “Yes, Zariah, it has been done.”

  I start for my silk robe at the foot if the bed.

  He blocks my path, planting himself in front of my queen sized canopy.

  “I can’t even dress?” I snap. “I’m cold.”

  “Of course, what kind of monster would I be to leave you freezing.” He gestures toward the bed, not offering an ounce of assistance, but I’m not foolish enough to walk past him. “I enjoyed the little ritual you went through after showering. Cocoa butter, perfume against your wrists and then the pulse at your neck.” He steps closer to me, and breaths me in. His breath tickles my neck. He clasps his hands around my wrists before bringing that to his nose for another inhale. Did he feel that spark?

  My throat is heavy, it’s a feat just to murmur, “You’ve been here this entire time?”

  “You were in the shower, and you stopped.” He licks his lips. “I could do that for you, though.”

  My water is pooled with lust. I glance away from his dark gaze before gulping it all down. “No. You were here, in my room this entire time,” my voice freezes over with each word. “Are you aware that the damn district attorney is downstairs?”

  “That mudak Phillip Everly can stay downstairs all he’d like, I’m here for you.” His voice is playful, yet the hard look on his face sends another tremor of fear sparking down my spine and landing between my thighs. Vassili’s tone hardens as he reminds, “You shook my hand, Miss. Washington.”

  “I sure did, asshole. Anything to get the fuck away from you. I also didn’t think you’d kill the guy!” My bones are shaking but I place a hand on my hip. “Where’s my proof?”

  He grabs the DirecTV remote from the dresser. “There’s a television in here somewhere, eh?”

  I grumble taking the remote from him. I press a button, and the flatscreen descends from the ceiling and in front of a canvas photo of Paris I completed at paint night.

  “Turn to the news.”

  “Okay,” I growl.

  The television is on the News. The newscaster mentions, “In a gruesome turn of events, the body of a male has just been found along the bank of the L.A. River below. The police have yet to release the man’s name….” There’s an aerial view and the reporter in a helicopter mentions how tattered his body appears before switching back to the set. There’s a drumming in my ears, and I realize it’s blood coursing through my veins.

  “There are no leads…” The words ring in my ear, as I press the OFF button.

  My knees weaken, and before I know it, Vassili’s warm hands are wrapped around my bare waist. “You’re a fucking murderer, don’t touch me,” I almost screech. The remote in my hand bounces off his hard chest as I throw it at him with such force.

  “You asked for this, Zariah,” he says, shaking my shoulders. There's an underlying hurt in his voice. I’ve seen pain before. When my mom disappointed my father or couldn't meet his expectations. When Ronisha learned that rubbing around two Barbie dolls don't compare to the real deal and how sex can leave you void since it doesn’t equate love. Add the young girls at my school into the equation who are suicidal because they have too many assets and capital.

  I stop tugging away from him. Against my better judgement, his hard body more than comforts me. His thick, hard frame becomes my haven, cushioning me from the overwhelming feeling that I’m drowning. Moments pass as my breathing returns to normal. I killed a man. I’m as much at fault as Vassili is. I caused this! I gulp, working the muscles in my throat, preparing myself to speak. Yet Vassili’s lips meet mine instead. In a kiss that softens my heart and clouds my brain.

  “You belong to me now, Zariah,” he tells me, lips seeking mine. Our tongues twirl before he says, “I’d kill anyone who caused a tear to drop down your cheek,” he rubs a thumb over my skin collecting the damp tears that have fallen. “You could tell me any motherfucker who ever crossed you from birth, and I would tear them apart.”

  His callused voice is astonishingly a comfort to me. Before I can tell him that I don’t need anymore justice, Vassili kisses me again. “I won’t hurt you, Zariah. I won’t go anywhere along your sexy fucking body, or do anything that you aren’t in agreement with tonight. Do you got that?”

  I nod, kissing his bottom lip.

  Maybe thirty minutes has passed. An hour, possibly two. The tears have salted against my skin, yet I’m no longer sad. I’m content with Vassili. He said he wanted to show me how beautiful I am. Something has transferred between Vassili and I. He’s murdered for me, and although I was acting on pure rage when making this request, the two of us are connected in ways I couldn’t fathom.

  He had me unclasp my bra and slip out of my panties. In nothing save for my soft brown skin, I'm seated on the floor. The silver-trimmed mirror is across from me. Me and Vassili are reflected back, light and darkness.

  Vassili is seated behind me, his jeans brushing against my hips. His legs around me as my toes press against the cool silver lacquered frame. Legs wide open. The image before us is all delicate, my lady parts and the softness of the inside of my thighs. The look in Vassili eye tell me that my sex makes for a gorgeous focal point.

  “Look how beautiful you are, Zariah.” He says. “You wer
e afraid to touch it in the shower. Can I touch this pretty pussy, eh?”

  My nod is hesitant, not because I don’t want too. Damn, I want him too. I’m just stuck on how he looks at me through the mirror. This big, scary man’s dark gaze is searing, obsessed, and entranced by … me. I want everything to go slow, I want to cherish tonight.

  Heat sweeps across my cheeks and neck as I glance at my honey walls reflecting from the mirror before me.

  Vassili picks up his bottle of Vodka that he’d brought into my room from the balcony, takes it to his head. Then he licks his middle finger before reaching around. His golden hand is much lighter against my skin as he gropes a breast.

  “Keep looking at that pretty pussy, Zariah,” his tone slow, his gaze sliding from mine in the mirror to my wide-open sex. “Beautiful. I don’t deserve you, but you’ve given me the gift of touching it. Nobody else will love this pussy. Look it wets for me, begging for my cock.”

  His hand skims down my flat abdomen. He has an abrasive callused palm print, yet it’s pleasantly soothing as it goes. His index finger plays with my coils.

  My breath hitches.

  “Its Fucking Begging me.” His vodka peppered breath is pleasing against my cheek. “No matter what type of bad motherfucker we both think—know –that I am, your body calls me.”

  “ Your stabbing me in the back,” I joke, voice just barely found. I can’t tell him that he does deserve me, because I’m not a judge. Perhaps the words squeaked out, but the victory of getting them to pass the threshold of my lips causes a grin to plaster across my cheeks.

  “Yeah, my cock is jealous,” he glances down between us. “This motherfucker has never been harder.”

  Finally his index finger and ring finger spread my lips. There's a sweet succulent coating against the inside of them from just his touch.