A is for Alpha

by Kate Aster

  Her eyes drift back to the kayak I’ve got leaning against a stately oak on the northeast side of the campus of the U.S. Naval Academy. The tree’s leaves are golden yellow now, as bright as a dandelion, and it pains me to think I won’t be here to see them fall to the ground.

  I knew this would be my last tour. I was supposed to have left this summer, but separating from the Navy comes with a mountain of paperwork and bureaucratic red tape, and I haven’t fought it because Annapolis is a great place to be stuck for a while.

  I shrug, moving the kayak to lay flat on the ground as an autumn wind threatens to topple it. “Not where I’ll be, anyway. There’s a creek, but not deep enough to kayak in for more than a quarter mile without crashing into rocks.” I frown at the sight of the kayak, unmarred and unused. “Besides, it’s a tandem kayak.”

  “So your girlfriend isn’t following you.” She says it like a statement rather than a question, and I suddenly can imagine her snuggled up in bed with Jack as they shake their heads, lamenting what poor taste I have in girlfriends.

  And I’d be the first to agree with them.

  “No,” I answer, making sure to keep my tone level and unemotional.

  She shakes her head, as I predicted she would. “Jack and I didn’t like her anyway.”

  They’d like her even less if they knew why she left me.

  Her back straightens and lightly tanned arms fold across her chest, looking again at the kayak. “You sure you want to part with her? She’s a beauty.”

  I’m assuming she’s talking about the kayak. Not my ex-girlfriend.

  “Yep. You’ll be doing me a favor, taking it off my hands. And I figured with the way Jack likes to kayak, maybe a tandem would be in your future sometime soon.”

  Jack doesn’t wear the SEAL Trident on his uniform like I do. But he’s stationed right now as an augmentee for one of the Teams down in Little Creek, Virginia, even though he and Maeve spend any moment they can up here in Annapolis.

  Her brow furrows in thought. “How much are you asking for it?”

  “For you? Nothing.”

  Cocking her head, her knuckles move to rest on her trim waistline, a classic Maeve pose. “No way. This is practically new, Logan.”

  Brand new, I want to say, but I won’t. “Seriously, just take it. I owe you big time for the decorating you did on my house when I got here.”

  Her eyes roll lavishly. “Oh, please. You would have been happy to live in a bachelor pad with a picture of dogs playing poker on the wall. You only let me decorate as a favor to Jack and me.”

  She’s actually right. She was starting her own interior design company and needed to build up her portfolio. And how could any man say no to a woman like Maeve? “Maybe. Just take the kayak, Maeve. Consider it a wedding gift.”

  “You already gave us a wedding gift.”

  “A second wedding gift then. You can send me photos of all the places you go in it and make me cry while I’m landlocked in the Midwest.”

  Wincing from the image she likely had of me in the middle of a cornfield, she touches my arm sympathetically—a friendly gesture that would have stirred me up a while back. But now I only see her as the big sister I always wished I had.

  “You’re sure you belong in Ohio? I thought you’d head back to San Diego when you were done here.”

  Uncomfortable suddenly, I stoop to lay the paddle on the inside of the vessel as my heart rate climbs. “My family needs me now. You know the deal.”

  It has nothing to do with the way my hands are suddenly clammy, and I feel like I’m suffocating.

  “Well, don’t dig those roots too deep, okay? We’re still hoping you’ll come back to us,” she says, her innocent words unintentionally having a double meaning because I really do feel far away sometimes, 7,000 miles from everyone else.

  My eyes drift to the water as she climbs into the kayak to get a feel for it. The brackish water here flows into the Chesapeake Bay and then intermingles with the waters from every ocean on the planet.

  And the thought calms me. This time, just like always.

  Chapter 1

  Today

  ~ ALLIE ~

  “So… what do the rooms look like here?” I’m actually stunned that the words slipped from my mouth. They’re so unlike me that I nearly glance over my shoulder to see who said them.

  My mother would be ashamed, but my friends would probably rise to their feet applauding. It had been that long.

  It’s not that I’m a prude when it comes to sex. I can tell a room full of half-sloshed women how to effectively play with a guy’s balls while they give a blowjob. Or, without even blushing, I’m able to stoically discuss the best angle to find your G spot.

  After all, that’s what helps pay the bills.

  But I am all talk, no action. I mean, no action. Not for over a year, closing in quickly on two. And after what the last guy did to me, it’s no wonder. Especially now that my world has been expanded by sex toys and I’ve discovered that I can give myself a much better orgasm than my last boyfriend ever did.

  The man sitting across the table from me is different, though.

  I’m okay-looking and on a good day I’m a solid 7. But I’m not really the social butterfly type. If I try something like the hair-flip-while-giggling move that I see executed by other women at this bar, it usually looks like I have an acute neck spasm.

  So the guys I attract seem to fall into the average range—not the “drop your panties” kind of men like the guy I am sitting across from right now. He has Hollywood A-lister looks. Chiseled features, piercing eyes, and a wide jaw that makes him look a bit like a football star. I’m not sure why he’s even sitting here with me, and certainly clueless as to why he bought me dinner after sharing a drink at the bar. Yep, actually bought me dinner, picking up the bill without the slightest hesitation the way men do in those old movies I watch on cable at 2 a.m.

  And when he told me he was a SEAL—a freakin’ Navy SEAL?—my mouth went dry and my heart did its own version of Riverdance.

  “Nothing too special,” he answers me. “But I hear the room service is good. Maybe we could order dessert in the room?”

  The timbre of his voice is like liquid gold, warm and smooth. The kind of voice that flows through the air casting a warm sensation across my breasts.

  Dessert? The only dessert my starved libido wants to devour is him.

  “Sounds perfect.” I try to sound like the confident woman I’m not. I have never picked up a man in a bar, and certainly hadn’t intended to tonight. I’m here only because I was supposed to meet one of my sales reps, who stood me up via a text message forty minutes after we were supposed to meet.

  Logan—yes, a guy who looks like this could never have an ordinary name like Mark or John—bought me a drink while I waited. A drink that led to dinner, that led to a tantalizing conversation that made me want to lick his entire body like a lollipop.

  As I stand, he pulls my chair out for me, a gesture I’m not even sure what to do with. The last time a guy pulled a chair out for me, I was trying to sit down, which resulted in me crashing to the ground with the cackles of my third grade classmates in the background.

  This time is different. Instead of feeling like a humiliated eight-year-old, I’m feeling like the horny, sex-deprived 24-year-old I am. This man has all the moves, the moves that are making my knees give way and my lips want to meld themselves to his.

  His hand touches the small of my back as he guides me toward the mirrored elevator doors in the hotel’s lobby, sending tiny shivers down my spine. I’ve had drinks here a few times before, but I’ve never actually seen one of the hotel rooms. Here in the far, far-reaching suburbs of Dayton, Ohio, this hotel and conference center is the only option for happy hour drinks outside of meeting at Applebee’s.

  He reaches for the “up” button and I can’t help noticing his hands. I’ve always had a thing for guys’ hands. Logan’s are rough and imperfect, the way I like them, with long, sensual finge
rs. I imagine they are calloused in all the right places.

  So as one of those long, rough fingers presses the button, it is then that hesitation grips me. No, not quite hesitation exactly. More like sheer terror. I see my reflection standing next to an impossibly hot man. Me, in my sensible skirt and lightweight blouse, teetering on heels that I only wear under duress.

  This is not something I do. This guy is just passing through town. He said his home is in San Diego. He’s probably leaving tomorrow or the next day.

  This is destined to be a one-night-stand.

  My first one-night-stand… which anyone would figure out if they learned I’d had one solitary sex partner in my entire life, my college boyfriend who dumped me for being “no fun anymore” after my dad died unexpectedly.

  A one-night-stand is not in my playbook.

  But I need this. I need to feel this man’s hands on me, to remind me that sex is not intended to be a solo sport.

  We step into the elevator and I immediately wish for another drink. I am sober as a judge, so tomorrow morning when I slink out of his room to do my walk of shame, I won’t even be able to blame alcohol.

  I am ready to bolt, till he stands next to me in the otherwise empty elevator and the doors shut. His arm gently wraps around my waist, and his warmth seeps through the clinging fabric of my skirt. Lightly, his finger traces the tiny cleft in my chin as he says, “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather have dessert in the restaurant?”

  Arrgh. I curse my own transparency. Don’t you dare pull a “nice guy” routine on me, I think. I need a Bad Boy tonight. Not a nice guy.

  I know this for a fact because I hear plenty of sordid tales of nights with Bad Boys while I’m peddling my sex toys for the multi-level marketing company I work for. You have no idea how women talk at these parties as they are drinking their Chardonnays and filling out sales forms for overpriced vibrators and candy-scented lubricants. I listen to more post-coital confessions than a psychiatrist specializing in sex addicts.

  I hear these stories of hot, creative men, and wonder what the hell my selfish-in-bed last boyfriend was thinking with his usual missionary-style sex that lasted just long enough for him to get off, while I usually had to finish myself off after he dozed next to me.

  I’ve been missing out. Big time. And while I might be able to talk a good game when it comes to sex, I’m pretty much sticking to the script that the company gives me. And yes, they really do provide a script.

  So I do what any hot-blooded female other than me would do at that moment: I push him against the mirrored wall and say, “They’re not serving what I want for dessert in that restaurant.”

  Then, just as a smile touches his lips, I press my mouth against his and taste him for the first time, swirling my tongue across his teeth and entwining it with his. My hands are pressed against the mirrored wall on both sides of his head and his fingers channel into my hair. He consumes me, kissing me in a way that makes my pelvis arch against him unconsciously.

  My, my. He is a big boy, isn’t he? I can feel his erection pressing against me and it sends my entire mind into a whirlwind like one of those carnival rides that whip you around in circles upon circles until you can’t even remember your own name. He is bigger than the new UltraMag vibrator model that just came in last week complete with a clitoral stimulator, retailing at $199.95 (but $100 off if you host a party for me in the month of June).

  Spinning me 180 degrees so that my back is now against the wall, his rock-hard chest is pressed against mine, entrapping me. I feel his hands grip mine, lifting them above my head as he plunges his tongue into my mouth in a needy, suggestive rhythm. His kiss is addictive, and had he broken it off right then, I would have grabbed his face and demanded, “More, please.”

  The heat between us is searing. I can feel the steam rising from my skin. His body is hard and big and broad and makes me feel tiny.

  I like this feeling. I like it a lot.

  Releasing me from his possessive grip, his hands travel along my body, down my sides, the pads of his thumbs lightly brushing against the curves of my breasts. I ache to strip this silk blouse off me and feel him against me with nothing in between us.

  As the elevator gives a final ding, and the doors open to an empty hallway, my knees nearly buckle. He must have felt me start to go limp because, giving a quick glance over his shoulder, he lifts me off my feet and carries me out of the elevator. The last time I was lifted by a man, I was nine years old and had twisted my ankle during gymnastics class, and the guy was my dad.

  My dad, who would be shaking his head at me right now.

  Guilt threatens to extinguish the glorious feelings that are shooting off like fireworks throughout my torso. I fight my good-girl conscience, my hands moving to the sides of his face as I kiss him while he walks down the hall with me in his arms.

  He’s surprisingly adept at being able to walk down this hall, somewhat blindly with his face firmly attached to mine. It makes me wonder how many women he has carried down this hall.

  Maybe this is his shtick—picking up women in the bar downstairs and taking them to his room. Maybe I am one of a long string of women during his visit to Ohio.

  No, no, no. I’m battling my sensible, paranoid mind as it lectures me with every step he takes down the hall. I focus on the taste of him, a mix of the beer and steak that he had for dinner, as I dip my tongue further into his warm, inviting mouth. And the smell of him. I inhale it deeply—a simple, soapy scent that intoxicates me. He sets me down gently to fumble for a key card in his pocket and I glance at his door. His door. That leads to his room. That has his bed. That I am going to have crazy, mindless, hot monkey sex in.

  Holy shit.

  Trying to banish the hesitation that is building in my conscience, I nudge him against his door before he is even able to slip the card into its slot. I splay my hands against his chest, the thin fabric of his shirt warm to my touch.

  And I feel them.

  Oh, yowza, I feel them: real, honest-to-God six-pack abs that are so firm I could bounce a penny off them.

  Right there in the vacant hallway, I can’t resist pulling his shirt out just a little so I can slip my fingers underneath the bottom and touch them.

  I purr in response. I’ve never touched anything so fine in my life, except maybe that time my college roommate wore a mink coat (even though morally I find fur coats reprehensible, I’ll admit it was soft as sin).

  My hands seem to sizzle against his skin, sending a shimmering sensation from my fingertips all the way to my core.

  I touch my mouth to his and tentatively trace his perfectly formed lips with my tongue. I feel him moan, low and mildly menacing, and he drops the key card to the floor, digging his fingers into my hair again. His hands then move to my back, pulling me closer so that I can feel just how much he wants me right now. And I can’t help but wonder if he’s visually impaired because I’m not nearly as smokin’ hot as he is.

  But who cares? I’m not caring what he sees in me as he does something completely incredible with his tongue, titillating me in a way that simply cannot be replicated by any of the toys in our most expensive line.

  My body is thrumming in a rhythm that seems almost primal in reaction, and I’m wondering what other parts of me he could spark to life with that gifted tongue.

  He pulls his mouth from mine and bends over to retrieve the key, just long enough for me to check out a truly remarkable ass. From behind him, I wrap my arms around to his front to feel those abs again. I wonder if he has any tattoos on that shredded bod of his. Or maybe a bad-ass body piercing, though he doesn’t quite seem the type. I wonder if he’ll let me trace my tongue along the hills and valleys of those sculpted muscles.

  I wonder… if I can do that without having to take off my own clothes in the process.

  Oh, no, I suddenly think as he slips in the key and the tiny green light on the door lights up. I am going to have to get naked with this man.

  Me, in my sensible undie
s and legs that I skipped shaving this morning.

  Do I have any stubble in my armpits? That would really suck.

  Maybe he’s the type that likes it with the lights off?

  Truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him. And I sure don’t know how men like to fuck women they pick up in bars. Because technically, this will be just a fuck.

  I’ve never had just-a-fuck in my life.

  Just as he starts to nudge the door open, I panic. I panic like any God-fearing cafeteria-Catholic would panic in this situation. This is out of my realm. Beyond my comfort zone. This is a huge mistake.

  “Oh, God.” I say it out loud, though I hadn’t meant to.

  He turns to look at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “I—”

  I’ve had one sex partner in my life. The only sex I’ve had in a hotel room was at a sex toy conference and I was very much alone at the time.

  And I’m a spineless scaredy-cat.

  But rather than saying any of these truths I do what any spineless scaredy-cat like me would do. I lie. “I left my phone downstairs.”

  “Want me to go get it? You can make yourself at home in the room.”

  “No. It’ll just take a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” he says, a smile in his eyes. “While I wait, I’ll order dessert.” He presses his lips to mine again and I almost have to swallow the cry that is singeing my throat. I memorize the feel of his brief kiss, the way his hard body melds so nicely with mine, the feel of his muscles as they bunch when he moves his hand to my face in a light caress.

  I memorize it, because I know I’ll never have it again. Guys that look like this only come along once in a lifetime.

  And here I am, too chicken-shit to take advantage.

  As I step into the elevator, I lean my head against the mirrored wall, noticing the smudge marks from when I had plastered my hands at either side of his head, kissing him.

  On a whim, I snap a picture of the smudge with my phone. I know it’s weird. But it’s the only proof I’ll have that for five precious minutes out of my life, I had thrown caution to the wind.