Alpha & Omega

by K. Webster

  “Tell me about what you want, Just Al.”

  Just Al.

  “You’re the artist. I’ll love whatever you create.”

  That’s the truth. Somehow, I trust my words.

  “Wow. You don’t know me at all. Yet somehow, you’re willing to let me have creative reign. Are you sure about that, big boy?”

  Big boy. Not Al. Or Just fucking Al. Big boy. My cock is painfully pressing against the bed.

  “I trust you. Don’t break my trust.”

  She doesn’t agree or disagree before she begins her painful artwork. The first pinch is the worst, but soon, I’m able to dull it away by losing myself to the recesses of my mind. Then I close my eyes and disappear.

  “Please quit.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “What if you don’t come back?”

  “I will come back.”

  “All done, Just Al,” Lark whispers as she wipes my back with something wet.

  How long have I been lost in my head?

  I suppress a groan when she climbs off me, and with it, she takes her heat. I’m almost tempted to have her tattoo my chest so she can straddle me for several more hours.

  “It looks okay,” she lies.

  Our first meeting may have just been last night, but I can read her easily already. Right now, the slightly playful tone in her voice tells me that she’s lying. In this instance, I’m glad.

  “Lying is a sin,” I remind her with a smile. Then I climb off the bed and stretch my legs.

  As I adjust to standing after hours on the chair, I scan her face as she regards me. The bags under her eyes are darker than they were last night. She’s tired.

  “Come on. Let’s get you home,” I tell her firmly.

  Hurt flashes across her features before she finally steels her face into a hard look. “The mirror is over there.”

  I squash a groan in my throat and walk over to it. Turning my back to it, I glance over at her. The expression on her face is hopeful. She wants me to love this tattoo. When her green eyes meet mine, I wink at her and smile, assuring her that I’ll like it.

  Peering over my shoulder, I finally get a glimpse. I feel like puking—not from the art but from the damn reflection. The wings in their delicate and detailed beauty are more than I could ever have imagined. I don’t like them at all.

  I fucking love them.

  The mirror has its wicked ways with me, and then I stumble away from it, toward the widening eyes of Lark.

  “I’m going to be sick,” I grunt and burst past her.

  The room is a blur all the way into the bathroom, where I lose the three Hot Pockets I ate before Lark came out of her apartment. Mirrors are the devil.

  Once I’m sure I’ve emptied my stomach, I rush over to the sink and rinse my mouth, careful to avoid my reflection. I won’t be able to see the wings often, but I’ll always know they are there. Somehow, the art she just permanently painted on my back gives me strength.

  Lark gave me my wings.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, I see her cleaning her tools, her back to me. Her ass is cute in her short, denim shorts, and my dick hardens again as I think about how she was straddling me for hours.

  Too bad we weren’t in her bed for that.

  My thoughts seize me and guilt consumes me. Lark is a temptation, and I can’t succumb to her. She’s my job.

  She drops a piece of metal she was messing with and it clatters to the floor. Spinning to face me, she bends over to retrieve it.

  Six.

  Beautiful.

  Stars.

  Her full breasts should be the focal point right about now. I should, because I’m a fucking man, be focusing on the erect, pink nipples that stand up on full display as her chest is fully bared to me. But I can’t take my eyes off her tattoos.

  A pain slices me so deep in my chest that I nearly collapse. That mirror will be the death of me. Although, a part of me knows it isn’t residual effects from the mirror—it’s entirely something else.

  Green eyes fly to mine and discover that they’re glued to her chest. With a quick swoop, she picks the metal up and stands. Once she’s no longer revealing her pert tits to me, the room stops spinning.

  “Peep shows are extra, Al.” She smirks and then turns her back to me.

  My eyes skitter across every colored piece of her bare skin that is exposed to me. This woman is too much.

  “Here, you need to let me protect your tattoo.” With a little twirl of her finger, she motions for me to turn around. As I do as I’m told, I hear her tear a piece of plastic wrap from a roll and gently spread it across my back. Her fingertips skitter over my skin as she uses pieces of tape to hold it in place. The way she touches my flesh, so delicately and carefully, makes me wonder how it would feel for her to touch me everywhere. I bet it would feel like Heaven.

  “All done, big boy.”

  Pushing those treacherous thoughts from my head, I grab my shirt and carefully pull it on over my body. “Hurry up. I’ll walk you home.”

  As we walk arm in arm up the stairs to our floor, I sense that something is off and I’m immediately on guard. Loud music is blasting from an open door—Pedro’s open door.

  “Stay behind me,” I order, and thankfully, she listens.

  Slowly, I tiptoe over to the door and peek inside. What I see makes my heart sink, but I know he’s only doing his job. Pedro is lying back, smoking a joint while he hungrily watches the scene in front of him. Omega is on the couch with his legs spread apart. None other than Lovenia is straddling him and teasing him with kisses. His hands are firmly planted on her barely-covered-by-her-tight-dress ass.

  The Leviathan is here to fuck shit up. As if shit isn’t already hard enough. I hope to God this is all part of Omega’s game—to become buddies with his assignment to keep an eye on him.

  A lust-filled moan escapes Lovenia, and Pedro sits up with his elbows on his knees. Omega urges the scantily clad Lovenia to ride his cock harder. The sounds coming from both of them hardly seem like an act. Omega needs to keep his head on straight around that woman.

  I turn toward Lark and take hold of her hand. “Come on,” I whisper and hurry her past the open door, toward her apartment.

  “Can I come inside?” I ask as she begins pulling her keys out.

  Her green eyes find mine and she searches for something. For what, I don’t know.

  “For a minute, and then go home,” she finally concedes as she unlocks and pushes her door open. She dumps her purse on the entryway table and then makes a beeline for the kitchen. “Want a drink?” Her question comes from the other room.

  Even though I’ve been here a couple of times, I’ve never took the time to look around. My eyes take the time to inspect her space. Ratty-ass couch. Crummy furniture. No pictures on the wall. No décor. Nothing. Who is Lark Miller?

  “Sure,” I answer absentmindedly as I lock the door behind me.

  “Good. I didn’t really want to drink alone,” she calls out.

  I tear my gaze from the living room and stalk over to the kitchen. Her cute ass wiggles as she reaches as high as she can from her knees on the countertop for something on the top shelf of the cabinet. The baggy, black shirt she’s wearing rides up and I see a flash of the colored skin on her back. My fingers twitch to touch her there.

  Lark is a temptation. She is a job.

  Finally, her hands find purchase on what she was looking for. She pulls a giant bottle of vodka down and hands it to me. Then she snags a shot glass before scrambling out of the cabinet and sitting her ass on my now favorite piece of kitchen counter real estate. Oh, to be that countertop . . .

  “I normally save this for the eighteenth of every month, but today calls for a special occasion,” she practically spits out.

  The eighteenth. Noted. Fourteen days away.

  She extends a long, slender hand toward me, and for a moment, I’m tempted to turn it over and kiss the top of it. But I quickly realize she wants the liquor. Du
mbly, I hand it to her and watch her make quick work of unscrewing the cap and filling the glass.

  “Cheers to fucking nothing,” she laughs bitterly before downing the vodka.

  I don’t understand her sudden mood change, but it unnerves me. She fills the glass again, yet now, she hands it to me. Then her green eyes find mine and a flash of hate flickers in them. I don’t like the look at all and am confused by it.

  “What’s wrong, Lark?” I ask with the glass poised at my lips.

  Emerald eyes glisten but then fall to my lips at the glass. This time, they shine with an emotion I like. An emotion that has my cock once again thickening in my jeans.

  “What’s right, Al?”

  An enigma wrapped in a puzzle box. Her words always have double meanings, and I intend to find out what she means.

  I toss the shot back and hand the glass to her. The vodka burns a trail down my throat right into my belly. I shouldn’t be drinking while on the job, but it’s keeping me here with her, so I do it anyway.

  “Al, I did a good job.”

  I’m puzzled by her words.

  She gulps down another shot and points a quivering finger at me. “Take off your shirt.”

  Frowning at her, I shake my head. “I’m not going to have sex with you, Lark.”

  Her eyes widen in shock before she quickly pins me with a nasty glare. “I don’t have sex with people named Al. Now take off your shirt and let me see your back, asshole.”

  Oh.

  Shit.

  I meet her furious gaze and, without hesitation, peel my T-shirt from my body. Her eyes briefly fall to my chest before she motions for me to turn around.

  “I did a good job,” she whispers again.

  When her delicate fingers dust across my skin, I wince. Her touch is like fire on my raw skin. And even though it hurts like a bitch, I don’t want her to stop.

  She’s my temptation.

  My dick agrees and leaps to life.

  Then her hand suddenly pulls away from me. I look over my shoulder to see if she’s done admiring her handiwork and see her removing her top.

  Fuck.

  I spin around so fast that I nearly topple over. With her tank gone, her long, dark hair hangs in front of her luscious tits. They’re fucking amazing, and I’ve seen a lot of tits.

  “Lark.” All I can manage to stammer out is her goddamned name.

  One of her mahogany eyebrows rises as she meets my gaze. My eyes are snared in this bullshit trap she’s pulling.

  “Touch me, Just Al.”

  Someone growls like a fierce lion, and I’m about to clobber said person until I realize that it was me. The possessive, hungry animalistic sound that echoed in the small kitchen belonged to me. Exhaling with a sharp breath, I step forward and tentatively cup one of her breasts. My thumb grazes across her nipple.

  “More,” she begs in a quiet voice.

  I press my dick against the counter and give her nipple a pinch. With my other hand, I snake it around her waist and pull her to me. She smells like fucking heaven.

  I dip my head down against her neck until my lips connect with her skin. Her long, thin fingers slide into my hair and she grips me tight. With a dart of my tongue, I sample her flesh. When I suck her into my mouth, she moans so loudly—and with so much want—that I nearly push her back and fuck her into oblivion.

  Once I start with this woman, I’ll never be able to stop.

  “Why don’t you like my wings?” she murmurs, out of the blue.

  Her question confuses me, and I unwillingly tear my lips from her skin so that I can look at her. Our noses are so close, and my thumb doesn’t stop its reverent rubbing across her nipple.

  “Wings?” I question. She doesn’t have wings.

  “Al, you’re wacky. I’m talking about the tattoo.” Hurt once again morphs her features.

  “Lark, it’s amazing. Those wings are beautiful, just like I knew they would be.”

  She blinks away a tear. “Then why did you throw up? Why have you not mentioned one word about it?”

  Does Lark Miller really care what I think?

  “I hate mirrors, but the glimpse that I did see was perfect.” I grin and look deep into her eyes.

  She smiles back and flutters her eyes closed when my fingers skitter between her breasts to skim over the tattoos there.

  “You’re a star, Lar,” I tell her playfully.

  Her hand comes out of nowhere and slaps me so hard on my cheek that I wonder if I’ll bruise.

  “Get out of my apartment!” she screams before pushing me forcefully away from her.

  I stumble back and look at the wild woman before me. She’s losing her marbles right in front of me. When I don’t move, she slings the shot glass at me, and it hits me in the chest.

  “What the hell, woman?” I roar back, my chest now smarting in pain.

  Her green eyes are liquid crazy. She picks up the vodka bottle and lobs it with all her might in my direction. This I do dodge, but I still get soaked by the liquor. My back screams in pain when some dribbles down, but I don’t move.

  “Please leave,” she sobs, her anger quickly subsiding.

  I don’t know what’s going on with her, but I sure as shit am not leaving her now.

  She slides off the cabinet and stumbles forward. Lightning quick, I envelop her in my arms. Then I brace myself for her to scratch me, bite me, or beat the shit out of me. Instead, she presses her soft breasts against my wet, bare chest and cries.

  And cries.

  Several minutes in of holding her up while she loses herself to hysterics, I wonder what is really going on with her. Her file claims that she’s awful. My experience with her tells me that she’s sad.

  “Come on, baby. I’m putting you in bed,” I murmur into her hair before scooping her into my arms.

  Her tears have become sniffles and hiccups. Talking long strides, I make my way into her bedroom. I sit her on the edge of the bed and grab an old T-shirt that sits on the comforter. With no complaint, she lets me push it over her head, and I help her arms through the holes.

  “Stand up,” I instruct.

  Shakily, she does as she was told, and I fumble with the button on her jean shorts. Eventually, my wobbly fingers manage to get the zipper down. I don’t know if the quivering in my hands is from the alcohol or the niggling worry that has seeped into my bones, but either way, I don’t feel so hot. Sliding my thumbs into the tops, I push them down but leave her panties on. The shorts drop to her ankles, and she steps out of them.

  I pull the covers on her bed back and help her in. While she gets settled, I move a box from her bed over to her dresser and kick my shoes off.

  “What are you doing?” She wants to be combative, I can tell, but the fight in her is gone.

  “I’m taking care of you, just like I promised.”

  A big sigh comes from the bed as she rolls over onto her side. I take my jeans off before climbing into the bed beside her. Once settled next to her, I haul her warm body into the curve of mine.

  More sobs.

  My body feels beat and I need to rest. But I need to make sure she’s okay. I stroke her belly through her T-shirt in what I hope is a soothing manner. My mind briefly envisions this woman nestled into me, wearing a simple, white gown and a sheer veil that hides her perfection from me.

  Minders don’t get married.

  Seraph Guardians don’t get married.

  Assignments destined for Hell don’t get married.

  So push the goddamned beautiful vision right from your head, Alpha.

  SOMETIMES, WORDS CAN hurt worse than any physical infliction. Sometimes, words can be a reminder—a painful one at that. And sometimes, words can rip the scab off a god-awful wound that won’t stop fucking bleeding.

  Words suck.

  As day seeps into my bedroom, I’m awoken with a blasting headache and the heat of someone suffocating me.

  “I sleep alone.”

  “You don’t now.”

 
“You’re impossible.”

  “You love me.”

  Grabbing hold of the heavy arm, I heave it away from me. Soft snores stop as I sit up in bed. My gaze drifts down to the T-shirt I’m wearing, and I gasp in horror. I’d hoped it was a dream. It was not.

  With a huff, I yank the shirt off and fold it with an obsessive neatness that I’ve perfected over the years. Ignoring the stare from the one on my bed, I pad over to the box and slide the shirt in. I don’t care that my body is nearly naked in front of him. I don’t care that he sees me trying in a desperate attempt to hide my past. His eyes follow me from the dresser with my box to my closet. I’m climbing up onto the ottoman to put the box away when I hear the springs of my bed. A cringe shudders through me when I hear heavy footsteps approach me.

  The box nearly crashes to the floor when hot hands grasp my hips to hold me steady. This fucking man is so goddamned obsessed with my safety. I huff as I push the box onto the shelf.

  “I’m not a china doll,” I grumble and turn in his grip.

  His perfect hair is a mess, and he looks so delicious. The taut muscles in his chest are worthy of my tongue, and I lick my lips. Black eyes study me with an expression I don’t comprehend, but for some reason, I like it.

  As I step off the ottoman, he refuses to let me go. I get lost in his scent and glance down to escape his hungry gaze. Big mistake. His thick cock is standing proudly in its morning glory, straining to rip through the black fabric of his boxers.

  I want to touch it.

  I hate myself.

  Wrenching away, I stalk toward the bathroom. He follows me but doesn’t go into the bathroom with me—just remains outside the door.

  “Go home, Al.”

  He doesn’t respond as I shed my panties and turn the shower on. Wondering if he’s watching, my eyes flit over to the doorway, where he is looking every bit a Greek god with his sculpted body and otherworldly sexiness. His arms are folded across his chest, and he’s leaning on the side of his shoulder in the doorjamb, watching me, his coal eyes following my every move. A thrill courses through me, and I instantly reject it.

  “Lark,” he growls, “tell me about you. I need to know about the real you.”

  I am the me I always was. I am the me who didn’t exist for a short time all those years ago. This is the only me he’ll get.