Red Hot Alphas: 11 Novels of Sexy, Bad Boy, Alpha Males (Red Hot Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  My eyes in hers, I pull myself out and buck back in, her eyes remain locked on mine while her head tilts backward, her entire body arching against me. Her breath is shallow and her eyes watery. Deep inside of her I wait. Her muscles contract around me. She’s almost where I want her. One more buck and I bring one hand in between our bodies in search of the bundle of nerves that will make her tumble. I tease it first and her needy moan fills me with joy.

  “Slider, please,” she screams and I oblige. I increase my pressure and then pump in and out of her until we both shatter. I come apart thinking this woman will be the end of me.

  Catching my breath, I rest in her, keeping most of my weight on my elbows.

  She reaches out for my face with her hands. I love it when she does that. She pulls my mouth to hers and I kiss her. She tilts her head to let me deepen the kiss. I could get lost for hours exploring her lips and her mouth.

  In hindsight I wonder why I was an idiot and waited for so long. I bury my head in her neck and breathe the lavender perfume of her soap and something that’s just her.

  I kiss her again and, when I do, I feel myself twitch. The dry spell I went through has a good side effect, unless it’s just Sally. When I tilt my hips, making her aware of my recovered hardness, she moans in my mouth.

  I lift my head and smile at her.

  “Really?” she says with a dazed voice.

  “Yeah, this is what you do to me,” I tell her.

  “I’m not sure….” Another movement of my hips interrupts her sentence and whatever she was going to say is replaced by an “Ohhhhh” of delight, her mouth forming a pretty circle.

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling kind of cocky with her reaction. “I want to hear you scream one more time before I let you sleep.”

  “One condition,” she says with a breezy voice.

  “I don’t think you’re in any position to negotiate anything,” I say to tease her, “but you can always ask since I aim to please.”

  “What’s your name?” she asks, almost shyly.

  Right, she only knows me as Slider.

  “Paul,” I tell her, “Paul Luck.”

  “Hello, Mister Luck,” she says before I lunge into her again.

  “What’s funny?” I ask, watching a smile spread on her lips.

  “Well your name makes me want to say silly things,” I can see she has a hard time remaining serious. Having my woman laugh while I’m making love to her is not making me happy.

  “Like what?” I ask, knowing that I shouldn’t but unable to help myself.

  She blushes and says, “Like, today was the first day I enjoyed being down on my Luck…”

  Now I’m laughing because she is funny.

  I shake my head and tell her, “As Luck would have it I think I’ve heard them all, so come on baby, do your best.”

  “I never thought I would say this, but I would be happy to have a chance to fall on hard Luck,” she says and bursts out laughing.

  “Okay that’s enough laughter for now, you need a few strokes of Luck to get your head back in the game,” I say and show her what I mean.

  The expression on her face shifts, her smile turning from joyful laughter to lusty bliss while I pound into her with passion.

  I watch with delight as her head thrashes right and left on her pillow when she becomes undone and only then do I let myself go and roll over with her in my arms, her head resting on my shoulder.

  I kiss the top of her head and caress her back. Watching her fall asleep in my arms is one of the most delightful things I ever experienced in my life. She snuggles against me as if it was the most natural thing to do.

  I have yet to tell her that I love her. I hope that won’t freak her out.

  I pull the quilt over us and close my eyes as well.

  With her by my side I feel invincible.

  For us, I’ll find a way to dissolve the local chapter of the Knights, resign from the police and then maybe get myself hired by Ice. Yeah, I could do that, he said he needed hands at Friendly Persuasion.

  Feeling confident about the days to come, I fall asleep a happy man.

  ***

  Are you ready for a ride with the Iron Tornadoes ?

  Here’s a hot MC romance from

  USA Today bestselling author Olivia Rigal :

  Lisa Mayfield returns home from law school to a dead brother and a former lover she no longer recognizes. Brian Hatcher, her brother’s best friend, dropped out of the police academy. Instead of working with Lisa’s brother to bring down organized crime, he became a full-patched member of the Iron Tornadoes, an outlaw motorcycle club, the very one that may have caused her brother’s fall.

  Searching for answers to how her David died, Lisa can’t ignore the attraction she still feels for Brian.

  The chemistry is undeniable but is there anything left of the boy she once loved or has he turned into a stone cold biker?

  See STONE COLD at Amazon

  See new releases by Olivia Rigal at Amazon!

  About Olivia Rigal

  USA Today bestselling author Olivia Rigal was born in Manhattan and spent her youth going back and forth between the United States and France. She lived and studied in both countries. While studying she kept herself busy with a variety of jobs.

  She worked in the Clignancourt Flea Market as well as in a Parisian recording studio. In Manhattan, she was a dog groomer and then an administrative assistant in a famous English auction house.

  Olivia settled in France to raise her family. She travelled throughout South East Asia and has a special fondness for Laos and Thailand.

  In December 2012 she started publishing short novels in English as an independent. Early 2014, she began translating them into French. The stories she tells stand alone. However her characters often meet so you can run into them again in several stories.

  Hang out with Olivia Rigal at:

  Website | Mailing list | Facebook | Twitter | Google + | Ello

  Table of Contents

  Red Hot Alphas

  MICAH (DAMAGE CONTROL 1)

  by Jo Raven

  SOMEBODY TO LOVE

  (ROCK STARS IN DISGUISE: TRYP)

  by Blair Babylon

  HOT PURSUIT

  by Olivia Rigal

  MEETING MR. STEELE

  By Melanie Marchande

  MIXED UP

  by Sky Corgan

  MIDNIGHT MOONLIGHT

  by V. J. Chambers

  SORORITY SAINT

  by Daizie Draper

  CROSSED

  by Lacey Silks

  GET TO ME

  by Holly Hood

  ELECTRIC BLUE BUTTERFLIES

  by Irma Geddon

  SWEETEST TEMPTATIONS

  by J.C. Valentine

  Disclaimers and Copyright Notices

  Want to know when the next Red Hot Boxed Set comes out?

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  MEETING MR. STEELE

  By Melanie Marchande

  MEETING MR. STEELE

  By Melanie Marchande

  MEETING MR. STEELE © Melanie Marchande 2014

  ***

  For Amy Valenti

  ***

  Author's Note: While this cheeky little tale is obviously inspired by my experiences in the indie publishing world, all of the characters featured are 100% fictional, and are not based on any real authors. To my knowledge, there is not a sassy, curvy broad somewhere out there pretending to be a male Dom - although if there is, I certainly want to meet her!

  Landon Steele is the perfect man.

  He's arrogant, he's brash, he's domineering - and he's oh so sexy. He knows exactly what you want. What you need. There just one problem: he's not real.

  His readers don't know that. Or, to be more specific, my readers don't know that. Yeah, yeah yeah. My name's Kimberly Tuggey, and I'm a big fat fraud.

  Let me explain. Contrary to what you'd expect, I sold absolutely no romance novels writing as a wo
man. But when I started pretending I was a hot, rich, dominant alpha male, suddenly the accolades came pouring in. And the money. And the fans. But now, the media opportunities are coming too. I can't keep passing them up forever; they'll be amazing for building my brand. But I don't think any of the TV audience at home is going to believe that a plump, mousy-haired introvert who looks like a suburban housewife is really Landon Steele.

  So naturally, I hire a struggling actor to play the part. He's a little rough around the edges, but he's got the abs, the tattoos, and that V-shaped muscle pointing right under his waistband. You know, the one that makes girls stupid.

  Except me, right? I'm way too smart for that. There's no way I'd get involved with the fake Landon Steele. Not that he'd be interested, anyway.

  Unless, of course, I'm wrong...

  CHAPTER ONE

  There's that moment. That one space in time, that one breath, when it finally hits you that something has totally and completely spun out of control. That it's got a life of its own now. You're no longer in the driver's seat. Things have officially progressed from "complicated" to "holy shit."

  For me, it was the tenth message asking to see my dick.

  I don't know why numbers one through nine just rolled off my back, but there's something about that last message - from someone called "Crystal Rae" whose profile photo features her two pet dogs - that really, really hits it home for me.

  I have to put a stop to this.

  For one thing, it wouldn't be professional. I'm a writer, for God's sake. Not a porn star. For another, it's just asking for trouble - no matter what you do for a living.

  And most importantly, I don't have a dick.

  You might say that I brought this on myself, by pretending to be a guy on the internet. I never should have opened that Pandora's box. The world wide web is full of predators, and I should have been more careful. Never should have put myself out there.

  I had no idea how bad it was going to be.

  Because I'm more than a little bit of an idiot - that should already be obvious at this point, but for those following along at home, we'll be returning to this theme later - I decide to do something about it.

  I go to my newsfeed, and I post a status update.

  I just want to say that I've gotten a few...very intimate requests lately in my inbox. I can't respond to each one individually, so I'll just make a quick statement: Calm down, ladies. I'm an old-fashioned guy - where I come from, it's just not classy to take pictures of your junk. You'll just have to stick to your imaginations. ;)

  A few minutes later, I look at my inbox, and I realize I've made a terrible mistake.

  ***

  The whole thing started out of frustration. Isn't that always the way? I've heard the potato chip was invented because some picky customer kept asking for thinner and thinner potatoes, and finally, the angry and exasperated chef cut them way too thin on purpose. Now, we all eat our egg salad sandwiches with a side of FUCK YOU, BUDDY.

  So, let's rewind.

  I've always wanted to be a writer. As a kid, I write and illustrate countless notebooks full of the expanded adventures of The Berenstain Bears. I act out elaborate Shakespearean tales of intrigue with my Barbie dolls. Once I'm old enough to string more than a few sentences together, I start to write.

  Even though I love fantasy, I quickly realize that I lack the attention span to develop five new languages and a world map before I even start writing any of the good stuff. I begin to scale it down, gravitating towards simple, character-driven stories. I still hope that someday I'll write the next Lord of the Rings, but for the time being, I'm content to keep it on a small scale.

  After college, I end up in a long string of dead-end jobs, because it turns out that whole "just get a degree and you'll be employable" thing is a big fat lie. I temp for a while, until the glow of fluorescent lights and a never-ending saga of thermostat battles and passive aggressive notes about who should be refilling the coffee pot make me wonder if food service could possibly be worse.

  It's worse.

  One night, as I'm putting up my aching feet and trying to forget about the verbal abuse from customers who can't understand that I didn't make their food, I decide I've had enough.

  Linda, one of my coworkers, always has a book in her hand when she's on break. Stuff like The Oil Baron's Virgin Secretary Bride's Secret Baby. I've always known those books are popular, but something about this particular night sparks that million dollar question.

  Why couldn't I write these?

  ***

  So that's how Landon Steele, real-life Dominant and male romance author, was born.

  All right, so you're wondering why the hell I need to pretend to be a dude in order to write romance. Fair enough. I still wonder the same thing. I'll be getting to that in a second.

  Back to the present day.

  I'm still drowning in dick pic requests. Thank God I have chat turned off. Although, thanks to the ever-eroding sense of privacy on the internet, if I accidentally click on someone's message, they'll know. I'm very, very careful when I open up a new message box to my one confidant in this whole mess.

  Amy is one of the five people who actually read - and loved - my very first books. The ones I wrote as myself, before I realized that the secret to my success was pretending to be someone entirely different. I almost stopped answering her emails when I realized I couldn't possibly keep writing in that vein, because I was scared of disappointing the only fan I had. Luckily, she took it well. And I even told her (after a few glasses of wine) about my future plans. She thought it was hilariously brilliant, and decided to follow me on my twisted path, supporting me however she could, while holding a bucket of popcorn in the other hand, just in case the whole thing imploded.

  I type:

  Lord deliver me from the desperate housewives

  She responds immediately:

  I was about to ask you, what the HELL are you thinking? Now you talked about it, they're never gonna stop asking

  I sigh. She's right. I should never do anything in this business without asking her first. I might've done my research, but Amy's got her finger on the pulse like no one else.

  I know that these messages are coming from a loud minority in my group of readers. Most of them have some sense of boundaries, and the vast majority show me nothing but love and support without asking for anything in return. Except for my next book, of course. I just didn't count on this particular level of celebrity. It happened quickly, but I didn't notice at first - like a frog in cold water when you turn up the heat.

  At first, every single post I made was getting tons of attention. Then, I started browsing groups and noticing that my name and my book titles were dropped frequently whenever someone asked for recommendations. It got to the point where I hardly saw a "what should I read next?" post where I wasn't featured four or five times.

  Now, things are really out of control. And it's about to get worse.

  The ding of an incoming email catches my attention. I'm giggling back and forth with Amy about various schemes for stealing dick pics from random pervs on Craigslist and passing them off as my own, so I miss the little notification banner that tells me who it's from. Could be stupid and boring, could be amazing. Could be someone complaining about typos and suggesting that I have my books edited, as if that's an entirely new concept to me. I have to grit my teeth to resist the urge to send them a copy of my editor's last invoice, which at this point costs more than all my utility bills combined. I really need to find a way to be less wordy.

  Mr. Steele,

  My name is Steve, and I'm a production assistant from the show Morning Brew. We're wondering if you would be interested in a short interview segment. We're going to be talking about the ongoing phenomenon of "mommy porn" books and we think you have an interesting twist on the whole "housewife becomes a steamy romance author" narrative. Obviously, this will be a soft human-interest type story. You'd have the opportunity to meet and greet with audience members
after the show, maybe sign some books.

  If you'd like to talk about scheduling, please send me the best phone number to reach you at.

  Thanks,

  Steve Kirkland

  Holy shit. One of the biggest network TV morning shows in the country just shot me a casual email, like it was nothing. Assuming, of course, that this isn't all some elaborate prank. I immediately forward it to Amy, and send her a quick message.

  holy shit, check your email

  It has to be fake, right? Right? Landon Steele's email address is publicly available all over the damn place, partially because of this very reason. But now that it might actually be happening, I'm finding it impossible to believe.

  Amy finally answers:

  holy shit