Wolf's Hunger (Alpha's Hunger Book 1) Read online

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, go ahead and ruin it. Maybe you should consider dating a nice guy for once.”

  “I’ve never gravitated towards nice.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s because you’re an idiot.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am,” I said. “Listen, I think I want another drink.” I took a final swig of my margarita and slipped off my chair, desperate to pull myself away from the conversation. “My glass is empty and I’m feeling a sudden need to stretch my legs. Want anything from the bar?”

  “A cosmopolitan, if you please,” she replied.

  “I’m on it,” I said, grabbing my clutch purse and pivoting away to head over and place our order at the bar. I needed to get away from her for a second, to take a few deep breaths so I wouldn’t start crying. It wasn’t her fault that I was alone in this world, but I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for myself.

  My life had turned into a level five shit-show, and she wouldn’t be around to hold my hand through the worst of it.

  Grasping my clutch in one hand, I raced towards the bar, my eyes scanning the room for the handsome stranger who’d provided me with such a satisfying moment of distraction earlier. But all I could see were drunken university kids and businessmen, laughing and talking way too loudly, each of them convinced that they had something highly important to say because their off-the-charts blood alcohol levels were telling them so.

  When I’d reached my destination and gotten the bartender’s attention, I asked for two cosmos. It was a good choice on Clarissa’s part. Cosmopolitans were the ultimate girly cocktail: easy to drink, bright pink and delicious. Not to mention that they didn’t bloat me up like beer did.

  “I’m on it,” the bartender said cheerfully, striding off to mix our two glasses of happy juice.

  While he did so, I turned around to glance back towards Clarissa, who was now focused on her phone, her thumbs typing away madly. No doubt she was texting James with some sort of secret fiancée code talk about how their life was a perfect utopian fairy tale and the rest of us were pathetic wretches who don't deserve to lick their shoes.

  Okay, she wouldn't say that.

  Probably.

  "Miss!"

  The voice dragged my eyes towards the bartender, who was already gesturing impatiently towards my two drinks.

  “Twelve bucks,” he said with a crooked smile.

  "Right," I replied, reaching into my clutch to extract the cash. I laid the bills down and grabbed the glasses. Distracted by the swarm of thoughts that insisted on buzzing around my brain, I swung around, both cosmos in hand, and took a step forward…only to slam into something tall and hard as a brick wall.

  Only it was no wall.

  Not even close.

  Chapter 2

  “Son of a bitch!” I yelled as my eyes met the sight of a crisp white shirt that had suddenly turned a dark fuchsia shade, thanks to two delicious, totally wasted girly cocktails.

  "I'm so sorry," I sputtered, pivoting to grab a few piddly napkins from the bar. I began dabbing at the stranger's shirt in frantic pats before I’d even realized that I was madly caressing someone I’d never met. A stranger whose pecs were hard as granite…and much more attractive.

  "It's all right," replied a deep, amused chocolate voice that drew my gaze upwards until it landed on a set of impossibly bright, otherworldly eyes.

  As soon as I saw his irises, I gasped, a moment of deep mortification setting into my stomach. This was the sort of idiotic thing that happened to women in rom-coms.

  Not to me.

  Never to me.

  “Fuck me. I literally ran into Mr. Perfect," I murmured, before realizing that I'd actually managed to say the incredibly embarrassing syllables out loud.

  "Where?" he asked, turning around to look for this alleged bastion of flawlessness.

  "No," I replied. Apparently my sense of humor had been murdered by the sex god. "I meant..." I waved my hand at him, defeated. “…You.”

  "I know," he said, the shallowest of smiles telling me that it wasn't the first time someone had pointed out that he was devoid of flaws.

  "I...I should pay for your shirt," I stammered. "I'm not sure cosmo comes out of whatever crazy-expensive fabric that is." I slammed my hand into my clutch and rifled around for cash, but he reached out and grabbed my forearm, stopping me. His touch—gentle but firm enough to tell me that he was definitely in charge—shot a bolt of scorching flame through my body, straight to the place between my legs.

  Suddenly, my year of abstinence was killing me.

  Mr. Perfect was killing me, too.

  That voice. Those eyes. That unfathomable sensuality.

  Some primal, animalistic desire was commanding me to tear that cosmo-soaked shirt off him, hike up the red cotton skirt that I was wearing, hop up on the bar and order him to do his worst.

  Leave me in pieces, sexy stranger. Wreck me. Show me how the most handsome man on earth gets down to business.

  Just do it.

  I was like a perverted Nike ad.

  "No," he said in an authoritative voice that made me freeze once more.

  "No?" I asked. Was that a no to paying for his shirt, or to going down on me while I perched on the bar?

  Oh, God—had I said the bit about going down on me out loud?

  "I don't want your money.” He spoke gently enough, but he didn't let go of me. Instead, he pulled himself closer, drawing my chin up, my eyes locking on those impossible silver-blue irises that burned into my flesh in the most erotic way imaginable. "I don't want a new shirt, even.”

  “You don’t?” I whimpered.

  He shook his head. “The only thing in this place that I want is you."

  My knees turned to sponge, and for a few seconds I was sure I was about to have a close encounter with the floor.

  "Wait—what did you just say?" I asked.

  This wasn't happening, I kept telling myself. It couldn't possibly be. It was a dream, and I was going to wake up any minute now. Because there was no way in hell that a guy who looked like him had just told me he wanted me.

  He narrowed his eyes, pulling closer still, so that his body was all but pressed against mine. I could feel his heat, smell his skin. The combination only made my core ache deeper, my breath catch in my chest as I tried to retain some semblance of calm.

  "I want you to come home with me and get into my bed," he said, like it was the simplest fact in the world. He may as well have been telling me the score of the basketball game playing in the background.

  Clearly, this was a man who wasn’t used to hearing the word no.

  "That's pretty forward of you," I told him, trying—and failing—to sound like I wasn't happy about the fact that he wanted to fulfill my wildest fantasies.

  "I believe in honesty," he said, his tone weighted with a dark sensuality. "You're a beautiful woman. I want to fuck you. Is that so hard to fathom? I'd be willing to bet there are a dozen men in this place who'd like to pull your thighs apart and bury themselves deep. The only difference between them and me is that I'm willing to say it."

  I yanked my arm away, freeing myself at last from his grip. But in that moment, the strangest, deepest sense of loss hit my insides, as though the separation had hollowed me out and left a deep, empty pit.

  I realized with a sharp gasp that I didn’t want him to set me free.

  Not now. Not ever.

  I wanted him so badly that the mere severing of our minor connection was enough to send me reeling into a deep, frightening abyss.

  Yet something told me that if I said yes—if I went home with him—he would break me. Not just my body, but my mind, my soul. Some deep lurking instinct told me that if I fell for this man, it would destroy me.

  “I can’t,” I managed to murmur, working hard to keep my teeth from chattering. "I never go home with strangers.”

  "That's not the problem though, is it?” he replied, shaking his head slowly. "That's not why you're refusing me, and we both know it.”
/>   "Oh?" Now I told myself that I really was getting irritated. Was this gorgeous bastard really going to tell me what I did and didn't want? Was he seriously about to mansplain my own feelings to me?

  "You're afraid of me," he accused. No. It wasn’t an accusation. It was more like another simple statement of fact, like telling me I was wearing shoes.

  I laughed nervously, which only served to prove his point. “Afraid? No I'm not,” I said, pulling back and crossing my arms over my chest like I’d turned into a defiant five-year-old.

  "Of course you are,” he said, his voice low and smooth as silk. “You're shaking. You're frightened of the way you feel right now. You don't quite know why, but you're unsettled in my presence, yet drawn to me.”

  Well, of course I was. He was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. On top of that, he was clearly wealthy, and he'd probably been with a thousand women, at least. Who was I? Some idiot chick who worked as a set designer in a theater that was about to get torn to the ground. Not exactly prime girlfriend material. Not even one-night stand material. I was a woman that life had chewed up and spat out.

  If I was afraid, it was because he had every ounce of power in this situation, and I had none.

  "Yeah, okay, fine. I'm unsettled," I replied, trying to suppress the wretchedness that wanted to claw its way into my voice. "Which is why I'm going to say good-bye and go over there now." I pointed back to Clarissa, who was staring at me from across the bar, the most amused smile of all time on her face.

  “If you must,” Mr. Sexy said, an irritatingly knowing smile twisting his lips. “Until we meet again, then.”

  We’ll never meet again, I thought, much as I didn’t have the heart to say it and deny myself the pleasure of thinking about it.

  Without another word I strode back over to my friend, two all-but-empty glasses in hand. The only legacy I’d left behind was a hot man wearing a soaking wet, newly pink shirt, and the scent of my overly enthusiastic pheromones.

  “What the hell was that?” Clarissa hissed when I’d sat down and pulled my chair tight to the table.

  “What was what?” I asked.

  “That deity you were talking to. You know, the incredibly handsome one who looked like he wanted to take a bite out of you after you turned him into a pink carnation.”

  “Oh, that guy.” I shrugged as if I hadn’t given him a second thought. “No idea who he is.”

  Just then, someone stepped over to us from a nearby table. We both looked up to see that it was a young woman with a giant, astonished grin on her face.

  “Oh my God, did you seriously just talk to Tristan Wolfe?” she said.

  “Who?” I asked. The name sounded familiar, though I wasn’t sure why.

  “Tristan. Wolfe. He’s only one of the richest men in the world. He’s been on the cover of every magazine on earth. Well, other than Unsuccessful Homely People Monthly.”

  “I don’t think that’s a magazine,” I said. “Anyhow, he didn’t tell me his name, so I guess my answer is maybe.” I shrugged, trying hard to pretend I wasn’t excited by any of this.

  “Holy shit. You realize he owns half of Manhattan, right?” she said. “He probably owns this bar.”

  “He’s in real estate?” Clarissa asked.

  “No. Actually, I don’t know what he does,” she replied, shaking her head. “Nobody really does. Some people think he runs the mafia. Others think he runs drugs. But who the hell cares, when a guy looks like that? He could hunt puppies for sport and I’d probably still be willing to fuck his brains out.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I turned to look back towards the man who’d been standing so close to me only a minute earlier. He was still at the bar, his eyes locking on mine the moment I fixed my stare on him. Quickly I spun back to face Clarissa, trying not to let her and the stranger see how hard I was breathing.

  “Wow. He’s really into you,” the stranger said, laughing. “Your self-control is amazing. I’d be all over that guy like stink on a monkey if he looked at me like that. You go, girl!” With that, she turned to head back to her friends.

  “I think she’s right,” said Clarissa. “That man has the look on his face of a predator who’s so hungry that he’s tempted to go in for a kill. Only instead of killing you, he wants to give you the best damn sex of your life. But I know you. You’re not going to do anything about it, are you?”

  I shook my head. “Of course I’m not.”

  “Ari,” sighed my friend, “someday you should accept that you deserve a little happiness. Or at the very least a little fun.”

  “Do I?” I asked. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like if I deserved it, I’d actually, oh, I don’t know, be happy? Maybe I deserve the crap that gets thrown at me.”

  Clarissa glared at me. “That’s ridiculous. I won’t have you talking like that about my best friend. You haven’t done anything wrong. In fact, you’ve done everything right. You tried your best.”

  “I tried and failed.” I pulled my eyes away to hide my pain. “I failed her.”

  I hadn’t talked about my sister in a long time. Not with Clarissa, Marcus, or anyone else. Even after all this time, I couldn’t say her name. Couldn’t express properly how much it hurt to think about her, about everything that had happened. I’d pretended for the last few years—even to myself—that I led a normal life, unencumbered by the dark memories that still came to me all too often.

  I was just another young woman trying to make it in the Big Apple, or so I liked to pretend. It was so much easier than letting on that I was a hot mess in desperate need of fixing.

  “You didn’t fail her,” Clarissa said, her tone dripping with a sympathy that made me wince. “Your stepfather did. Your mother did. You did everything you could. You deserve a medal for trying to save her from what life had thrown her way.” She reached for me, taking my hand in hers again, and squeezed. “Let the past go. Forget about everything that happened with your mom and he who shall not be named. Think about everything you’ve accomplished on your own.”

  I bit my lip.

  She was right. But I’d already tried to forget, to get over the events that had driven me to New York. I’d changed my name, started over with a new identity. Still, my past hung behind me like a shadow, lurking just close enough to be in constant contact. Try as I did every day, I couldn’t find a way to detach myself.

  “Even if you’re right, I don’t think spending a night with a man like Tristan Wolfe is what’s going to fix me. The guy’s an obvious player,” I said, pulling my hand away and offering up my best attempt at a scowl. “Besides, what am I going to do, walk up and tell him ‘sorry again about your shirt, here’s my vagina to make up for it?’”

  “Yes!” she belted out. “That’s an excellent idea. Give him your vagina as an apology!”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but mercifully, her phone buzzed and she grabbed it, grimacing when she saw the message on the screen. “Oh, shit,” she muttered. “I totally forgot that James’ mother is coming over tonight. He’s asking me to come rescue him.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, grateful to have an excuse to halt our current conversation.

  “You want to split a cab with me?”

  “Yeah, actually, that would be great,” I replied. “I’m kind of tired anyhow. I should get home and crash.”

  “You want to flee from the loin-stirring temptation that is Mr. Amazing-Eyes, you mean,” she said, winking. Okay, so my best friend knew me pretty well.

  “They are amazing, I’ll admit,” I muttered before standing up and grabbing my jacket.

  As we walked towards the door, I took one final look over my shoulder, my chest tightening with desire for something I knew I’d never have.

  Tristan Wolfe was still standing at the back of the bar, hands tucked into his pockets.

  Still staring.

  Still sexy.

  Still pink.

  Chapter 3

  When I’d pushed my tired body through the door of the apartm
ent, I shut it behind me and leaned back, pressing my head into the mercifully cool wood.

  “Marcus!” I called, hoping to discover that my housemate was out.

  To my delight and relief, no reply came.

  I liked my roomie. Loved him, even. But I wasn’t sure I was in any mood to divulge the night’s events to him, and I knew he’d ask. He always did; it was his way of being supportive. Somehow though, telling him about the mysterious billionaire who wanted into my pants seemed like a terrible idea.

  Though part of me wanted to hop on social media and tell the whole world.

  What happened today, you ask? Oh, an impossibly hot man told me he wants to fuck my brains out.

  I turned him down.

  Because I suck.

  The mere thought of Tristan Wolfe’s eyes, his scent, his everything, made me want to take an ice cold shower. I still wasn’t quite over the shakes that had set in the moment he’d pulled me close. The ache between my legs was still real. The need, the want, the frenzied desire that had begun to viciously attack my body and mind. He’d infected me with some virus or other—raw lust, I suppose. It had been such a long time since I’d wanted anyone that I’d forgotten how it felt. Good and bad at once. Hot and cold.

  Fire and ice.

  Some part of me wanted to figure out what it was about the guy that I wanted so badly. Was it his wealth? His fame?

  No. I didn’t give a shit about those things. Much as I would have loved to be rolling in money, hearing who he was hadn’t made me crave him more—if anything, it had made me less interested in getting tangled up in his life. If he was that rich, chances were good that he was one of those men who used young women then discarded them like pieces of detritus. Sure, maybe I could have been tonight’s conquest.

  But he wasn’t likely to be suffering after my departure. He’d probably found a new woman to stare at, to proposition. In fact, I would have been willing to bet that he was on his way home right now with some pretty young thing. I told myself that the thought of it didn’t make me jealous.