The Alpha’s Tempting Mate

Sam gives his head a shake and tucks his tail at the sound of his alpha’s angry tone. He takes a few steps backward.

I gaze down at our intruder. Even soaking wet, in a sweatshirt and jeans, she’s beautiful. She lies in the mud, not looking nearly as afraid as she ought to.

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

She groans and starts to move, but winces, reaching for the back of her head.

Well, hell. A good-sized rock lay near her. She must’ve struck it when Sam knocked her down.

“I had to talk to you,” she croaked.

Anyone else, I’d grill right there, while they lie on their back in the dirt at my feet. But not Kylie. That new, strange prickly heat takes over and screams at me to protect her-from Sam, from the rain, from the rock, from myself.

I pluck her from the ground and set her on her feet, forgetting to pretend she’s heavy.C0ntent © 2024 (N/ô)velDrama.Org.

Her eyes roll, unfocused, as if the movement pains her head. “Ugh. Wow.”

I reach around and cup the back of her head, fingers questing until I find the growing goose egg.

She flinches when I touch it.

“You’re hurt.” I turn and glare at Sam, who ducks his head.

She eyes my housemate, too. “Good thing you were around, or I think Cujo would’ve eaten me. Is that even a dog?”

“He’s part wolf.”

“Part wolf, part what? Gargoyle?”

I suppress a smile. I love that she pulls out the wry wit despite her injury. But then, it’s her default defense mechanism, as I learned in the elevator.

I study her. I ought to call the cops, or somehow scare her into respecting my boundaries. “Are you going to tell me why in the hell you broke into my place?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please, if I was breaking into your place, I wouldn’t trip the laser sights to announce my presence. Forgive me, but I didn’t see the doorbell out there.”

What woman knows about laser security systems? And doesn’t scream when a giant wolf pins her to the ground?

“I don’t recall inviting you. How the hell did you even find me?”

“I’m a hacker, remember?”

“Or a stalker.”

“Same thing.” Her hand goes to the front of her sweatshirt, and I hear the crinkle of paper. “I have something to show you. It couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

I take her elbow and lead her up the slick Italian tile steps and inside the mansion. Kylie moves stiffly, as if more than just her head hurts from Sam’s attack. It doesn’t stop her from looking around my place as I escort her to the guest bathroom on the second floor. Somehow, I doubt she’s missed a thing, either. Why is she here, really?

I angle her through the bathroom door. I intended to grab her a towel and leave her to freshen up, but I find myself gripping the hem of her soaked sweatshirt.

“What are you doing?”

I tug the fabric upward. “Getting you out of these wet clothes.”

Color infuses her cheeks, making her eyes shine bright. Strands of her wet brown hair cling to her cheek and neck, a drip of water rain runs down her throat. I want to lick it off.

She lets her arms go slack and follows the movement of the sweatshirt, letting me pull it over her head without protest.

My cock throbs painfully against the zipper of my jeans when I catch an eyeful of skin. I remove her undershirt with the sweatshirt, and she stands in nothing but a lacy red bra and wet jeans.

Her chest heaves, and she keeps her gaze intent on my face, as if waiting to see what I’ll do next.

What will I do?

I know what I want to do. I want to peel those tight, soaked jeans down and bend her over the bathroom counter. I want to plow her from behind as much as I want to get into that whip-smart mind of hers and find out what makes the unique female tick. And dammit, yes, I want to sink my serum-coated fangs into her flesh and forever mark her as mine.

Which can’t happen.

I drop the sweatshirt on the floor and hear the rustle of paper again.

Kylie’s focus snaps to the discarded clothing, and she lunges for it, breaking the stare-down between us. Trapped between the layer of shirt and sweatshirt lies a manila folder, which she retrieves and hugs to her chest, covering those perfect tits from my view.

She licks her dry lips. “Mr. King, before I share this with you, I just want to tell you when I did what I did, I was a cocky teenager trying to prove my worth to myself and the hacker world. I never took anyone’s credit card numbers, and I never sold any information. It was simply a-”

The realization hits me like a fist in the gut. “Catgirl.”

Of course she’s fucking Catgirl. The only person who ever hacked my code. No wonder she was nervous about interviewing at SeCure. What in the hell kind of game was she playing, showing up at my headquarters, at my home, for fuck’s sake?

The one breach in security that haunted me for the past eight years just blew up in my face. Again.

I snatch the manila folder from her hands and dump the contents onto the bathroom counter.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice sounds small.

Dammit.

I hate hearing her diminished, even to me, a natural alpha who demands submission from everyone. Even when I’m pissed off with her.

“What the fuck is this?”

I flip the stack of papers and read the one on the top. Fuck no. Rage sharpens into a deadlier sense of awareness.

Blackmail.

Someone wants to sabotage SeCure.

Or is this some elaborate game Catgirl’s playing? Because anyone as brilliant as she could have some unseen strategy going here.

This girl’s trouble and my judgment about her has been clouded by lust.

She stands perfectly still, her small hands clenched into fists. “I’m sorry,” she repeats.

I toss the papers back down the counter. “What the fuck? What do you want? Why are you really here?”

I hate seeing tears fill her eyes, but I steel myself against my instinct to yank her into me or slay her foes. Those instincts can’t be trusted.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I don’t want anything.” Her voice wobbles on the first word, but then she regains control of it. “I just figured if I confessed, myself, the jackasses would lose their leverage. I don’t want to negotiate with terrorists, you know?

“I just offered you all the information you need to hand over to the FBI to build a case against me. Obviously, I’m hoping you’ll settle for my resignation.”

“No,” I growl, surprising myself by speaking before I knew what I was going to say.

But I’m not going to let her off that easily. In my world-in the shifter community-transgressions are dealt with head on. They aren’t handled by cops or resignations. Punishment is swift, usually physical. Or else recompense is demanded, or offered, and accepted.

She flinches, her slender shoulders sinking. “What are you going to do?” Her voice sounds hoarse.

Blood rushes to my cock at the thought of taking her to task. Firmly. I lower my voice to a dangerous level. “What do you think I should do?”

“Well”-she licks her full lips, the intelligence returning to her face- “if I were you, I’d want to catch these motherfuckers. So I might keep me as bait.”

Damn, I almost trust her. An enormous mistake.

“You know, monitor me closely to make sure I don’t misbehave, but wait to see who makes contact and put a stop to these guys.”

Yeah, I’ll monitor you closely.

Monitor the way those red lace bra cups lift her perky breasts. Monitor the scent of her arousal, the changing shape of that lush mouth. Kissable lips. “I see. And how should I punish your previous misbehavior?” My voice is definitely deep and raspy. If she doesn’t know what I’m thinking, then she’s a complete innocent.

But her eyes dilate, nipples pop through the fabric of her bra. That’s right, baby.

“No pity for the kitty?” She loses her breath on the word kitty, which makes it sound twenty times sexier.

“Right.” I spin her around and bend her over the counter. My palm connects with the wet pocket of her jeans before my brain even knew the plan. It makes a loud crack, satisfying on every level. My cock hardens at her gasp.

Kylie tosses her head, looking over her shoulder, teeth bared. She likes it. Judging by the scent of her arousal-a lot.

I smack the other cheek, harder.

Fuck, I want to pull those wet jeans off her, find out what color panties she’s wearing before I tear those down, too. But if I see her naked ass, there’ll be no holding back the beast. Even this mild contact over her clothing has me harder than a fucking rock and my teeth lengthening.

Since she didn’t freak, I keep spanking, hard slaps that echo off the Italian tile. “You hacked me, Catgirl?” I smack her again and again. “What were you-like twelve?”

“Fifteen,” she gasps. “I never took anything-I swear-ung.”

The last sound from her lips sounds too much like I’m fucking her instead of spanking, and my vision tunnels, my wolf clawing to take over.

I stop spanking, struggling to slow my breath. I keep my hand on her ass, because, well, the thought of not touching her kills me. “Just wanted to see if you could, baby?” Now that it’s set in, the fact that she’s Catgirl turns me on even more. This girl hacked me as a teen. She’s a fucking genius, and I’m swooning for her brains almost as much as her sexy little body.