Fangs of Anarchy: Forbidden Alpha (Part 4) In the Zone: A Werewolf Vampire Shifter Romance (2 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Irish was next to her in a blur of legs and feet, pulling
her close to him, dragging her backward toward the wall and planting one on her
lips.

“Nice ass,” someone sneered. Someone with a raspy voice
thick with too much booze. Laughter ripped across the cold breeze in varying
degrees of tone.

When she tried to pull out of Irish’s arms to address
whomever was leering at her ass, Irish pulled her in tighter. “Not a word,
Claire,” he muttered against her mouth, continuing to probe her lips.

“Hey, lovebirds! Take your shit somewhere the fuck else,”
another, even more slurred voice ordered.

Irish lifted his head, but only enough to say, “Sorry, man.
Just
got
paid. You know what it’s like. Got carried
away with the goodies.”

There was cackling,
lots of
men
cackling because they thought a man had spent his paycheck on a hooker. Only a
group of men would high-five each other over a complete stranger blowing his
hard-earned money on paid sex.

She heard sniffing before the man said, “Yeah,
yeah
. Now move it along, bloodsucker. Go fuck somewhere else.
This is private property.”

“Keep your head down and your mouth shut, Librarian,” Irish
warned, before pulling her by the hand. He nodded at the group of men. “You got
it.”

And
she mostly followed his orders
as he swept her out and away from the alley. She did keep her head down—sort
of. She only lifted her head for the briefest of moments to find a crew of four
men,
well-dressed
in expensive dark suits, Italian
leather boots, and muted ties. Their language led her to believe they were all
thugs, but their clothing said they had fat wallets.
So
they were paid thugs.

One man with eyes the color of rubies and a short thatch of
thick, deep brown hair on his head met her quick gaze. His eyes, small in his
head, almost hidden by his hawkish brow but intense and wild, were the kind of
eyes that would swallow a soul for lunch with just one glance. It was all she
saw, but it was enough to convince her he was worth looking into.

Claire fought a visible shudder, gripping Irish’s hand as he
moved her away from the men and she stooped to grab her backpack. This
stranger, this man she’d never met and had barely glanced at, left her feeling
ugly, unclean, as though he’d somehow wormed his way under her skin to fester
there.

She took in deep breaths as she passed them, committing
their scents to memory, remembering the few details she could glean before
dropping her eyes to the littered pavement and following Irish out of the
alley.

* * *

“Wow,” Claire breathed out, taking in the oasis in the midst
of the Zone’s chaos Irish had brought her to as they stepped out of a shiny,
silver elevator.

He nodded, handing her a sparkling white towel and a bar of
soap. Real soap. Not the kind in the dispensers at the gas stations she’d
attempted to wash in. “Nice, right?”

Claire’s eyes tried to take all of it in at once. From the
arched windows covered in enormous photographs of an azure blue ocean with palm
trees and ivory sand, so real you’d almost believe you could reach out and
touch the water, to the high ceilings and sparse but carefully selected
furniture in soothing colors, yeah, nice was understating it.

“Where are we, and who would own something like this in the
Zone? Aren’t they afraid someone will burn it to the ground—or worse, turn it
into a crack den?”

Irish led her down a long hallway, painted an inviting
eggshell white with muted turquoise sconces, shimmering with incandescent
lights. “Longtime friend, onetime fellow corporate attorney. His name’s Mathias
Lawson and he doesn’t worry about much because he’s got a lot of money to throw
around and lots of hired guns to handle whatever comes his way. He chooses to
stay here in the Zone for various reasons. One of them is helping people get
out of the Zone. Specifically kids lost to the system.”

He stopped in front of a bathroom the size of half her
house. Tiled in white and varying shades of blues and greens, housing the
biggest shower she’d ever seen. “Vampire like you?”

Irish sauntered in and leaned against one of the four
pedestal sinks. “Yep. Good guy. Used to golf with him once a month. Miss those
days.”

“How did he ever get the human government to approve him
living here? Usually if you cross those borders and you get caught, you go to
prison.”

“Mathias is a smart guy. He finagled a deal and managed to
convince the government he’d use this building as a rehabilitation facility.
All those floors we passed in the elevator on the way up here to the
top?
Rehab for paranormal junkies. He has some of the best
paranormal doctors in the world running it—nurses, meds, the whole nine. All
sponsored by him.”

“Rehab?” she said. “I didn’t know we had any facilities for
the paranormal.”

“Well, Mathias knew that, too. If you’ll recall, rehab is a
constitutional right unless you’ve hit the
three-strikes
mark on your record—for humans and
paranormals
alike.
There were no facilities in the human territories that would take the
paranormal. Mathias used that as
leverage
. He takes
cases from all over the world. Mostly rich brats with too much time on their
hands and parents with too much money to burn.
But
there are some down there who had nowhere else to go. Mathias gave them a place
when we
were forced
out. Rehabilitated them, gave them
jobs, places to sleep, food. I’d like to think, if Hadley ever became strung
out on something, she’d have this place to come to.”

Claire kept her face relaxed while her stomach did
somersaults. “How is Hadley? Have you talked to her today?”

“Talked to her? Hah. Hadley doesn’t talk to us. She groans
at us. She rolls her pretty eyes at us, but she’s fine. Got home from school
just before I tackled your backside in that alleyway. Anyway, about Mathias.
He’s a good guy. You’d like him.”

Claire smiled at Irish, running her fingers threw her
tangled hair. “A philanthropist. Who knew you bunch of cranky lawyers were such
givers?”

“Mathias is a good friend to have. He’s also responsible for
trying to help me find the person who’s making this damn synthetic blood, so I
can get my hands on whoever it is and push him, bribe him, whatever, to switch
teams or give me the formula so we can recreate it.”

Her heart sunk. If Irish didn’t find the person who made the
blood… she couldn’t go there. Wouldn’t. “Still no luck?”

He shook his dark head, pulling off his leather jacket and
throwing it over his shoulder. “Nope. Gannon took that info with him to the
grave, and Courtland’s a useless piece of shit. He tells me he has to wait for
Gannon’s contact to get in touch with him. If he’s to be believed, no one knew
who Gannon got the blood from but Gannon.”

She rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to wipe away the
chill of disgust the mention of Gannon evoked. He’d held so many strings, had
so many secrets—all of them as dark and foul as he’d been.

Dropping a quick kiss on her lips, he said, “Now, my naughty
librarian, I’m going to go rustle you up something to eat. You’re going to
shower and then we’re going to have that long overdue talk.
And
you
will
talk to me, Claire. Because
Lawson has a huge bedpost.”

Irish held up his hands to indicate how huge before he
chuckled his way out of the bathroom, leaving her to her thoughts and how she
was going to piece together a story good enough to please Irish without telling
him everything.

He couldn’t know everything just yet or he’d possibly end up
dead for the knowing. Not on her watch.

* * *

As Irish broiled a thick hamburger for Claire, carefully
monitoring it to make sure it remained rare, he scrolled through his texts from
Liam.

Fuck. Everyone was still looking for Gannon and wondering
where Claire was. He was hoping it kept Courtland and crew distracted enough
not to notice it wasn’t just Claire missing.

Hopefully
the bullshit he’d spun to
Courtland about going in search of some synthetic blood would be enough to keep
suspicion about his and Claire’s mutual disappearances to a minimum.
But
he had to get her the hell home before Courtland lost
interest in actually finding Gannon and started pointing fingers again.

And
Gannon—where the fuck was his
body? Who would take it? He damn well didn’t like the idea that a corpse was
out there floating around with someone who knew what he and Claire had done.

It was
a loose
cannon he didn’t
want to explode in their faces.

When Claire hadn’t returned that night, or all that next
day, he’d nearly lost his mind worrying about her.
So
he’d gone on a fishing expedition to her house.

Claire was as smart as they came, but she was no criminal
mastermind. All he’d had to do was pet Mr. Darcy and peruse her laptop’s
browser history to find out she was in the Zone.

When he was done cursing her, panicking about her safety,
he’d handled his home affairs, leaving Liam in charge with the notion he was
going off to find another supplier until he could clear things up with the
Dogs. They only had another two months’ supply on them, tops—he needed to find
that damn supplier. Soon.

He rooted around Mathias’s fridge, pulling out the makings
of a salad and dumping it on the white marble countertop. As he found a knife
and a cutting board and began dicing tomatoes, he had to hand it to Lawson.
This house, in the middle of the vile conditions of the Zone, was just short of
spectacular.

“Oh my God, Dark and Cranky. Is that a hamburger I smell?
Like with real meat?” Claire asked with a grin, sauntering into the kitchen in
nothing but a towel wrapped around her, beads of water still glistening on her
shoulders, her thick mahogany hair towel dried.

He turned to watch her pop open the shiny wall oven,
appreciating the swell of her ass when she stood on tiptoes to look. “It
is
,
Difficult and
Infuriating.”

Her sigh was a happy one—he knew them now, lived for them,
though he’d never tell her that. Not just yet anyway.

She came to stand by him, her eyes shining under the
recessed lighting. “You cook, too? You really are the best vampire ever.”

He waved the knife in the direction of the long breakfast
bar, forcing his eyes away from her nipples beneath the towel, nipples he
wanted to make tight and hard with his tongue. He winced as his groin tightened
beneath his jeans and tightened his jaw. “I cook. Now go sit.”

Irish threw the salad into a bowl and pulled the burger from
the oven, placing it on a
plate,
testing it with a
fork to be sure it was still rare enough on the inside for a werewolf.

Dropping it in front of her, he sat opposite Claire. “Eat.
And
the next time you decide to go on one of these crazy
fact-finding missions, which is never again, by the way, you need to remember
to feed. You need meat as much as I need blood.”

Cutting a piece of the burger, Claire dropped it into her
mouth and closed her eyes. “Were you worried about me, Irish?”

If she had any idea, she’d damn well never let him forget
it. “Eat that damn food and I’ll tell you all about it.
Hurry up
.”

Licking her fingers, she picked up another piece of the
thick burger, placing it between her full lips and running her tongue over the
browned surface. “I missed you, too.”

Irish clenched his fists together to keep from clearing the
plate off the counter, hauling her hot ass on top of it, and driving into her
until he was balls deep and she was writhing beneath him. “Eat,” he said thickly.

Claire popped another piece in her mouth, thoroughly
enjoying setting his cock on fire, judging from the smile on her face and the
gleam in her eye.

When she took the last bite, running her tongue over each
finger, he was satisfied she was nourished—or at least nourished enough to
withstand the three days’ worth of lovemaking he had in him.

“Claire?”

She tilted her head, her beautiful,
too-smart-for-her-own-good head, and asked, “Yes, Irish?”

“Get on that counter now, Librarian. Drop that goddamn towel
and spread your legs wide, because I fully intend to lodge my tongue between
them until I get my fill.”

She lifted her chin, almost in defiance, but he knew better
from her visible shudder. Claire loved to challenge him. It was one of the many
reasons he couldn’t get enough of her.

She placed her fingers at the top of the towel, running her
thumb over the place where the two ends met, tucked safely between her breasts.
Her eyes were on fire, her smile smoky and coy. “And if I don’t?”

Chapter Sixteen

Irish was around the countertop in the blink of an eye. “If
you don’t, I’ll do it for you. Naked,
now
.”

Claire hissed a breath, letting it release from her lungs,
her chest rising and falling as she let the towel fall to the floor. Irish’s
hands were at her waist in seconds, lifting her until she felt the cool marble
beneath her ass.

He peeled his shirt off, revealing his hard chest, the deep
indents of his abs making her mouth water. His shoes and jeans followed until
he was as naked as she was.

Claire slid forward on the counter, spreading her legs wide
to invite Irish
in
. She leaned back on her hands, her
nipples tight with anticipation when she captured his dark gaze. “I thought we
were going to talk?”

Irish wrapped her thighs around his waist before bracketing
her hips by placing his palms on the counter. He stared down at her, his eyes
dark and churning. “Oh, we’ll talk. Make no mistake, Claire. Just because I
want you more than I’m sure is healthy, doesn’t mean we won’t have that talk.
Now, it’s been three days since I’ve been inside you. Service me, Librarian,”
he said on a grin before he swiped his tongue over her lips.

Claire moaned, wet, achy, in desperate need of everything
Irish. His words, his mouth, his hands—all of it. Nuzzling his chin, she nipped
it hard, soothing the spot with her lips while reaching between them and
enveloping his thick cock in her hand, stroking it. “I missed you,” she
whispered, tears stinging her eyes.

For every forbidden moment they spent together, for every
moment she worried they’d be caught, this—
this
—was
all worth it.

Irish groaned against her neck, driving into her hand as she
stroked him. When his mouth found the shell of her ear, he whispered, “I missed
you, too, Troublemaker, and if I don’t fuck the life out of you, bury my tongue
in that sweet,
lickable
pussy of yours soon, I’ll
make you regret coming here without me.”

Claire arched her back so her nipples could scrape against
the fine hair between his
pecs
, moaning when their
flesh connected. “You’d damn well better make me regret it.”

Irish’s mouth captured hers, raking his tongue over her
teeth before plunging between her lips, leaving her gasping for breath. He
snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her flush to him, molding their torsos
together.

Heat pulsed between her thighs, red-hot and desperate.
Electricity sizzled through her veins when he slid his hand under her ass and
kneaded the flesh.

Claire wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him
tighter, absorbing the feel of his cool flesh, hooking her ankles behind him,
grinding against him, begging him with her body to drive into her.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he shook his head, unwrapping
her legs and stooping to grab the towel, which he laid on the counter behind
her.

Twisting a handful of her hair around his wrist, he tipped
her head back. “Uh-uh, Librarian, back that pretty ass up. When I said I wanted
to bury my tongue between your thighs, maybe I
should
have said
I
need
to bury my tongue between your thighs.
Spread your legs, Claire,” he ordered with a growl that left her heart
throbbing against her ribs.

Claire followed his command, leaning back until she was
flush with the counter and Irish had lifted her leg, his lips skimming her
calf. She shivered at the heat of his tongue, such an opposition to the cool
touch of his fingers as they trailed a path along her thigh.

His dark head between her legs drove her mad, his mouth
moving over her flesh, his hair caressing her skin. Irish leaned over her,
letting his cheek rest on her abdomen, slipping a finger between her folds and
spreading her wide.

He mumbled something she couldn’t hear for the roar in her
head, for the white-hot sliver of heat that shot to her core as she waited for
his tongue. Claire clenched her fists, bracing her heels on the counter, her
chest heaving.

And then
Irish took his first lick,
a long, searing swipe. Tears stung her eyes as all her muscles clenched; his
tongue was so perfect, so essential to her next breath.

Planting his mouth over her, he imitated a kiss, moving his
lips against her aching flesh, tonguing her clit. It took her to the most
intimate depths, touched her beyond her desire.

Claire whimpered, helpless beneath him, vulnerable to the
powerful lust he evoked in her. Raw. She was raw with agonizing need when she
drove her fingers into his hair, brushing it from his face as it fell from his
ponytail.

Irish let his fingers drift upward to her nipples, tweaking
them, rolling them between his fingers until she cried out as the first wave of
climax began its upward climb.

He slipped two fingers inside her and stroked, matching the
lashes of his tongue with his thrusts. Claire was so slick, on fire when she
bucked upward, shoving a fist into her mouth to keep from screaming Irish’s
name. “Please, Irish,
please
,” she
managed to whisper hoarsely around her fingers.

She felt the vibration of his chuckle just before he drew
her clit into his mouth and drove his fingers upward. Claire came instantly,
writhing, lifting her hips to meet his tongue, digging her heels into the slick
countertop.

Her orgasm shot through her, exploded, stole her ability to
do anything but feel every last nerve left on fire in its wake.

She sagged against the counter, gripping the edges as she
caught her breath until Irish pulled her upward, letting her fall into him,
boneless and weak. She managed to cling to his strong frame, wrapping her arms
around his waist as he let his palms glide over her arms, down along her hips.

Irish’s tenderness brought with it a realization. She needed
this man. She wanted this man more than anything she’d ever wanted before.

Claire lifted her head, placing her hands on either side of
his face, smoothing her thumb over his cheek.
And
when
he looked down at her, she knew he felt it, too. He wanted it, too—he wanted
her in his life as much as she wanted him.

“Librarian?” he whispered, thick and low.

“Cranky One?”

“Have you recuperated?”

She smiled, pressing her lips to his cheek, savoring the
eternal stubble he always had on his jaw. “Do you mean, ‘Hurry up, Claire, I
have needs, too?’”

Irish’s gaze was smoky-dark. “That would be very
ungentlemanly of me, right?”

Claire chuckled. “Gentleman can sometimes be overrated.”

“You know something?”

“What’s that?”

“You’re pretty damn hot.”

“It’s my ass and my eyelashes, right?”

“It’s
your everything
, Claire
Montgomery,” he murmured against her lips, slipping his hand between her thighs
once more. “It’s your breasts with nipples like candy. It’s your pussy, sweet,
smooth and hot on my tongue. It’s your mind. Sharp and beautiful.”

Claire melted, rubbing against his hand, taking his cock in
her palm and running her fingers over it. She slid forward on the counter to
the very edge, wrapping her other hand around his wrist to take his hand from
between her legs and insert one of his fingers into her mouth.

She let her tongue glide, wetting his finger before placing
it on her nipple. She moaned when Irish tweaked it, that driving heat returning
full force.

Irish scooped her up, carrying her to a couch, a long
stretch of beige and white fabric, and depositing her there, positioning
himself between her legs.

His cock stood rigid and thick, his bulky thighs sprinkled
with dark hair, flexing and tensing as he gazed down at her.

Claire sometimes found she couldn’t speak when she saw him
naked, he was that chiseled, that perfect. She placed a palm on his chest while
his eyes roamed over her body, drinking her in with those dark eyes.

“Roll over, Claire,” he demanded.

A shiver spiked along her spine in anticipation as she
complied with a smile, rolling to her belly and setting herself on her knees.

Irish pressed his cheek to her spine. “Jesus, Claire. I
can’t get enough of you. If you ever worry me like that again—”

“I’m sorry.
I’m so
sorry
…
”
she murmured, touched to her deepest
depths that she’d brought a man like Irish to that level of concern. Claire sat
up, pushing him until he sat, too. She leaned back against his broad chest,
sighing her contentment when he maneuvered them to the edge of the couch and
she
was fully seated
on his lap.

Straddling his legs, Claire lifted her hips, letting Irish’s
cock slip between her folds, groaning at the slick slide of its head against
her clit.

Irish wasted no time when he gripped her hips, pulling her
upward enough to hover at her entrance. Claire wasted no time when she slid
down on his hot
shaft,
seating herself there, letting
Irish fill her up, stretch her.

His teeth nipped her back as he pulled her to him, settled
inside her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace.
And
she rocked, slow, easy, using her hands to brace herself on his knees, lifting
upward, taking him back inside her in slow increments.

Irish hissed his pleasure, cupping her breasts, tugging at
her nipples until they were tight peaks.

And
her lust grew, deepening,
spiraling, threading its way to her core as she clenched his thighs with her
fingers, digging them into the thick muscles.

When Irish’s fingers slipped into her folds again, she
shuddered, falling back against him, urging him to touch her clit, placing her
hand over his, moving with him.

The press of his muscled chest at her back, his fingers
doing the most delicious things to her, his cock, surging inside her, all of it
created a blinding haze of need.

Irish nipped at her ear as their rhythm grew frenzied. “No
one but me, Claire. Do you understand me? You’ll never be this wet, this hot,
this willing for anyone but me from now on.
No
matter the cost
.”

His hot words against her ear tipped her right over the
edge. Claire shook her head as the riptide of orgasm clawed at her, begged her
to give in. “Never, Irish,” she said on a sob of pure pleasure.

Irish drove into her one last time with his face buried in
her neck and his hands gripping her flesh. He howled his release, his body
going rigid for a moment before releasing.

Claire forced air into her lungs, sagging back into Irish,
lifting her weak arms to wrap them around his neck.

He smiled against her shoulder, kissing her overheated
flesh, lifting her off his lap to pull her into his embrace.

Her eyes were heavy, as the exhaustion of merely surviving
these last three days began to seep into her bones.

Irish brushed the strands of hair from her face, dropping a
kiss on her nose before he scooped her up and carried her down that long
hallway where the bathroom was located.

The slap of his bare feet on the white oak flooring soothing
her.

The bedroom he took her to smelled of lavender and vanilla.
The sheets he placed her on, cool and soft. A thick comforter found its way up
and over her until it was at her chin, and then there was a dip in the mattress
as Irish knelt over her and pressed his lips to hers. “Sweet dreams, Librarian.”