A Lion After My Own Heart (9 page)

One hand clasps my shoulder as the other pulls his cock free. I'm aching, burning, needing him. He grasps my panties and somehow cuts them with his fingertips.
Claws
, I realize with a shiver.

Then he's there, at my entrance, his cock head enormous. I curve my spine, pushing my ass out, spreading my legs wide. He's going to fuck me raw from behind, right here against his wall, and there's nothing I want more.

"Since I first saw you," he growls. "Perfect. Hot. Real. Your lips. Your amazing fucking ass. A woman. I've thought of your cunt, how tight it must be."

I bite my lower lip as he begins to push into me. Thank god I'm soaked because he's huge, almost too large, and I have to relax to take him in, to allow his cock to push past my lips and enter my canal. It's insane; my body feels like I'm plugged into an electric current. I cry out as he slides in, inch by inch, slowly and inexorably.

"God, you feel good," he groans. "So fucking tight. You're perfect, Myra."

I groan as he withdraws. Cry out louder as he thrusts back into me, pushing me hard against the wall. I reach up to brace myself, to push back against him. He goes in so deep that it takes my breath away, reduces my world to this one moment, this one act. My breasts are aching, my pulse delirious.

"I want you," I breathe. "Harder. All of you."

Alexander complies. He pounds into me, sliding in perfectly as if we were designed for each other, the ridges of his cock head sending waves of ecstasy through my quivering core. Deep he goes, at first firmly, with a controlled rhythm, but I can feel him lose that control, bit by bit, his body quivering and tense behind me, his grip firm as steel, his cock plowing me, and all I can do is cry out, over and over.

"Fuck, Myra," he says, his voice pure churned gravel, and I can't respond. All I can do is rock and steady myself against the wall as he pounds me in a way that I never thought possible. I never thought something could feel this intense, this quickly. I've always heard that all women need to be warmed up slowly by hours of foreplay, but fuck that. Our chemistry is so intense that this already tops any other sex I've ever had by a mile.

"Make me come," I whimper, needing that release, needing to break this fever that's got me in its grip. It's too much. Too intense. I can't handle it. I'm going too far. And still Alexander fucks me, faster and harder, his own grunts blurring and rising into a roar. I can feel his cock swelling within me, growing larger, and I know he's going to come, fill me with his seed, and that pushes me right over the edge.

I orgasm like I never have, shaking like I'm caught in a hurricane, my whole body shuddering and quaking as my pussy contracts, clamping around his cock, and with a scream I collapse against the wall as his own roar peaks. I feel him come, his cock spasming as he leans over me, wrapping his arms around me in a tight hug, holding me against his chest as he throbs over and over within my depths.

I see white. I gasp, throat raw, and slowly, weathering one aftershock after another, I come down from those insane heights. My whole body is drenched in sweat, my limbs are shaking as if I've just run a dozen miles, and my thoughts are scattered into a thousand places. Before I can collect myself, Alexander slides free from within me, leaving me feeling strangely empty and alone. But he scoops me up in his arms as if I weigh next to nothing.

I look up into his handsome face, and that dark need has been replaced by something else, a tender hunger, his eyes taking me in and his generous lips widening into a smile.

"Where are you taking me?" My voice is small, still shaking.

"My bed." He sounds richly amused. "Where else? We're just getting started."

Chapter 10

Three hours later I'm floating on Cloud 9. We've been lying in Alexander's king-sized bed for half an hour, just staring up at the ceiling, my head on his shoulder, both of us waiting as our heartbeats and breath regulate. No words after that final cry, just silence, a companionable, intimate silence that I wouldn't exchange for the world. The sun has set and the loft is filled with the soft light of dusk. Occasionally faint sounds reach us from Bridge Street, one block to the north, but for the most part I feel cocooned in a wonderful privacy, as if I've fallen off the edge of the world and into a magical realm that can't last for long.

Alexander stirs, flexing his powerful legs, and arches his back into a lazy, almost feline stretch. I turn to look up at his face and see him smiling at me. I can't help but smile in return.

"Hi," he says.

"Hello." We both pause, and then our smiles widen. On impulse (have I mentioned that I'm impulsive?) I extend my hand to him. "My name's Myra Cole."

He chuckles and takes my hand in his own. Oh, the things he has done with those fingers. "Alexander Adams. A pleasure."

We shake, and then I snuggle against him, turning onto my side so that we're spooning. "It sure was," I purr.

"Hmm," he rumbles, draping his arm over me. He buries his nose in the nape of my neck, inhaling my smell. "Myra Cole. Where on earth did you come from?"

"Apartment four, Hanover Road, over by Beacon Hill," I say. "It's conveniently located across the street from a well-stocked all-night grocery store."

Again he laughs, a rumble deep in his chest. I love making him laugh. I get the impression he doesn't do it enough.

He begins tracing spirals on my naked shoulder. "Well, now that I know where you came from, where are you going?"

Hmm. Good question. I bite my lower lip and stare at the brick wall that's fading into shadow. Soon it will be night. Soon this interlude will end. We'll stand up, get dressed, and then -? Go our separate ways, maybe, or... what? Ride off into the sunset?

Alexander senses my hesitation. "You've got an article to write."

"I do," I agree softly.

"What are you going to say?"

I turn back to him, looking over my shoulder at his face. He's propped his head on the palm of his hand and is gazing down at me. I study his features. So indescribably hot. So noble, so wounded, so strong and vulnerable both. I reach up to trace the stubbled length of his jaw. "I don't know. I always just say 'the truth'. But for the first time I don't know if that's the right answer."

He takes my hand in his and presses the back of it to his lips. "And what is the truth?"

I turn more fully toward him. "That you fled your father as soon as you could. Went to Harvard, and never looked back."

Alexander nods. "And why did I do that?"

Impressions swirl through my mind like clouds, and with my reporter's instinct, I hone in on the area where they all come together. "Because you didn't want to be like him."

"More than that," says Alexander softly. "I wanted to prove him wrong."

"Prove him wrong how?"

"My father. The great Aurion." Alexander's smile becomes bitter. "A great warrior. A great leader of the shifters. Old school as all hell." He sighs. "He's claimed since I was little that shifters should be in charge. That we're the superior race. That humans are like viruses, spreading out, destroying the world, consuming everything within sight, abusing each other, fighting for money and power and caring nothing for the good of the tribe."

"There's something to that," I say, though I don't want to.

"I know. Trust me. Growing up, my father had no end of evidence to back up his claims. Poverty, corruption, pollution, the destruction of nature, the reliance on fossil fuels, on and on it went. It's his greatest passion in life. Hating. He lives to hate, and that warms him, keeps him alive. If he could, I think he'd raise some kind of feudal army of shifters and go to war."

I just listen. Alexander's looking past me at this point, into a world of his own memories and thoughts.

"I wanted him to be wrong, so I began to study. Human history, human philosophy. I tried to tell him about Socrates and Martin Luther King, Jr. I tried to tell him about Christ and Buddha. But he would just laugh. Humans like Gandhi are famous because they're so rare, he said, to the point of being aberrations. And what use is a righteous philosophy or religion when nobody follows it? I couldn't get him to concede a single point."

Alexander sighs. "Finally, when I was fifteen we got into a huge argument. He wanted me to start preparing to take over his position. To do so I would have to fight him, and kill him in combat."

I gasp. "Kill him?"

Alexander's smile remains bitter, his eyes aflame. "Oh, yes. Didn't I tell you he was old school? He would say there was no better end to a man's life than dying at his son's claws, knowing that his line had proven true and strong. I told him that I wouldn't fight him. That I wanted to be different. That even if we shifters were superior in some ways - that only meant we had to lead by example, not by force. That we should lend our strength and wisdom, not lord it over those who were born without it. He grew furious. He attacked me."

He's gone, fully back in that moment in the past. I watch him with wide eyes.

"He leaped, and I had a choice. Stand and fight. Or run. If I fought, I would probably lose. I was only fifteen. But even if I won and defeated him, I knew I would lose anyway. So I ran, knowing it was the only right answer to my father, and his howls of anger followed me into the night. That's the night he disowned me. I ran away from Honeycomb Falls, put myself through the last couple of years of high school, and managed to get accepted to Harvard."

"But," I say, shaking my head. "But what was your plan, then?"

Alexander looks down at me, the bitterness smoothing away as he strokes my cheek. "A mad plan. One that maybe was doomed from the beginning. To deny my shifter heritage, and try to elevate human discourse and politics by example. So I entered politics. And I've tried to do the very best I can. To bring out the best in people."

I feel my heart cramp. "But you're not human. Even if you succeeded, you'd only be proving your father's point. That it takes a shifter in charge to make a difference."

He shrugs one muscled shoulder. "Maybe. But I've tried to see myself as a pebble thrown into a lake. My original impact is relatively small, but who knows how far my ripples might spread? If I'm even successful. You don't have to make a huge change to start the momentum. I'd say that maybe the real impact of great men and women like Martin Luther King and Mother Theresa is that they continue to inspire others, years, decades, maybe centuries after their death. If I can do that, then it doesn't matter who I was. It will only matter what I did."

I don't know what to say. His words are so sad, and his smile is so heartbreaking. I want to hold him close. I've never met someone so good. So noble. So selfless. Staring deep into his eyes, I know he means it, and I know that he'll only do good if he's elected. Who knows how far he might go? And yet. And yet.

"But the truth," I whisper.

He nods. "I'm a shifter. I can't enter politics."

"And when that comes out?"

"I'll be destroyed. Imprisoned."

"And you're still willing to risk it?"

He falls back onto the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head. "I was naive, I guess. I thought I'd buried my past deeply enough over the past two decades that it wouldn't come through. But I guess it will." He pauses, then looks over at me. "Will it?"

"I don't know," I say. And I don't. This story could make my career. I've got the most amazing angle now. The insider's version. I could write a tale of heartbreaking ambition and hope, then tear it down and destroy the man, and then zoom out and capture the entire complexity of human/shifter relations. This could be so much more than just a profile piece. Pulitzer Prizes, promotions, who knows? And yet. Do I want to climb to the top of that mountain, if each step means breaking something good?

"What are you going to do?" Alexander almost sounds disinterested.

I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of my bed. My thoughts crash into each other like opposing armies. I've always done what's best for my career. I can't think of how many sacrifices I've made. Journalism as an industry is undergoing a massive sea change, with sales for traditional papers and magazines crashing, long-term professionals getting cut, and doom and gloom being prophesied every day. To have made it as I have has required more blood and tears than I want to recall.

I've worked so hard to get to an opportunity like this. And what have I done as it's come within my reach? I've fucking jumped into bed with my subject, and now I'm hopelessly compromised.

I can't think straight. I stand and pace to the edge of the landing, looking down at the main floor of the loft below. The dark windows. This little bubble can't last. Eventually I'll have to return to Boston. To my job. To my father's apartment, to reruns of my favorite shows, to Mr. Rocky Road and the endless jokes that help keep away my pain and loneliness.

Because I can't imagine a future with Alexander. Can I? If I don't write this story, someone else will. I'll be passing up the chance of a lifetime for no good reason. The truth will come out. His career as a human politician will be over. If not today, then tomorrow, or next week.

I grip the railing. So why not me? Why shouldn't I take the credit? I've done the work. I've got the goods. I've earned this.

I look over my shoulder to where Alexander has sat up, sheet pooling around his waist, looking like a sleepy demi-god. My heart twists itself like a rag being wrung dry, and I feel the urge to bolt. I need fresh air. I need to think. My impulsiveness, my unruly heart, have truly done me in this time.

"I've got to think," I whisper, hating myself.

He nods. He doesn't seem surprised.

"I'll be in touch. I promise."

Again he nods, but he doesn't speak. I want him to. To say something, anything. That he understands, that he forgives me, that he wants me to do what's best for my career. But instead he just watches me, and it's more than I can stand. I grab my clothing and get dressed in a hurry.

"I - Alexander -" I stop at the head of the steps.

"It's OK, Myra. I'm a big boy. Whatever comes, I can handle it."