MC ROMANCE: Wanted by the Alpha Biker (Motorcycle Club Alpha Male Bad Boy Romance) (MC Romantic Suspense Contemporary New Adult Short Stories) (158 page)

Chapter Five

              Kate sat in her favorite outdoor café in Paris watching the tourists try to cross the
Champs-Élysées without becoming roadkill.  Her suitcases lay on the bed in her little studio apartment two blocks away.  She still had to pack them.  She hadn’t yet booked her flight back to the States.  She hadn’t even called her parents to tell them she was giving up her vagabond ex-pat foolishness for good.

              This time she actually had a damn good reason to go back home and be an American again. 

Mom and Dad would be thrilled, of course.  They still hoped she’d come home, marry a nice guy, and produce a bunch of grandkids for them to spoil.  The one time she’d convinced them to come to France, they spent most of the visit complaining about the coffee.

“It’s like tar,” her father had said.  “I can feel it sticking to my throat when I swallow.”

Kate loved French coffee.  She loved France.  She loved Thierry Belanger, the bastard, and he’d ruined it all for her.  But without him the rest of her life yawned in front of her like a big, empty tunnel with no light whatsoever at the end.

At least for now. 

Kate knew the tunnel wasn’t completely empty, and the light was there, too.  It was just too small to see for the moment. 

                “Hi, there.”  A slim person who could have been a pretty boy or a handsome girl sat down in the chair across from her.  “Mind if I join you, Kate?”

              She lifted her Wayfarers to squint at the elfin face, which looked a bit more feminine when she smiled back.  The girl, if she was female, had a mid-western American accent, the body of a preteen, and the eyes of a world-weary wanderer. 

              “I’m a girl.  Wren Calhoun.”  She offered a small hand, which Kate ignored.  “Wow.  You really are pissed.” 

              “You’re a genius, too.”  Kate sat back in her chair.  “Get lost.”

Wren removed an envelope from her denim jacket and slid it across the table.  “A little something from my boss, who must remain nameless.  A gesture of his thanks for helping Belanger with the op.  The big French guy’s really miserable over the whole forced-to-have-sex thing, you know.”

              Kate tossed some Euros on the table as she stood, shouldered her purse and walked away.  Wren Calhoun caught up a block later and paced her.

              “What don’t you understand?” Kate asked without looking at her.  “The get, or the lost?”

              “Oh, I got that part.  My big questions mark,” Wren said, “is why you blame Thierry.  I mean, he had to sign like ten thousand non-disclosure statements after we recruited him.  You know, the kind where you get thrown in federal prison for spilling the beans to anyone, even the woman you love?  Or whatever the DGSE equivalent of that is.”

              Kate stopped and turned toward her.  For a terrible moment she thought she might lose her temper and let her have it, all of it, right in her little elfin spy face.  But none of this was Wren Calhoun’s doing, and she didn’t want her running back to Thierry.  “What do you want from me, kid?”

“I’m older than you, Kathryn,” Wren said, and stuffed the envelope in Kate’s purse.  “Go see him.  Please.  Thierry hasn’t slept or ate since he got back.  You won’t regret it.”  A long black car pulled up to the curb, and Wren went to it and climbed inside, waving at her through the window before it sped off.

Kate trudged back to her apartment, more miserable now that she knew Thierry was definitely back in Paris.  As she dragged herself up the narrow staircase to her floor, she pulled the envelope Wren had given her out of her bag and opened it.

Inside wasn’t cash or a check, but two train tickets to Provence, and a battered old key tagged with a hand-written address.  There was also a note, written in the same hand, thanking her.  It was signed with simply a large S.

Kate took out her own keys to unlock her apartment door.  Before she could, the old hinges creaked and it swung in.  The smell of coffee and fresh bread made her decide against screaming for her landlady.

Inside Thierry Belanger took up most of the room in her tiny kitchen.  He stood at the counter, where he placed bright red radishes atop slices of buttered bread.  He barely glanced at her as she came in. 

“I made you coffee for once.”  He handed her a steaming cup.

She took a sip and leaned against the counter, eating him up with her eyes.  He looked thinner and tired, as if everything Wren had told her was true.  She blinked until the tears stop threatening, and then asked, “You broke into my apartment to make me lunch?”

“This is for me, not you.”  He carried the plate out to her little front room and sat down gingerly on her rickety second-hand sofa.  “As soon as I smelled that lavender you keep in your clothes, my appetite came back.  You can have a piece if you’re hungry.”

If she was hungry.  Kate considered slapping him again, but instead perched on the rocking chair across from him.  “You can give this back to S, whoever he is.  I don’t want it.”  She tossed the envelope with the train tickets and key beside his plate.  “Then you can go back to your mansion across town.  The one where you have an entire army of servants to wait on you, make you radish and butter sandwiches, and cater to your ass.”
              He shrugged.  “I like it here.  My ass does not need to be catered.”  He ate another slice as he examined the contents of the envelope.  “Ah, this is the key to Simon’s vacation chateau in Provence.  Nice.  He has an army of servants, too, but he never goes there.  He prefers the islands.  I think he is insane.” 

“So are you,” she pointed out.

“My insanity is less temporary than Simon’s.  I think it may be permanent.”  He dragged his too-long black hair back from his furrowed brow.  “I’m in love with you, Kate.”

She closed her burning eyes.  “Not, you’re not.  You’re just obsessed with me now.  Next week it’ll be something else.  Rucked crepe skirts, or burnout velvet hats, or walking models with their eyebrows erased.”

              “Never.  I hate that eyebrow erasing trend.  It makes them look bald.”  Thierry picked her up out of the chair and carried her back into her tiny bedroom.  “Don’t I pay you better than this?”

              “Yes.  No.  I quit, remember?”  She felt her throat tighten.  “Don’t do this to me, Monsieur.  Please.  I’ve had enough, I really have.”

              “Me, too.”  Thierry began to undress.  “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep – Wren told you, yes?  Big mouth for such a little girl.  You know she pretends to be a boy sometimes?  We should get her to do our next androgynous show.”  Once he was naked he stretched out beside her.  “So:  I am moving in with you, into this postage stamp of an apartment with no servants and very little hot water.  We will drink coffee and eat radish-buttered bread and fight and make love until you feel better about me.  Which I hope will be very soon.”

              Kate turned away so he wouldn’t see her bottom lip trembling.  “I’m going back to the states.”  Where she would be safe, if not happy.

              “No, you’re not.”  He snuggled up behind her.  “You’re staying in Paris.  Or Provence, if you want to see Simon’s chateau for a week or two.  Please, Kate.  Please don’t go.  I hate America, and I would have to chase after you and drink their terrible coffee and be miserable.”

              With a sob she turned to him.  Thierry soothed her with soft, sweet pecks and then deeper, hungrier kisses, until she was tearing at her own clothes with him.  He couldn’t wait to get her naked, and simply tore everything preventing him from sinking into her before he slowly slid inside her tight, wet pussy.

              “Ah.”  He didn’t move as he stared down at her, his eyes narrowed and his expression fierce.  “Forget eating.  I want to live on this.”

              Kate gripped his shoulders as he pressed in and glided out of her, drawing his head down to her puckered nipples to feel his tongue soothing them.  “Thierry.”

              “Look at me, Katie.  I belong to you now.”  Slowly he began thrusting into her, his shaft so hard it felt like iron.  “You own me.  Command me.  Tell me what you would have of me, and it is yours.”

              She rolled him onto his back, straddling him and impaling herself on his rampant, glistening cock.  “You never lie to me again, Monsieur.  Ever.  I don’t care if you go to jail for it.”

              “If I do you can visit,” he assured her, cupping her buttocks and lifting and lowering her. 

              “I want my old job back, too.”  Kate arched her back, clenching on his shaft as she worked herself on him.  “With that raise I earned.  You remember.  The gigantic one.”

              “Done.”  He reached up to caress her breasts.  “Bring these down here to me.  I need them.  They have missed me, too.”

              Kate lowered herself on him, rubbing one mound against his mouth and then hissing in a breath as he suckled.  “I want sex.  A lot of sex.  Maybe every morning, noon, and night sex.  Without the audience, the handcuffs or the death threats.”

              Thierry muttered something that sounded like an enthusiastic affirmative.

              “You tell the DGSE and the Brits and the U.S. and whoever else makes you spy for them that you’re done.  Finished,” she added when he took his mouth away to protest.  “I’m not letting the father of my children get himself killed.  Or party with perverts.  And I’m never doing that again, either, Thierry. Do you understand me?”
              He smiled slowly.  “Very well.  How many times am I getting you pregnant?”

              Now came the real moment of truth.  Kate drew his hand up to her belly.  “After this one?  Two.  Maybe three.”  As his jaw dropped and then closed again she nodded. 

              “I don’t believe it.”  He splayed his hand over her navel.  “We’re having a baby.”

“This is what happens when you have unprotected sex with a woman who isn’t on any birth control,” Kate told him.  “I was in the right moment in my cycle, and you, apparently, are fertile as hell.  In about thirty weeks, we’re going to be parents.  P.S., we are never telling this child how she or he was conceived, understand?”

              “Good.  I want a little girl,” he told her firmly.  “With your hair, please.  What else?  Marriage?”

              “I don’t care.  I want you to love me.”  Slowly she straightened, and brushed her hands along his lean cheeks.  “The way I love you.  Nothing held back.  All the way.  Forever.  You’ll probably have to work at that.”

              He smiled up at her.  “Not anymore, Katie.  Not ever again.”

THE END

Bound to the Alpha Billionaire

Book 5

(Can be read as a standalone book)

By: Lucy Wynand

The Architect’s Passion

Chapter One

From the outside, La Maison Noire looked like just another decaying remnant of the eighteenth century.  Badly constructed during the Rococo movement in Paris, its asymmetrical plasterwork mildewed silently over rotting wood.  The vampire of time had also drained away the rest of its dubious, overly ornate charms.  Only the chateau’s blackened windows hinted at an exterior possibly less disappointing.

Once he stepped inside, Eliot Tashiro felt no disappointment, only disgust.  The infamous “blackest” of Paris’s underground BDSM club had been outfitted like a brothel for Goths.  Wall displays of whips and chains did nothing to perk up the funerary furnishings.  Industrial burgundy carpet stretched out like a pool of congealed blood under the bruised or bruising clientele.  Other imminent victims crowded a chrome and black-leather bar forming a moat around the performance stage.  Flickering faux wall torches made Eliot imagine bad wiring more than the dungeon.  Nothing could dispel the unlovely, sour aroma of countless lager spills.

“Monsieur.”  At the bar a handsome, bare-chested boy with pierced nipples lifted his eyebrows in an invitation for Eliot to order.

He placed the black-edged card he’d bought from a very grateful vice detective atop a black cocktail napkin. “I will speak to your manager now.”

“
Oui
, Monsieur.”  The boy collected the card before he waved over a blunt-faced bouncer.  The big man eyed Eliot and then gestured for him to follow.

Back in a large office that could have been at home in any corporate headquarters, the club’s stocky, weasel-faced manager carefully examined the card and then Eliot. 

“This is your first visit to La Maison Noire, Monsieur?”  He sounded politely suspicious.

“You know it is, and I am not a policeman.”  He felt so tired of these inspections he didn’t have to feign his boredom anymore.  “I am here to seek a particular entertainment.  Very young.  Fresh.”

The manager’s gaze grew shuttered.  “You can find many such young, fresh things out in the night club, Monsieur.”

“Not as fresh as I’d like.”  Eliot lowered his voice before he added, “My dear friend, Jin Chen Ba, assured me that you could provide exactly what I desire.  If this is not the case, I will seek my pleasures elsewhere.”

The club manager stood up, all smiles now.  “Mr. Ba is one of our most treasured patrons, Mr. Tashiro.  Please, let me show you to our private level.”

Eliot hated using Ba’s name to gain access to these clubs, as just thinking of the sexual predator made his skin crawl.  But Eliot needed a guaranteed in, and few people outside Tokyo knew that Ba had just been murdered by a young victim’s outraged father.

Once the manager escorted Eliot to a far more sumptuous and tasteful lounge on the third floor, he personally served him a glass of overrated champagne and seated him among a small group of other affluent-looking men.

“Tonight we are holding an auction, Monsieur,” the manager said.  “Some very fine submissive young men willing to attend to all your needs.”

“Only boys?” Eliot asked, setting aside the bubbling flute.

“For tonight, yes,” the manager said, sounding apologetic now.  “I can of course arrange to have some girls brought in for you to inspect, if they are more to your taste.”

Before Eliot could reply, adolescents began shuffling into the room.  The guards escorting them guided them over to the back wall and lined them up under a bright light.  Nearly all of them blinked in confusion, or shaded their dilated eyes with a hand.  One small, slender boy with long silver hair and large blue eyes hesitated for a fraction of a second before doing the same.

“I believe I’ll stay,” Eliot told the manager.  “I see something I like after all.”

#

              Wren Calhoun hated being sold as a sex slave. 

She could fake being drugged with the best of intelligence operatives, of course, and not only because of her MI-6 training.  Most of her childhood had been spent in a sedated stupor.  Because they wanted her to look good, the slavers usually didn’t knock her around much.  The abduction phase usually went fast.  She knew how to project exactly the right amount of dazed fear, too.  Really all she had to do was take her cues from the terrified victims she was trying to save. 

If a pimp or trafficker tried to strip her or take her for a test drive before auctioning her off, she could handle that as well.  Wren always drank two big glasses of warm milk before an op.  The milk settled her stomach, but even more importantly, gave her some extra ammunition.  She could puke on demand, and no one wanted to touch or screw a kid who had sour milk vomit all over her front.

So it was all good, except the gender she had to play.  Becoming a boy being sold as a sex slave was never fun.  For one thing, the prosthetic penis she had to wear itched like crazy.  Then there was the body makeup she had to use to camouflage the prosthesis, which also irritated her skin.  Her handler also always insisted she dye her hair some ridiculous color to distract attention from her somewhat too-feminine features.  For some reason T.J. thought the Lady Gaga hair made her look more convincing as a young gay guy, something Wren would never understand. 

As for the pervs, who were generally heavy-handed brutes who couldn’t wait to maul her, they could be troublesome as well.  Sometimes Wren had to deal with them in their car as they whisked her off to their sex slave love-nest.  She really hated fighting in a confined space, too.  Inevitably she ended up with a black eye or swollen nose after she smashed out a window with the perv’s face.

As soon as she nailed tonight’s pond scum-sucking pedophile asshole, Wren intended to go on a nice, long vacation.  Somewhere hot where no one cared what gender she was, why she had silver hair or who she slept with.  She’d drink and dance and find a nice, big, strapping guy or pretty girl willing to serve as her sex slave for a few nights.

Anything to help her forget that beautiful man in Tokyo she’d kissed.

Once her eyes adjusted, Wren peered through the glaring light.  A good dozen pervs stared back, their faces shiny and their eyes hot.  Only one guy sitting in the shadows seemed less than interested.  She couldn’t make out his features, not that it mattered.  Whoever paid for her would be going directly to jail for the rest of his scum-sucking life.  If not, he’d be forced to play informant, which was even better.  The real deviants rarely lasted more than a month before they botched things and ended up floating in some sewer.

To keep herself from smirking, Wren mentally reviewed her last op.  Pretending to be a cosplay geek at an anime convention had been fun.  Her sting play there had successfully trapped a pair of dangerous Chinese snakeheads, too.  Since the two smugglers had killed or enslaved hundreds of desperate immigrants, she’d been overjoyed to hand them off to the Japanese authorities.  During the op she hadn’t made a single misstep.

Afterward?  She’d couldn’t have staggered into trouble more if she’d walked naked and drunk into a Siberian labor camp.  Instead of going to her room to pack, she’d idiotically decided to visit the hotel’s rooftop bar to have a celebratory drink.  Where she had stupidly talked to the outrageously handsome Asian-American guy standing out on the observation deck.  Of course he’d turned out to be Eliot Tashiro, the billionaire architect who designed for the world skyscrapers, opera houses, and art museums. 

Just her luck, he had to be hot and interesting and elegant, too.  Wren never could run into some dull, shovel-faced Joe Schmoe from Buffalo. 

Of course she knew better than to engage a high-profile man like Tashiro.  If only the bar band had played that slow, sexy ballad she loved.  If only Eliot hadn’t asked her to dance.  Just like a moron, she’d stepped into his arms.

Dancing with Tashiro under the stars had made her feel amazing – as if she were floating on air – but not even that snapped her senses back to full alert.  No, it had taken the thank-you peck he’d given her.  That little polite peck that had somehow turned into a sweet, hot, delicious open-mouthed full-on French kiss.  That had finally blasted through her like a firehose of ice-cold water.

But, oh, that kiss.  Even as she discreetly fled and grabbed her stuff and got out of the hotel, Wren had already labelled it in her memory for future reference:  Best kiss ever.  

One of the guards grabbed her arm and jerked her forward.  Wren faked a stumble and ducked to get a better look at the bored guy.  She looked directly into a Caucasian face with Asian eyes the color of gold-speckled black marble.  As the blood went icy in her veins, she slowly straightened.

“Gentlemen, we will begin the bidding at five thousand Euros,” the ring leader announced in his oily French.  “Do I have five?”

“Ten,” Eliot Tashiro said.