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

by Jo Raven

  "I'm pretty sure I never said anything of the sort!" It's tempting to just grab a pillow and whack him with it. "I mean, he understands women, but that doesn't make him a genius."

  "Just a pussy genius, then." Josh shrugs. "Okay, fine."

  This time, I really do reach for a pillow and swing it at him. It thumps harmlessly on his back, but the look on his face is priceless.

  "Did you just start a pillow fight with me?" he exclaims, jumping to his feet and arming himself. "Oh, no, that's a really bad idea. You'd better back out now. You're gonna regret this."

  I shake my head, laughing. "You're going down, Steele."

  "All right, then." His eyes sparkle. "Get ready for the fight of your life."

  We're on opposite sides of the bed, so at first, we sort of feint each other for a couple seconds. But when I make a rush around the foot of it, Josh jumps onto the mattress and gets in one good thwack. I follow him, managing to give him a face-full of pillow before we inevitably tumble into a heap and he's laughing on top of me, the warm weight of his body pinning me deliciously.

  "Looks like I win," he smirks. "That didn't take long at all."

  "That's what she - mmmphh!"

  His hand clamps over my mouth, and hell if that gesture doesn't go straight to my core. I squirm underneath him, feeling his body respond to mine. My heart's beating a million miles a minute.

  "Don't," he warns. "Or I'll be forced to prove to you how wrong you are."

  "Mmmmfff," I insist, and he finally lets me talk, although I kind of wish he wouldn't. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"

  He smiles, his hand just brushing against my arm, like he's toying with the idea of pinning my wrists down. "Dunno. Depends. Is there anything I could do to you that you wouldn't like?"

  Well, there it is. My chance to throw all my cards on the table. He knows I want him, and he's giving me the opportunity to admit it. What a gentleman.

  "I'm sure I could think of something." I'm as non-committal as I can be, with the hottest guy I've ever seen grinding his hard-on between my legs. I feel dizzy with need, but I don't even know how to articulate it.

  Josh laughs, ducking his head down like he's maybe going to kiss me, but doesn't. Considering that everything below our waists is currently mounting a valiant mission to get as close as possible, in angry defiance of our clothes, it's an absurdly coy gesture. We're practically dry-humping.

  "Can I ask you a personal question, Ms. Tuggey?" Josh murmurs.

  I nod, taking a moment to find my voice. "I think that's appropriate to the situation."

  "Are you not wearing any panties?"

  I am, in fact, not. I don't, in fact, frequently wear panties to bed. It's so commonplace for me that I actually forgot until he pointed it out, and now I've realized just exactly how filthy this is, and oh yeah, there goes the last shred of my resolve.

  "I never wear panties to bed," I purr. A slight exaggeration, but it has its intended effect. I'm drunk with anticipation, almost forgetting to worry about what's going to happen in the morning.

  At the sound of my voice, something in him snaps. His hips rock against mine, making me moan, and he growls in my ear:

  "Dirty bitch."

  It's wrong, but it's so, so right. I am a dirty bitch. Or at least, I want to be - for him. Landon Steele never talks this way, but that's fine with me. Landon Steele can fuck right off.

  I realize I'm staring at him, wide-eyed, and he probably has no idea what that means. He looks a little scared, actually, so I try to smile, to reassure him it's okay. But there's something in the back of my mind, in the pit of my stomach, some horrible uneasy feeling that I can't shake. Once again, the room starts to feel too small. There's not enough air.

  Something in Josh's eyes changes, and he's propping himself up on his elbows. No, no, no. I don't know what this is, but I don't like it. I don't want him to stop. The spell will be broken.

  "Kimberly, are you..." He stops, squeezing his eyes shut tight for a minute, then opens them again. "I'm sorry. That was too far. I'm sorry."

  "No." I'm shaking my head, quickly, even as I can feel my sanity slipping away. I don't know what it is that upset me, but it's not that I feel insulted, not in the least. "Just, I didn't expect that. It's not...I'm not upset." I'm very fucking obviously upset, I'm sure he can see the panic in my eyes, but I'm not sure how to explain it's not what he thinks it is. Because I don't actually know why I'm panicking, until suddenly I do.

  The last guy who did dirty-talk with me. I've shoved the memory down, deep, because I don't want it anymore. I don't want it ruining one of the things about sex that I enjoy the most.

  But it happened. I remember now. It's not that it went too far, exactly, it's that he meant it. He relished humiliating me a little too much, because he really believed I wasn't good enough. I know Josh isn't that guy, but I can feel the sucking panic in my chest nonetheless and there's no tamping it down now.

  God damn it. Why do I have to be so neurotic? Why can't I just forget about the past and enjoy the present?

  "What, then?" He swallows hard, pulling himself away from me. I'm starting to get tunnel vision. I can't stay here.

  "Nothing," I insist. "It's nothing. You...please, you didn't do anything wrong. I just, it's just me. I just can't. I'm sorry." I'm babbling, very aware I'm not making any sense, and I feel like the worst person in the world.

  "You can't what?" His voice sounds very far away. "Kimberly, please, tell me what's going on. I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought you wanted this. You've been giving me those eyes since we met, but I don't know what to do. You're hot and cold, every time I get too close you just run away. That's your choice, Kim, I'm not gonna get mad at you for changing your mind. But a guy can only take so much of this."

  I can't hear this right now. I want to scream at him, but I know it's not his fault. None of this is his fault. I'm just broken, defective, with a sexuality that's been trampled by too many careless men. And I feel like an oversensitive drama queen for even having that thought. Just get over yourself, for fuck's sake.

  "Kim, please." He's drawing closer, I think, and I back away like a wounded animal in spite of myself. "If you want me to leave, tell me to leave. But if it's up to me, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what I did wrong. I want to know. I don't even care if we fuck tonight. Honestly, I don't. I'll go jerk off in the shower, I'm not gonna lie about that, but I just don't want you to hate me. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can never, ever do it again."

  Even if I wasn't slipping into a panic attack, there's no way I would be able to explain it. And right now, the survival instincts are on full red alert. There is no rational part of my brain functioning anymore, nothing but primal fear thrown into overdrive, making every cell in my body scream danger.

  I must tell him to get out. I must yell it, because even through the red haze, I can see him wince and back away. I don't really remember it. I never remember much, when this stuff happens.

  There was a time when I'd call an ambulance for something like this, thinking for sure I was dying. I know better now. I'm not dying. My body just thinks I am.

  And if there were some way I could spontaneously burst into flames and disappear from this planet, well, now would be a really fucking good time.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning, I wake up to the sound of a knock on the door.

  Shit. I must have forgotten to set an alarm last night. When Josh came over, I was still debating how much time I needed to get ready before we left for the studio. I'm probably running incredibly late.

  When Josh came over.

  I can't think about that right now. No time. I jump out of bed and go yank the door open, because there's no point in false modesty when he's already seen me in this exact same outfit.

  But it's not Josh on the other side of the door. It's housekeeping.

  "Uh." I stare at the maid for a moment, trying to process my thoughts. "What time is it?"

  She frowns a lit
tle, glancing at her watch. "Nine-thirty, ma'am."

  Shit fuck.

  Shit fuck goddamn.

  The show is on. The show is on, right fucking now, and I'm missing it.

  "Thank you, please come back later!" I shout at the poor maid as I slam the door in her face. Fuck fuck shit goddamn. I'm throwing on my clothes in a more or less random order, grabbing my purse, heart pounding in my throat. The studio's about six blocks from here, and that's six Los Angeles blocks. I don't know if they're actually longer than New York City blocks, but they sure feel like it. Hoofing it is my only choice, though. Just glancing out my window as I frantically yank a brush through my hair, I can see traffic at a standstill. I could get there faster riding on a giant turtle.

  In some nice jogging shoes and a triple-reinforced sports bra, this would be no big deal. But even if it was somehow practical to change after I arrive at the studio several hours late, I don't have anything sensible to wear. The shoes are going to be killer. But what's my other option, going barefoot?

  I don't even draw any stares as I run through the hotel lobby, my heels clacking on the marble floor. There's an outside chance I'll fall and break my neck, which would probably be a mercy at this point. But I make it out to the relative safety of the sidewalk, where at least there's some built-in traction.

  I run, I jaywalk, I dart across busy intersections, I wave a lot of "sorrys" to honking drivers, but it still seems to take ages to get there. Thankfully it's what passes for "cold" here, and dry, too, so at least I'm not melting by the time I almost crash into the security guard at the studio.

  "Sorry," I pant. "I'm Landon Steele's assistant. Supposed to be here for his interview."

  The guard raises an eyebrow. "I've heard that one a couple times today already."

  "No, no!" I'm rummaging frantically in my purse. "I'm actually his assistant. For real. I've got a studio pass, I just..."

  Fuck. I have no idea where it is. Did I ever transfer it to my purse, or is it still tucked in one of my suitcases?

  Sighing, the guard looks down at me with something like pity. "Look, this is gonna be embarrassing if it turns out you're telling the truth, but what can I do? I can't just let every woman in here who claims she knows Mr. Steele. That man's got some crazy-ass stalkers."

  I look up at him, with a pleading smile. "Has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Michael Clarke Duncan?"

  "That's not going to work," he says, flatly. "And yes, yes they have. I wish they'd let the man rest in peace, to be honest with you."

  "Please, call Steve. The guy from Morning Brew. Just call him and tell him Kimberly's here. He knows me."

  "Fine." A heavy sigh. "Ma'am, if you really are her, I'm truly sorry in advance. But I'm just looking out for your boss's interests."

  "I know," I tell him, miserably. At this point, I'm sure I'm going to miss the segment. I would have been better off staying at the hotel and watching him on TV.

  "Uh huh," the guard is saying. "Uh huh." He glances at me. "Steve wants to talk to you." He hands me his phone, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  "Steve, thank God. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. Mr. Steele never leaves without me."

  Steve sounds a little confused. "Mr. Steele told us you weren't feeling well, so you wouldn't be in. I told him it was no big deal, we've got plenty of interns here to assist him with whatever he needs. You really didn't need to run over here."

  "No, it's fine. I need to be here."

  "Okay, well, give the phone back to Anthony. I'll give him the go-ahead. Sorry about all the hassle."

  "It's not your fault. Shouldn't have left my pass at the hotel."

  "Hey, it happens. See you in a minute."

  I do as he asked, and a second later, Anthony shrugs and goes to unlock the door for me. "Sorry, Ms. Tuggey."

  "It's fine, really. I know you're just doing your job. Sorry for being obnoxious."

  He laughs. "After what I've seen this morning, ma'am, you don't even rank."

  ***

  The segment's just beginning when Steve ushers me into Mr. Steele's dressing room. "You can watch it on the TV here," he says. "Or in the studio, if you're feeling up to it, but it's pretty hot and crowded in there." He shoots me a concerned look. "Especially if you're not feeling well, you should probably hang out here. You sure I can't get you anything else?"

  "No, thank you." I'm clutching the ice-cold bottle of water from the vending machine, which is all I really needed. I'm pretty sure they don't have vending machines for whatever I need to solve the rest of my problems. "I'm fine, really. Just, you know. Traveling."

  "Right." He nods. "Well, just take it easy. Call one of the PAs if you need anything."

  The Morning Brew logo pops up on the screen, and I have to swallow my heart before it leaps into my throat. This is it. This is Josh's chance to make or break my career, and I'm not even there to watch it in person. Steve's right, just not for the reason he thinks. If I walk into that studio, I'm positive I'll pass out.

  One of the aggressively cheery blonde hosts is introducing Josh. Who, by the way, looks incredible.

  Of course, that's no surprise.

  "We're here with Landon Steele, romance author."

  The crowd goes completely fucking nuts, drowning out the host's attempts to list off some of his books. My books.

  "So Mr. Steele, how did you end up writing romance novels? It's not exactly the job most people think of, when they look at a guy like you."

  He's nodding, smiling, charm basically oozing from every pore. This is probably how Dr. Frankenstein felt. "Well, you know, when you see an unfilled niche, you just have to fill it. Lots of women were writing their fantasies, so I thought I'd give them a taste of my reality."

  "Which brings me to my next question - your main character shares your name. Are these meant to be autobiographical stories?"

  He shakes his head. "Not as such, no. Some of them are based on true events in my life, but I don't claim these are memoirs. I'd say the character of Landon Steele is more or less how I think I'd behave in a given situation - but his stories are enhanced reality. Nobody wants to read a story about me going to the store to buy milk and eggs."

  The audience makes a noise, and the hosts are all laughing. "I think you might be wrong about that, actually," one of them chuckles. "I think your fans would probably read just about anything you wrote."

  I'm starting to fade out. This is almost exactly, word-for-word what we rehearsed. He's playing the part to a T, but this isn't the guy I know. This isn't the guy I like.

  Because that's the hell of the thing. I like Josh. I do. I've never had as much fun as I have, just hanging out with him, even when we're arguing. I'm thinking about living the rest of my life without ever talking to him again, and it's a horrible thought.

  But how can I possibly mend what happened last night? He's not going to understand.

  My feet and legs are aching from my little sprint. I should've known this would happen. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Once again, I'd like to emphasize that I am an idiot.

  The segment ends in thunderous applause. I wonder if he's going straight to the signing, or if he'll stop by here first. The idea of seeing him sends my heart rocketing into my throat again. I sit in nervous misery, just waiting.

  When he walks through the door, he stops, clearly more than a little shocked to see me.

  "I was going to let you sleep in," he says, eyes shifting away from mine. "You didn't have to come."

  "Well, I did." I stand up, ignoring the sharp twinge in my leg as I do. "You were great. Thank you."

  He shrugs. "What, did you think I was going to sabotage it?"

  Okay. He's bitter. It makes sense. He still doesn't know why I freaked, why I kicked him out last night, and I still don't have the words to tell him.

  I follow him over to the mirror, limping slightly. "Let me help with the signing, at least. That way I'll be on hand in case somebody asks a question you can't answe
r."

  "I'll be fine." He glances at me. "Go and rest, Kimberly. You're all flushed and you look exhausted."

  He's heading for the door, and I go after him, ignoring the cries of protest in my muscles. "Wait."

  A shock of pain overtakes my ankle, and I cry out, stumbling against him. He catches me, his face twisting with concern.

  "Hey, hey. What's wrong?"

  I suck in a breath through my teeth. "It's fine. I'm fine. Just, I should know better than to wear shoes like this."

  He shakes his head, helping me over to a chair. "Why the hell did you?"

  Oddly, I feel a small rush of triumph that he's actually looking at my shoes. Even if it's only to criticize, I'm pretty sure this is the first time he's actually taken notice of all the little things I've done to be a little more appealing.

  "Why do you think?" I snap at him, before I can stop myself.

  He's kneeling, lifting my injured foot and setting it gently on another chair. "It looks swollen," he says. "On the back of your heel. Maybe you should see somebody."

  "It's fine." Except it's not. Tears are springing to my eyes, and it's not because of my foot. "It happens sometimes. It's just tendonitis."

  "I'm getting some ice." He's standing up, but I shake my head.

  "It doesn't help," I mutter. "It's my calf muscle. When it gets too tight, the tendon..." I let out a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't have run over here. Especially in these shoes. I just wish you'd woken me up."

  "Didn't think it was really necessary for you to be here." Josh has knelt back down, and he's closing his fingers around my leg. He digs his thumbs right into where the worst knots are, and I wince, then moan softly. I can't help it.

  I let out a long breath. "You were upset."

  "That's got nothing to do with it." He's frowning a little, absorbed in his task, and the wonderful pleasure-pain of his strong fingers massaging my cramped muscles is ruining my ability to think.

  "Is it too late to just say I'm sorry?" I'm trying to look serious, but my grimace probably undermines things.