Page 27 of The Alpha Escort Agency
“I'm not sure I'm available on Tuesday—”
“I'll speak to Ryan, make sure he finds some time in your diary.”
Lisa examines her face. “Fine. Tuesday it is. Just make sure you're in.”
After the meeting, she heads straight for Lisa's PA to secure the time in the diary, then she swings by Maria's desk with instructions to make sure that Lisa doesn't force her team into some impromptu brainstorm on the Monday.
Afterwards, she settles herself at her own desk and tries to get as much wrapped up as she can, working away while the others in the office one by one pack up their stuff and head off for the weekend; replaced a few hours later by the cleaners wiping down the desks, emptying the bins and hoovering the floors. Soon they leave too and her office is the only light remaining on the floor. At 11pm, when she's struggling to keep her eyes open, she heads for home.
...
Rain lashes against the window, and the wind is howling around the building. Earlier she was forced to dash out to the corner shop for some milk and had been thoroughly drenched, so she stripped down to her underwear and hung her jeans, coat and blouse on the radiators to dry, making the flat a tad steamy. Now, with her hair still damp, she feels chilly. It's the way she always feels right before her heat starts, so she tugs on an oversized jumper and hurries around the flat, arranging cushions and changing sheets.
This time she's instructed the agency to send the Alpha early because she has a strong desire to spend some time with him before the heat warps her senses and she barely knows what's happening.
She's still shoving dirty plates and cups in the dishwasher when she hears his knock at the door. It's familiar by now, a certain pattern to it and a powerful force.
Shit! She'd completely forgotten about getting changed. She looks down at the old sweater and runs her hands through her damp, messy curls. No time to change now.
She shuts the dishwasher and walks to the door, telling her legs not to race, telling the rest of her to calm the fuck down. Once again he's there, looming in the doorway when she pulls back the door, his bulk seeming to fill the entire frame. He's soaking wet, his hair slick to his head and water running down his face, his jacket and his jeans soaked through.
“Jeez. What happened to you?” she asks.
"Couldn't get a space out front. I had to park a few streets away, and it is hammering down out there.” His eyes travel down her body, halting at the hem of her jumper and meandering down her bare legs.
It's like a promise, a description of what's to come, and she swallows as that point deep within her belly begins to tingle.
“I'll get you a towel,” she says, swiveling around, but there's a loud thud and then his hands are on her.
“No.” He captures her from behind, as his hands slide up her thighs, higher and higher until they reach the ridge of her arse. Then it's as if he can't help himself. He grabs a handful of cheek, squeezing hard and growling in her ear. “Don't go.”
His body is wet against her back and the cold of it seeps through the wool of her jumper. She shudders and one of his hands glides around her hip, tripping over the waistband of her underwear and up the smooth skin of her stomach, his touch so soft she shivers again. Then he tugs her in closer and she hears the front door click shut.
“You don't smell as strong as last time.” He whispers the words into her ear and then his teeth graze around the shell, his nose nuzzling into her damp hair.
“It's not started properly yet.” It hasn't but she’s equally dizzy, struggling to find her words when his mouth moves tantalizingly slowly around her ear, reaching the centre and sending a huff of moist air whistling down her ear-hole followed by the plunge of his wet tongue. It snatches her breath away and her legs buckle beneath her.
“I'd like to eat every piece of you, one little bite,” he takes a nibble of her neck, “after one little bite."
His fingers are tracing circles over her ribs, each sweep getting closer and closer to her breasts. His touch is so light it feels like the rain had done earlier, tickling her body, barely perceivable yet enough to send her pulse racing and her cunt fluttering every time he threatens to touch her chest. His fingers sweep past again as he continues to rake his teeth down her neck and the back of his knuckles brush against the sensitive flesh of her breast.
She lets out a tiny whimper, not sure how much longer she can last standing here. It's too early for it but slick already dampens her underwear, marking the air with its rich aroma. He must smell it because his teeth dig harder against the tendons of her throat and he drags them down to her mating gland, taking an audible inhale.
There's a pause. His hands and his mouth momentarily motionless, just the beat of his heart strong upon her back and his breath warm on her neck. She digs her fingernails into her palms, screws shut her eyes, braces herself. And then he's on her. His mouth clamping around her gland and sucking hard and his hand clutching at her breast, kneading it and cupping it, running his fingers back and forth over her hardened nipple.
His other hand slips back under her jumper, hooking a thumb under the waistband of her underwear and shimmying them down her thighs to the tops of her knees. In a heartbeat his hand is back, first stroking the fine line of curls between her legs and then the swollen lips of her sex.
It's moving quickly. She'd wanted to chat to him, make him tea and curl up on the sofa, kiss him before they got to all this, but now they’re here and she could no more stop it than she could ask him to leave. Her body is too far gone, reacting to his touch, to the way he plays her so easily, like a musician coaxing a melody from the keys of a piano. She doesn't care.
His forefinger is circling her entrance, and she grapples at his arms, attempting to force him inside her, slick running down her thighs.
“Please,” she begs, but he tenses his arm, resisting her, sweeping back up the seam of her lips and opening her at the apex, discovering her sensitive nub, throbbing for his touch. The first time his fingertip makes contact with it, she blanches, the sensation too much, and he lifts his head, shushing into her ear and circling her clit like he had done her tit, sweeping past but not quite touching, the vibration of the movement enough for her cunt to clench and her stomach to swoop.
The tension builds more quickly than it ever has, the tendons in her neck strain, her back arches, the wave building, and then his hand is gone.
She squeals, but she's no time to react before he’s dragging her to the sofa, pushing her backward onto its soft belly and removing her knickers from around her ankles, and then his head is between her legs, his hair damp against the inside of her thighs, his tongue wet as he laps at her, eating up her slick, exploring every part of her; her fat lips, her hard clit, her quivering entrance. There, he hovers, his panting breath fierce against her, before driving his tongue so deep inside his teeth scrape.
The feel of it is so dirty, so animalistic, so invasive and yet a tease, because it's not enough, not hard enough, not big enough, not wide enough. She wants him to fill her up as far as she will go but before she can plead for this, his attention is back on her clit.
