The Alpha and the Envious Moon
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Love finds a way when Reid Morrison, heir to the Morrison pack, intrudes upon the Comptons' masquerade ball celebrating the return of their heir, Jasper Compton. What begins as a seduction intended to steal Compton secrets from Jasper becomes so much more as two alpha werewolves, who by destiny and a history of pack conflict should never have fallen in love, are drawn irresistibly together by fate. Their relationship has the potential to unite their people or start a war that has been simmering, barely contained for generations. With family and pack loyalty conflicting with the True-Mate bond, can these star-crossed lovers find happily ever after, or will their romance end in tragedy?
Expensive perfume, antiseptic, and leather were a heady mixture of scents that went with the low, wild, and wickedly sensual throb of the music from the live band playing in the club beneath the apartment.
Reid leaned his head against the headrest of the couch and arched his back, lifting his arse cheeks from the stick of the leather seat, his hand gripping Marcella's wig, feeling it slip and pull against the grip of the glue that held it in place. “Oh… There… Mhm, like that,” he directed her mouth on his cock through his hold on her hair.
The forbidden held a special edge of appeal, he admitted to himself. Would he have found a blowjob by Marcella as exciting if he hadn't known that ever senior wolf in the pack would consider the act taboo? He didn't know. But the taboo definitely added to the experience for him, as he suspected, it did for Marcella.
He kept his eyes closed, surrendering to the sensation, the warm, wet suck, the thrust into the hollow of mouth that ended in a rub against the soft palate before Marcella swallowed him back with a press of warm, slippery tongue against the underside of his cock. “F-k,” he thrusted into it the tight, hot hold of her throat, withdrawing enough to allow her a breath before thrusting again. “I’m close.”
He planted the heel of his free hand against the leather, feeling the cushioning beneath the smooth stretch of hide compress, and pulled Marcella’s head closer, seeking depth instinctually. Marcella’s long, tapered nails bit through the fabric of his trousers, cautioning him not to use her so roughly, but he was too close to heed her, ignoring the scrape of her teeth against his skin as she fought to keep her mouth open and taut around his cock despite the deprivation of the ability to breathe.
The burn sparked out from perineum, pulling Reid’s balls up tight, the frisson running up the shaft, swelling against Marcella’s tongue, and Reid’s skin broke out in sweat, his wolf rising, his skin itching with the urge to shift, a moment before he cried out, the relief spectacular as he came.
Marcella swallowed every drop of cum down before releasing him from her mouth, using her pinky finger to tidy the edges of her still-perfect lipstick as she rose gracefully from her knees and tottered on her too-high heels over to the sideboard, a lean, long-legged figure in a clingy, silver sequined mini dress that hugged her flat chest and arse, picked out the points of hip bones, and bulged over the swell of cock.
She poured a generous measure of whiskey into a glass and washed down Reid's cum with the amber liquid before refilling it and a neighboring glass and bringing both back to the couch as Reid recovered enough to button his shirt and tuck it and his cock back away into his trousers.
“If you’ve ruined my wig, you’re paying for its replacement,” Marcella told him sitting on the coffee table that she’d pushed back in order to kneel and suck Reid’s cock. “And next time you use it to hold me still so I can’t breathe,” she placed a foot between Reid’s still parted thighs, the pointed toe against his balls. “I will bite you.”
“Understood,” Reid accepted the whiskey glass and took a sip. “Sorry. You were less fussy as a man.”
“Hmm,” Marcella removed her foot from his groin and crossed one long, beautiful leg over the other. “I had lower standards, perhaps. But you’re forgiven. Where are we going tonight?” She rose to her feet and stepped around his legs, crossing to a mirror, and inspecting her makeup, adjusting the spaghetti straps that displayed strong shoulders, and slender but muscular arms, before smoothing her hands down the sequins of her dress. “I’m good to go if you are.”
“You’re always good to go,” he finished the whiskey and set the glass down on the table, ignoring the coaster deliberately because he knew that it would irritate her.
“No, I am not always ready to go,” she sneered over her shoulder at him. “It takes hours to look this good and you go fucking with my wig before we even leave the house,” her voice dropped in range in her displeasure, before she swallowed back her ire. “If you tell me we’re going downstairs I’ll - ” She broke off, seeing his reflection in the mirror. “You fucker,” she snapped. “If I’d known you weren’t taking me anywhere, I…”
“You’d what?” Reid rose to his feet and reached for his jacket. “You’d still have greeted me at the door in that dress and offered to suck my cock.”
“You didn’t have to accept,” she was sulky.
“Yeah,” Reid shrugged on his jacket. “But you give great head.”
“I do,” that mollified her a little. “You’re paying,” she picked up a clutch purse.
“Don’t I always?”
Reid paused by the mirror in the hallway, smoothing back the blonde shag of his hair into the band that held it, watching in the reflection as Marcella adjusted her lipstick. By the time Reid began to descend the stairs, Marcella was at his side, her hand in the crook of his elbow. He took the stairs down at a slow pace allowing for her heels.
Marcella’s apartment opened onto the street just down from the entrance to the club, and their breaths puffed in the cold night air as Reid closed the door behind them. They strolled around the waiting queue of scantily clad night-club goers shuffling their feet and talking on their mobile phones and approached the red carpet, the bouncer unclipping the rope to admit them immediately.
"Mr. Morrison, Ms. Damiano,” the bouncer greeted them politely.
“Craig,” Marcella purred as she sashayed through into the throbbing dark within. Reid blinked to adjust his sight to the shadows, the flare of colored lights blinking through the press of bodies, the grind and sweat of dancers pressing him and Marcella together as they worked their way through the VIP section.
Marcella signaled the bar, pointing to herself and then to Reid, ordering their regular, before sliding over the red leather of the cupped c of the booth seat. Reid’s phone buzzed in his pocket as the champagne in the ice bucket arrived and Marcella popped the cork with a wicked laugh, the sound seeming to summon from within the dancers familiar faces of friends and pack members, crowding up around the table, leaning across in clouds of perfume, glossy hair, and expensive designer wear to air kiss Reid’s cheeks.
Reid held a glass of champagne in one hand and unlocked his phone screen with the other. A voice message from his mother. He signaled Marcella that he was going outside to listen and wove his way with his champagne back towards the door, standing in the halfway land between the cold of the night and the pheromone and alcohol-laden interior of the club in order to press the phone to his cheek and hear his mother’s private-girls’-school cultured tone purr into the speaker.
“Your father asked about you at dinner tonight, Reid,” was the entire content of the message, but it was enough. He’d been summoned.
“Fuck,” he threw back his champagne and texted back: “On my way,” before placing the empty glass in the base of a potted plant for some lucky cleaner to find later and texting Marcella: “Have to go see my father. Put the night on my tab.”
As he stepped out onto the red carpet, he almost walked into Gregory Renmark and his date entering. “Greg,” Reid said warmly in greeting, the alcohol mellow in his mouth, taking the edge off the fact he was being called home unexpectedly. Gregory’s lip curled and he lifted his chin haughtily before guiding his date past Reid into the nightclub.
Reid’s heart raced in his chest, and he controlled the shock at the snub, adjusting his jacket before stepping to the sidewalk to signal for a taxi, avoiding the eyes of the doormen, and the ever-watching queue.
Gregory Renmark, one of his father's betas, had just snubbed the only son of the pack’s lead alpha in public. The humans might have been oblivious to the exchange, but every werewolf present had seen and noted it.
Only once he was in the taxi did Reid let his composure slip. “Fuck!”
Reid had not taken five steps across the glossy marble tiles in the foyer, his own reflection spilling back to him in tones of amber from the bronzed tinted mirrors that were not all that they seemed, many leading into the monitoring rooms of the 24-hour security team before he was greeted by his father’s personal assistant, Vincent.
“Master Reid,” Vincent fell into step with Reid as they crossed the foyer and pressed the button for the Morrison’s private elevator. “Your father asked for you.”
Vincent’s hair had begun to recede two decades before, and despite several efforts to resurrect the hairline of his youth, he was fighting a losing battle – something that Vincent found humiliating, Reid suspected, as in his other form, Vincent was an impressively coated wolf. Probably because, from the neck down, Vincent was also an impressively hairy man.
Marcella, after a few too many champagnes, had confirmed what Reid had long suspected – that Vincent was a wo
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