by D. D. Miers
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She scowled at the door. Take a hint person. Go away.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
This time the knock was forceful. Ugh. Fine.
“Coming!” She paused the TV and shuffled to the door, letting her face slip into what Taylor called Alana’s, “I’m so unhappy right now, something better be on fire, or I will light you on fire for disturbing me,” face.
She flipped the locks and whipped open the door, her teeth almost clacking as she snapped her mouth shut.
Jaxon Stol stood at her door, all handsome and shit, his hand raised to knock again.
Rage, elation, and desire vied for attention as she tried to formulate a response to his presence there. How dare he show up unannounced after dropping off the grid for weeks?
“What the fuck are you doing here?” She blurted out.
Jax raised a brow and looked her up and down.
Christ on a cracker. Why of all nights did he choose the one evening when she was a hot-mess-express. She wore baggy sweats, her hair up in a mussed-up bun on the top of her head, and her tank had a few holes near the hem.
And of course, there he stood, looking like a wet dream come to life. His dark-green T-shirt pulled tightly over his muscled chest, a leather jacket zipped halfway up, framed his narrow hips, and his jeans fitted in all the right places.
“Well, hello to you, too.” His voice was low and his words sent butterflies fluttering through her stomach.
“Hello? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“Is there something else I should say when someone opens a door?” Jax chuckled and Alana fought hard against the urge to slam it in his face. Cocky prick.
“Oh, I don’t know. How about, ‘I’m so sorry it took me weeks to respond to your message or even let you know I was alive. I know that was a dick move. Please forgive me.’” She crossed her arms over her chest, mostly because sparring with him like that made her hot and her nipples were hard, but also because she was pissed.
Jax cocked his head to the side. “I didn’t know you would be upset.”
She frowned, “You didn’t think I would be upset? Do you know anything about women? Or even common decency for that matter?”
“It wasn’t intentional.”
“Do you want a cookie for your shitty excuse? Cause you won’t get one from me.”
“Alana,” he sighed, letting her name trail off of his lips.
“Does this bad boy thing get you what you want from other women?”
“You’re upset. I get it. If you’d shut that sexy mouth of yours for a minute, I’d explain.”
“No.”
“No?” He repeated, brows raised.
She leaned onto the frame, “Give me a couple weeks and I’ll get back to you,” She turned to close the door and added, “—maybe.” But before she could finish her display of power, Jax pushed his way into the apartment past her.
“Well come on in, then,” she mumbled under her breath.
His lips twitched into a smile, clearly hearing her snarky comment. He walked around the room, his hand smoothing over the fabric of the couch, his gaze taking in every detail.
“Nice place,” he said.
“You know it’s not mine.”
“Still.”
They stood in silence for a few moments before Jax asked, “Where’s your sister?”
“Working.” Alana snapped before leaning onto the couches arm, “Have you always thought the world revolves around you? Or is this only a recent addition to your fine personality?”
“I don’t think that.”
“Your actions would say otherwise.” She hated the effect he had on her and she wanted nothing more than to slap him, but whenever he turned to her, his gorgeous eyes enveloping her body, her anger would morph into another form of untamed irritation. The kind that only he could relieve.
“You don’t know the reasons behind my actions.”
Alana dropped her gaze down to her nailbeds, “And I don’t care to.”
“Man, you’re really . . . agitated with me.”
“Yes, I am.” Really fucking agitated because you made me care. Made me feel vulnerable. She didn’t say the words aloud, but even admitting them to herself was almost too much.
The muscle in his jaw ticked and a knowing, playful look overcame his features. Immediately Alana needed air. She moved to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and put some distance between them.
“I had to see to the future of the Warlocks and our place.”
“Your place?”
“Yes. With everything that’s gone on, it’s time for us to return to the Order of Magique.”
His reasoning was valid, and Alana couldn’t fault him for it, but it still wasn’t good enough. Yes, the warlocks needed a leader and someone to protect their rights among the other supernaturals, but he also could’ve sent a single fucking text her way.
“And that took two weeks?”
“More or less.” He answered.
“And were your fingers broken too? Since apparently even a courtesy reply was impossible.”
Alana kept her back to him, resting her free hand on the counter beside the stove. Suddenly her stomach twitched and tightened as his hands wrapped around her from behind. “Maybe you should get all that frustration out of your system.” He pressed his jaw to her cheek, “Take it out on me.”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She asked, her voice far too husky.
“If it’s an apology you want, you’re not going to get it,” he whispered in her ear. “Does that piss you off?”
She whirled around in his arms. But, before she had the chance to tell him what an incredulous, cocky ass he was, he clamped his mouth over hers, his tongue darting between her lips, massaging with total and utter expertise. Her instinct was to pull away, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Her resolve was clearly on empty when it came to Jaxon Stol.
She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck and pulled him toward her. She stood on the tips of her toes, kissing him back with a voracious passion that couldn’t be denied any longer.
This is a mistake, Alana. Her subconscious chided her. He’ll just leave again. Leave you more vulnerable than before.
Where she should’ve stopped and pulled away, she wrapped her legs around him as he carried her toward the bedroom, devouring her the entire time.
She would leave regret for tomorrow.
Alana fell freely back onto the soft duvet covering her bead. Seconds later, Jax climbed atop of her, holding himself up with one hand, while his other looped under her lower back.
He lifted her hips, the hard shape of his dick pressed through his jeans causing her to practically lick her lips in anticipation. The desire storming through her like a wild raging sea wanted to both hurry him up—and slow him down. She went to undo his belt and unbutton the top of pants, but Jax pushed her hands back. He moved over her, a wicked smile on his face as he slipped her sweats and panties to the floor.
Alana couldn’t fight the loud moan that tore through her as he tilted her head back on the pillow and touched his lips to her wet pussy.
“Oh gods, Jax.” She writhed on the bed as he massaged her with his thick, warm tongue.
He lavished her with his mouth, over and over, before abruptly stopping when she was so close to the edge. She was about to protest when suddenly, he rose from the bed, yanking down his jeans and boxers. She pulled her tank over her head, revealing her bare breasts to him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He said, tracing a slow hand down her throat and further, circling her nipples.
“Shut up and kiss me.” She ordered.
He climbed on top of her once more, his hands running up and down between her legs. He grabbed his cock and teased her with the head, then the shaft, as he claimed her mouth again. She was near coming when he thrust himself inside her.
Alana grabbed the sheets, curling her fingers tightly around the
m, then dragged her hands down his back as he moved inside her. Each breath of hers grew faster and shallower as she neared orgasm, and he knew the moment she finally climaxed.
Instead of slowing down, he increased his pace, holding her firmly against himself, as he moved with greater intensity. She bent her knees, sliding lower on the bed and allowing him to go deeper inside. He rocked against her with faster, harder thrusts, and for the first the final time, he moaned out her name as he reached his own climax.
“Holy shit.” He said, between broken breaths. “That was worth the wait.”
She tilted her face upward and nipped his bottom lip, “I could’ve done with that weeks ago.”
“Yeah, me too.” He chuckled, “I am sorry, by the way.”
“I thought you weren’t going to apologize?”
“Nah, I just said that, so you’d lay down all this fucked up anger on me.”
He rolled onto his back, holding Alana against his chest as he did until she rested above him. His heartbeat slowed into a steady rhythm, the sound peaceful enough to lull her to sleep.
She closed her eyes, only planning to do so for a few minutes, but when her eyes blinked open again, the early signs of dawn shone through her window. She yawned, stretching out her arms as a hand came down on her cheek, gently brushing away her astray hair.
“Morning, beautiful.” Jax said from somewhere nearby.
Alana rubbed the sleep from her eyes and took in the sight of him. He sat on the edge of the bed, a hand caressing her hip. He was dressed in the clothes he’d discarded last night.
She raised her brow, “Were you going to sneak off?”
“No,” He laughed, “I was watching you sleep before I decided to wake you.” He leaned down and kissed her lips. Normally, she’d worry about morning breath, but Jax’s mastery at kissing flushed away any vain inhibitions she had.
“Why are you dressed then?”
He sighed, “I got a call.”
“Nothing bad I hope?”
“There’s a couple of things I need to take care of and—"
“—And you need to go.”
He nodded, playing with the ends of her hair sprawled across the pillow. “I didn’t want to leave like this. Rushing out like some dick.”
“I don’t think you’re a dick—at least not today.”
Jax leaned down and kissed her again, “I’ll call you.”
“Hopefully not in two weeks from now.”
“Definitely not.”
He smacked a hand playfully on her ass and stood. “Come lock the door.”
Alana climbed out of bed and followed Jaxon through the dimly lit living room. He gave her one final, breathless kiss, and disappeared down the hall, but not before tossing another sexy look at her.
Minutes later, she’d just flipped on the coffee pot when a knock settled on her door again. Maybe Jax had changed his mind and needed another round. A girl can hope, right?
Alana smiled to herself as she cracked open the door, hoping to see a sexy warlock standing on the other side of the frame.
Instead, she found an empty hall.
“What the hell?” She opened the door wider and stepped out.
She glanced up and down the hall, then around the floor for perhaps a dropped off package. When she finally figured the knock had been a mistake, she turned to head back into the apartment, but stopped just shy of the knob.
Pinned to the back of her door was a note, addressed to Alana, and held steady with a six-inch serrated blade.
She stepped forward cautiously and pulled the knife free of the door, dropping the note into her empty hand.
Ms. Creed,
May I send my sincerest gratitude for your recent assistance in our endeavors. With Mason out of the way, our plans can continue on unchallenged. I congratulate you on your recent success and leave you with this important choice: When the time comes, choose the right side. You have much more to lose than you could ever imagine. I’ll be seeing you very, very, soon.
Z.
Z? Who the hell was Z? And what choice was he referring too?
“Lana?”
Alana crunched the note into her fist and slipped the blade behind her back as she spun around. Taylor came down the hall toward her, a bag hung over her shoulder and exhaustion filling her eyes. She must’ve just gotten off her graveyard shift.
“Everything okay?” she asked as she approached.
Alana smiled, “Of course.”
“Why are you wrapped in a sheet?”
Shit. Alana had forgotten her lack of clothing. “Um, Jax was just here.”
Taylor’s weary eyes lit up, “Good. I’m glad that finally happened.”
“You’re not gonna ask why he waited two weeks?”
“Nope.” She stepped past Alana and into the apartment, “I’m sure whatever his excuse was, it was clearly good enough to convince you.”
Alana let a nervous chuckle out. Right now she should be elated or even just satisfied, but instead she was wound up tighter then stretched leather.
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“Yes.” Alana shimmied into the apartment casting one last leery look around the hall and closed the door.
“So,” Taylor said, dropping her bag onto the ground and kicking up her heels on the coffee table. A move that was very uncharacteristic of her normally controlled, proper sister. “Are you excited?”
“For what?”
“Finally getting time to enjoy life without worrying about someone chasing you?” Taylor said, “You can do anything you want, now that your free.”
Free.
Alana could never be free. That much was now obvious. Where one enemy disappeared, another took his place. Who was this mysterious Mr. Z? And what choice did he want her to make? Shit, could she even stay anywhere near Taylor without putting her at risk?
“Alana? Are you okay?” Taylor’s voice broke through her thoughts.
“I’m good.”
Instead of ruining today, Alana smiled and played along. She’d deal with the mysterious Mr. Z tomorrow. Today, she’d stay home, order in breakfast and binge watch movies with her sister. Because tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed anymore—especially for Alana Creed.
Thank you for reading Alana Creed: Timejumper Part I
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Keep Reading for a Sneek Peak at Thirst: The Kresova Vampire Harems Book 1!
Sometimes, it takes a pawn to dethrone a queen.
The Kresova
Blood.
The source of life—and the emblem of death.
For humans and vampires alike, blood determines the difference between survival or doom. For the ancient race of Kresova vampires, blood spilled in a centuries-old feud has forever changed the course of their future.
Many may know their name, and books may tell their stories, but little truth is actually known about those who stalk the night—especially by the vampires themselves—and the vicious Kresova queen plans to keep it that way.
She kills without prejudice. Eliminates anyone whose existence threatens her rule. Through fear and violence and her unmatched ability to anticipate her enemies, she’s secured her reign.
She’s thought of everything.
Done everything.
But her plan is flawed.
She didn’t prepare for her . . . for them.
Prologue
The Chamber of Morana, Queen of the Kresova Vampires
Paris, France
Shades of crimson coated the walls of the small coliseum-like room. Smears of blood trailed along the steps like a winding river leading down to the dais. Every few feet, puddles formed in the crevices of the stone floor, staining the white grout a coppery brown.
The tangy scent of iron filled Carvell “Carver” Marceau’s nose, and
his fangs descended.
He wished he’d eaten before he had arrived, but he never knew what the queen might demand. He doubted she’d ask him to slaughter thirty men—again—simply for her own delight, but he also knew better than to say “never” when referring to Queen Morana’s commands.
Many years had passed since his last visit, and he doubted she’d grown in patience or compassion. If she did demand such a thing from him, he’d have no other option but to oblige.
Corpses littered the walkway, sprawled haphazardly with their throats torn, lying in pools of their own blood. The rubber soles of Carver’s sable boots squished and squeaked as though he traversed through a rain-battered street. Rivulets of the thick liquid appeared in each crack that sloped downward toward her enormous marble throne.
At the base of the dais, he stopped. His face, often described by her majesty as regal, remained downturned until she deigned to acknowledge him.
He cast his eyes up, only once, to see she clutched a man in her arms. Her embrace wasn’t tender as she pulled at his jugular. When Morana’s eyes darted to Carver, she paused, then ferociously tore the man’s head from his neck and carelessly dropped his body. It landed with a thud. The crack of human bones shattering echoed throughout the empty throne room.
She kept her gaze fixed on Carver, watching . . . waiting.
For what? Weakness, possibly contempt, but most of all—anything that spoke of treason.
It was a test.
Everything was, when it came to the Kresova queen. But Carver had become a master of self-possession in his long years away from her court, and his expression remained composed. Face still lowered, he waited patiently for her to speak first.
One didn’t talk to Queen Morana. Not unless a permanent death was planned. She hadn’t maintained her reign over the ancient vampire race of the Kresova this long with kindness and shows of mercy.
Morana’s beauty could not be denied, and though she appeared youthful and innocent, she was thousands of years old.
Most of the vampires in existence hadn’t been around long enough to remember she was not the first vampire—simply the most cunning.