A Very Alpha Christmas Page 18

“And you always get what you want because you’re on the nice list, right?”

  “Yes, but tonight I think I want to be naughty.”

  He groaned, ripped off his clothes, and climbed over her. He kissed her long and hard then grabbed a condom from her nightstand. He pushed into her and she opened so nicely for him. They held each other tight, like their lives depended on it as they came to orgasm, and once finished, he collapsed on top of her. She gave a contented sigh and he pulled her in tight. He held her for a long time, until her breathing changed.

  As he listened to her soft sleeping sounds, he couldn’t help but think sex was perfect with her. Heck, everything was perfect with her. Going over the events of the night, he pushed the covers off and stepped into the other room. The dogs looked at him, then rolled back over in front of the fire. He grabbed her laptop and booted it up. As it loaded, he went to work on making a pot of coffee because it was going to be a hell of a long night.

  8

  A streak of morning sunshine cut through the crack in her curtains and slanted against the wall, pulling Josie awake. She stretched and she reached for Carter only to find his side of the bed cold, too cold. She jackknifed up.

  The smell of coffee and fresh burning wood in the hearth reached her nostrils. He’s still here! She grabbed the top bed sheet, wrapped it around herself, and walked into the other room to find Carter at her computer.

  She came up behind him and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Hey,” he said, turning to face her, and the second she looked at him, her heart missed a beat. As his eyes moved over her face, she knew there was a new intimacy between them, one that went way beyond the physical. She also knew she’d gotten in over her head with him. He was leaving in a few short hours, and even though she wanted to ask him to stay, she knew it had to come from him. It had to be his decision.

  “I’ll be right back.” She made a move to turn, to take care of her dogs, but Carter’s hand on her wrist stopped her.

  “I took care of them already.”

  “Oh,” she said. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “I’m not. I didn’t go to bed yet.”

  She took in the dark circles under his eyes. “Why? What’s going on?”

  His breath came shallow and his voice seemed a bit shaky when he said, “You shared your family with me for Christmas, and I wanted to give you all something back.” When she gave him a confused look, Carter spun the computer around so she could see it. As she leaned in to read, he explained, “I found the loop hole.”

  She quickly scanned the page. “Oh, my, God. The church is a heritage property.” She jumped from her chair, and her bed sheet fell to the floor as she hugged him. “That means it can’t be torn down!”

  “Which means my client will no longer want it.”

  She clapped her hands. “You saved the church. I can’t believe it. This is the best Christmas present ever. I need to call dad.”

  She made a move to go, but once again, Carter gripped her wrist to stop her. “I think you should wait.”

  “Wait? Why?”

  “Something’s come up.”

  “What?” She looked at the computer again then back at him.

  “Me,” he said, giving her a mischievous grin. God, she really did love this playful Carter.

  “Oh,” she said, taking note of the heat in his eyes as his gaze dropped to her breasts.

  His mouth twitched. “That’s what happens when you jump up and down naked, Josie.”

  Standing before him completely bare, she asked, “Is there something you want to ask me, Carter?”

  Instead of answering, Carter stood and scooped her up. As he carried her back to the bedroom, she thought about the changes in him in such a short time. Being here had done something to him, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d board that plane and never look back, or if he’d finally open his mouth and ask her for what he wanted—needed.

  9

  Carter adjusted his briefcase in his hand and walked through the relatively quiet airport, Josie keeping pace beside him. As they approached the billboard, he scanned it to find out his flight was still on.

  He looked at Josie. “Doesn’t seem like anything is keeping me here anymore.”

  She blinked up at him, and his heart missed a beat as he thought about how hard he’d fallen for her, how much he wanted her in his life. After spending the holidays with her and her family, he was second-guessing everything he’d worked so hard for and reevaluating the direction of his life. Truthfully, he was hoping she’d ask him to stay, considering she was a girl who always asked for what she wanted. A knot tightened his stomach. Maybe she was ready for this to be over. Maybe it was only a Christmas fling for her. He supposed there was only one way for him to find out if there could be more between them. And that was to ask.

  “Nope, looks like you’re free to go,” she said.

  He raked his hands though his hair, his throat clenching hard. “Josie?”

  “Yeah?”

  He looked at the ticket counter, then back at her. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, knowing if he didn’t do this, he would regret it for the rest of his lonely, unhappy life. Yeah, Josie was right about one thing. It wasn’t natural for any animal to be alone. No matter how happy he’d thought he was, he really was miserable.

  “I…I don’t want to go,” he said.

  A smile touched her mouth. “No?”

  “There’s nothing back there for me. Not really.”

  “And there is something for you here in Deerfield?”

  “I…I…”

  She put her hand on his face and he closed his over it. “What is it?”

  “I want to stay.” He laughed. “Believe it or not, I kind of like it here.”

  “Even with all the reminders of Christmas?”

  “Especially because of them. I kind of like the new memories we made.”

  “But you said you didn’t want to feel.”

  He grinned. “I’ve discovered there are some things I really like feeling.”

  She returned his grin. “Yeah, there are some things I like you feeling, too.”

  He shrugged and looked around. “I could hang my sign here. I think your father was right. This town needs a good lawyer—on its side. Someone to help protect the town from vultures.”

  She laughed. “I think you’re right.”

  “Josie.”

  Yeah?”

  “If I stay, this thing between us…” He let his voice fall off.

  She went still. Too still. And he worried that she might not want more. “Are you trying to ask me something, Carter?”

  He took a deep breath and said, “Yes.”

  “Okay. Then ask.”

  After a long pause, he said, “If I stay, will you go out with me?”

  “Of course.” She laughed and hugged him. “All you had to do was ask, Carter. It’s all you ever had to do.”

  “Okay then,” he said, picking her up. She yelped and wrapped her arms around him. Everyone turned to look, but he didn’t care. “Since I’m asking, can I take you home right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “When we get there, can I take all your clothes off?”

  “For sure.”

  Since he was on a roll, he continued, “Once I have you naked, can I kiss you all over?”

  Heat moved into her eyes. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is. I also want to stay in bed with you until New Year’s. Can we do that?”

  She nodded. “New Year’s sounds about right.”

  His throat tightened and all teasing was gone from his voice when he said, “I want to be with you Josie, and only you.”

  “I want the same.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you didn’t ask.”

  He laughed out loud, then pressed his lips to hers. “What am I going to do with you
?”

  “Um, I believe you just laid out the perfect plan.”

  “Oh right.” He grinned and hugged her tighter. “Let’s get out of here then.”

  He carried her outside and set her down when they reached her SUV in the parking lot. Off in the distance, he heard a howl and turned toward the sound. His gaze met with a set of blue eyes against a white backdrop.

  My white wolf.

  “I guess it’s true,” he said. He looked at Josie, then back to the spot where the wolf had stood only seconds ago. He searched the area, but the animal was nowhere to be found.

  “What’s true?”

  “The legend of the white wolf.” He dropped another kiss onto her mouth and said, “What I wanted was not what I needed.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “I suppose all I had to do was ask.”

  “Of course,” she said laughing. “Now about this plan of yours…”

  The End

  About Cathryn Fox

  New York Times and USA today best selling author, Cathryn is a wife, mom, sister, daughter, and friend. She loves dogs, sunny weather, anything chocolate (she never says no to a brownie) pizza and red wine. Cathryn can never find balance in her life, is always trying to find time to go to the gym, can never keep up with emails, Facebook or Twitter and tries to write page-turning books that her readers will love. http://cathrynfox.com/

  Christmas Past, Christmas Presents by Carina Wilder

  Sometimes the best gifts are the ones that you can’t wrap.

  When aspiring journalist Kiara heads to Micah Drake’s party on a snowy night, little does she expect to spend time with the man himself. He’s a known recluse, a mysterious billionaire and the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen.

  Christmas is going to be interesting this year.

  1

  December sixteenth began like any other day in Silver Creek. That is, unless you chose to count the interminable sea of white flakes that drove relentlessly towards the ground. It seemed that the sky was attempting to coat the entirety of the small mountain town in a fluffy white comforter—the sort that could appear rather beautiful, as long as you remained indoors. Otherwise it quickly became a raging pain in the ass.

  Snow was nothing new. But this was a deluge. It was as though some powerful force were shielding Silver Creek from entry by outsiders. Any sensible human being would have remained locked in their house, drinking cocoa and watching old movies until the roads had been cleared and it was safe to venture out.

  But not Kiara. Opportunities like hers only came along once in a lifetime, and she knew it.

  And so, with her jaw set in a determined grimace, the aspiring young journalist accepted that the evening ahead would involve bundling up in an unflattering down coat that made her look as though she were composed of several layers of melting marshmallow—not to mention sporting a pair of sensible yet unfashionable boots that seemed to have been designed for a yeti rather than a human. And in the end, she could only hope that she wouldn’t wind up a frozen woman-sicle in a ditch before morning.

  It was an email from her boss’s office that had sent excited thoughts rushing through Kiara’s mind around one o’clock that afternoon. The assignment: to attend a party that evening at the home of Micah Drake, an extremely wealthy art collector who lived in Silver Creek. The job was simple; she had only to write about his house and its contents for a local architecture magazine.

  At first, her reaction had been a moment of thrilled anticipation and pride. After all, this was the first time that her boss Helen had given her a solo assignment, and for all intents and purposes it was a particularly good one. Of course, in all likelihood Helen had handed it over because Kiara was the only one who’d be foolish enough to go outside on such a day, while the more senior writers would be enjoying brandy—or possibly sex—by their cozy fireplaces at home.

  The article was to focus more on the house and its contents than on the man himself. Micah Drake’s art collection was allegedly worth millions of dollars, and Kiara’s boss had told her that many of the works were incredibly rare paintings by famous artists. This evening would be her only chance to see them, and after that it was unlikely that their host would be opening up his home again anytime soon.

  As she slouched on the sofa at four p.m., laptop perched on her thighs, Kiara read the details for what seemed like the thousandth time:

  Christmas Party at the home of M. Drake. (Yes, that M. Drake). Helen had added the last bit to ensure that Kiara understood what she was getting herself into.

  December 16th, 7:00 p.m.

  107 Stone Road, Silver Creek.

  According to legend, Micah Drake was richer than God. But it wasn’t his wealth that appealed to Kiara. After all, billionaires weren’t the reason she’d gotten into journalism. The very notion of spending time talking to a person who cared more for money than for humans was repugnant to her. On the other hand, this article could be a springboard to other things, a gold star on her résumé. Micah Drake, after all, was an enigma to everyone in the town of Silver Creek.

  So if she could gain some insight into who he was, she just might make a name for herself. But she’d already been warned that he never offered interviews and that he did his damnedest to remain out of the public eye. So why he was having a party was yet another mystery, unless it was to show off his impressive goods without having to actually speak about them.

  In her usual organized-to-the-point-of-neurosis manner, Kiara had jotted down her intentions for the evening in a notebook:

  Assignment: Gather enough information together to write an article about Drake’s house and art collection.

  Personal goals:

  1. Stay away from women who wear fur or talk loudly about their plastic surgeons or pool boys.

  2. Wear something cheap (as if you have anything expensive to put on your body). But convince the world that you’re successful by sheer force of will.

  3. Drink all the champagne. And then find the liquor cabinet.

  4. Attempt to spot to the house’s owner, who is apparently reclusive and odd. Don’t get too close, though. He’s probably a psychopath who locks young women in the wine cellar for sustained periods and forces them to dust his booze collection while dressed in skimpy French maids’ uniforms.

  Note: He could also be a vampire.

  It seemed that a million articles had been written about the evening’s host, and yet no one had a clue what his face looked like, how old he was or whether he was single, married, widowed, divorced or simply a fabrication of some corporation’s brilliant marketing campaign. The problem was that no one could figure out what corporation he ran, either. And therein lay the root of Kiara’s curiosity.

  In truth, even though Micah Drake was likely the sort of person that she wouldn’t enjoy one bit, she was hoping very much to catch even the briefest glimpse of him. To learn a thing or two about where it all came from: his art pieces, his house, his interesting life. Well, at least she hoped it would be interesting. The truth was that she knew as little about him as anyone else did.

  “The most eligible bachelor in the universe,” he’d been called, though no one had ever managed to publish a clear photograph of him. No woman had ever claimed to date him. A friend had told Kiara that he was “incredibly handsome”—she’d allegedly seen him once in a shop in town, buying expensive skiing gear. But Kiara had heard from another source that he had a hunched back and disfiguring facial scars. And one online article had claimed that he was ninety or so years old.

  But yet another unexplained mystery was his nickname. When she’d made some quick phone calls that afternoon, Kiara had been told by multiple sources that Micah Drake was known as “The Duke.” Though no one had ever managed to explain why or how he’d earned the moniker. It was as though the public at large simply took it for granted, their minds far less inquisitive than her own.

  And so it was curiosity more than anything that propelled her in his direction. And t
he promise of anonymity. No one at the party would know who she was, after all: a young writer who’d focused her skills on fiction until falling into the world of journalism. A woman who loved, in her free time, to write unpublished fantasy novels which sat on a hard drive in her tiny home office. She created worlds filled with beastly men and the women who loved them, lands rich with witches, warlocks, ghosts. And she never showed her scribblings to a soul, fearing mockery for her illusions of lands that didn’t actually exist.

  But at least she had control over her worlds. Over Micah Drake’s, she had none. In her mind, he was an enigma wrapped in an expensive silk suit (that had no doubt been cut and hand-sewn in Italy at his own private villa). He was the newest character in an as yet unwritten book, and for that alone, she wanted quite desperately to lay her eyes on him.

  Even if he was a hunchbacked ninety-year-old.

  * * *

  And so, at six-thirty p.m. on December sixteenth, Kiara found herself shifting her feet impatiently in her small bathroom, waiting for the combination of searing heat and metal grasped in her hand to slightly curl her hair so that she would look a little less like she’d just stepped out of a damp cardboard box in an alleyway. She’d also gone to the painstaking trouble of applying “evening” makeup, an ordeal which she disdained. Her first attempt at smoky eyes ended up looking more like zombie eyes, and so she’d had to start from scratch, wishing that she were as skilled with a brush as all the painters she admired.

  All of this maintenance work made her feel more like she was hitting a job interview than a Christmas party. Not to mention that the falling snow would make quick work of any effort to make her hair and makeup look immaculate. No doubt she’d show up looking and smelling like something closer to a wet dog than a world class journalist. How the hell did posh women do this sort of thing so often?

  “Why did you choose this job?” she asked herself, her face accusing its reflection of betrayal. “Do you not know me at all?”