Chapter 16
ANITA
I’m breathless by the time I reach Wilde Charters, my lungs burning from the brisk walk from my apartment.
It’s after seven by about ten minutes.
I took my suppressant tablets at home before changing into Ash. Two scent patches, one on each wrist. The wig secured with extra adhesive. Facial hair applied carefully, chest binder squeezing the life out of me, and enough masculine cologne to choke a horse.
My entire apartment smells like a teenage boys’ locker room now, but it was necessary because I spent last night having sex with two Alphas, and this morning I need to pretend to be a Beta male working for their pack.
The bay is quiet this early, no sign of fog, just the sound of water lapping against the snowy docks and seagulls crying overhead. The boats rock gently, and the sun is climbing higher, painting everything in golden morning light.
There’s no one outside, so I hurry toward the office building, taking the stairs two at a time.
Please let Slater be late. Maybe he slept in and that’s why I didn’t see him at the house this morning when I was sneaking out.
I push through the door into the main office area, and my stomach drops.
He’s standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, steel-gray eyes locked on the door like he’s been waiting.
And he does not look happy.
“You’re late.” His words slam into me, stealing the air from my lungs.
Yet, that voice. Deep and rough and commanding. The same one that’s whispered filthy things in my ears through my headphones. Narrated every fantasy, every desperate night alone, and every moment I’ve let myself imagine what it would be like to be claimed by an Alpha who sounds like walking sin.
Joe Hamilton. My secret obsession.
Except he’s not Joe right now. He’s Slater. My boss. And he’s angry.
“I know,” I manage, dropping my voice to Ash’s register even though my throat is tight. “I’m sorry. I had some trouble getting here and—”
“I don’t want excuses.” He takes a step toward me, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the air thicker.
“When I set a time, I expect it to be met. You don’t jerk me around or waste my time because you have other priorities.
Ash, this isn’t going to work if you can’t show up when you’re supposed to. ”
His voice is sharp, dominant in a way that should make me feel defensive or ashamed.
Instead, my body responds in the worst possible way.
Heat floods through me, starting in my core and spreading outward like wildfire.
My skin prickles with awareness, and between my thighs, despite everything, despite the suppressants and the patches and the fact that I literally spent all night having the best sex of my life, I feel myself getting wet.
Slick is already gathering, hot and insistent, my body responding to his voice like it’s been programmed to.
No. Not now. Not like this.
I’m trying to stand like a man. Shoulders back. Feet planted. Hands at my sides instead of pressed between my legs where they want to be. But I’m also desperately clenching my thighs together, trying to hide the fact that my body is betraying me spectacularly.
“I understand,” I say, and my voice comes out strained, slightly breathless. “It won’t happen again.”
“It better not.” I catch his scent, and attraction slams through me alongside the arousal. “Because if you think I’m going to tolerate this kind of behavior, you’re mistaken. I run a professional operation here, and I need people who take this seriously.”
Every word vibrates through me, settling between my legs, making everything clench.
I hear what he’s actually saying. The reprimand.
The warning. The very reasonable expectation that employees show up on time.
But underneath, layered over it, my brain supplies what it would sound like if he said those exact words in that other voice.
The bedroom voice. The narrator voice. The one that’s kept me up at night, whispering stories that weren’t meant to be dirty but left me soaked anyway.
The voice that narrated a hundred fantasies before I ever saw the man behind it.
Velvety smooth, steel-laced, carved with power, and layered in heat.
When I set a time, I expect it to be met.
My imagination hijacks the moment, and suddenly I’m somewhere else, no longer in the office, but pinned beneath him on a mattress that smells like his skin, his voice curling around me like smoke. His body above mine, hard and hot, his mouth at my ear while his hand slides between my legs.
This isn’t going to work if you can’t show up when you’re supposed to.
His teeth scrape my jaw, his fingers curling possessively around my throat, just enough pressure to make my breath catch. I’m trembling beneath him, legs parted, back arching, offering. Obeying.
You don’t get to jerk me around or waste my time.
He’s inside me in one slow, devastating thrust, and I’m choking on a moan as he starts to move, each stroke a demand.
Because when I give you an order, you obey.
The words that my mind is now making up are a trigger.
A shudder rolls through me, deep and liquid, centering right between my legs.
My pussy clenches helplessly, slick and aching, and I swear I feel the binder over my chest catch against the hardness of my nipples.
I’m soaking through my underwear, and it’s a miracle I haven’t buckled yet.
“Are you even listening to me?” His voice cuts through the fantasy like a whipcrack.
I snap back to reality, blinking hard, my face flushed hot. “Yes. Absolutely. Won’t happen again.”
He’s studying me now, head tilted, those gray eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read something on my skin.
Something’s wrong.
Everything’s wrong.
“Good.” He takes a step closer, and heat rolls off him in waves, his scent surrounding me. “Because I don’t have time for this. We have clients coming, and I need you to be ready. Phone charged, social media accounts loaded, and your head in the game. Can you handle that, Ash?”
“Yes.”
His eyes sharpen. “Yes what?”
That question lands like a gut punch, and my mind blanks. And my brain fills in the rest for me with devastating clarity.
His voice lowering.
His hand reaching down, wrapping around himself, thick and hard and glistening, him saying, Yes what, baby girl? Say it. While you’re still able to talk.
He’d push inside me without waiting, one strong arm braced beside my head, the other gripping my thigh as he drove in deep. I’d cry out, my fingers scrabbling at his back, my body arching into him, wrecked already and begging for more. Say it while you still can. Before I fuck the words out of you.
My body nearly buckles.
Another wave crashes through me, bigger this time, like my body is turning itself inside out trying to find relief. The tension builds sharp and fast, a burning, unbearable need sitting just under my skin.
I somehow choke out, “Yes, I can handle that,” and it’s not a lie exactly, but it’s a miracle I get it out at all.
He holds my gaze, and I swear he knows. That he can feel what’s happening. The tremble in my limbs, the flush creeping over my chest. The way I can’t quite look at him without thinking about what it would feel like to be bent over his desk and stripped of every excuse.
But he doesn’t say anything else. He just turns, voice calm but firm. “Meet me down at the charter in five minutes. And, Ash? Don’t be late again.”
Then he’s walking away, and the second the door clicks shut behind him, my body detonates.
The orgasm barrels through me, sudden and savage. My hand shoots out to grab the edge of the desk just to stay upright, my other pressing hard against my stomach to keep from crying out again. My thighs clench together, my whole body vibrating with release.
I come, standing here in the middle of the office, fully dressed, shaking and panting and helpless.
Just from his voice.
Just from the idea of him.
Wave after wave rolls through me, my head dropping forward, hair falling into my face as I gasp through it. It feels endless, like the dam has broken and there’s no putting it back. When it finally begins to ebb, I’m left limp and shattered and horrified by my own reaction.
What the hell is wrong with me?
And how the fuck am I supposed to survive the rest of the day?
I push off the desk on shaking legs and rush to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
My reflection in the mirror is a disaster. Flushed face despite the masculine makeup. Eyes too bright and glassy. Lips parted and swollen like I’ve been kissed. I look thoroughly messed up, which is unfortunately accurate.
I clean myself up as best I can, horrified by how wet I am, how thoroughly my body betrayed me. I change both scent patches with fresh ones from my pocket and try to pull myself together.
You can do this. It’s just a charter. Just a few hours on a boat. You’ve handled worse.
Except I haven’t. I really, really haven’t.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and head back out.
With the work phone and laptop in a bag and over my shoulder, the walk down to the docks feels surreal, like I’m moving through a dream. My body is still humming with residual pleasure, still sensitive and reactive in ways that beg me to crawl back into bed and hide.
I’m halfway across the pier when I spy Jasper walking toward me from the opposite direction, hands in his pockets, that captivating smile on his face when he sees me.
He nudges me as we pass, friendly and casual like guys do, but it’s harder than I expect and I stumble.
He immediately catches me by the arm, steadying me with easy strength. “Hey, careful there, man. Thought you could take it.”
His hand is warm through my jacket. Solid. And for just a second, we’re close enough that I can see the exact moment something shifts in his expression.
He pauses. Sniffs the air.
Oh, fuck.
“You smell…” He trails off, his brow furrowing. Then his eyes widen slightly. “Why do you smell like her?”
I freeze. My brain completely shorts out, all the blood draining from my face.
He’s still holding my arm, staring at me closely. “Fuck, sorry, man.” Understanding dawns across his features, and he pulls his hand back like I’ve burned him. “Right. You live together. Your sister. Of course you’d smell like her.”
He shakes his head, almost laughing at himself, but there’s something in his expression. Something that appears almost like longing mixed with frustration.
Then he’s walking away, muttering something under his breath, and I’m left standing there trying to remember how to breathe.
Just great. Perfect. Exactly what I needed.
Maybe going on the boat today is a terrible idea.
I should fake being sick. Claim food poisoning. Run away to a different country and start a new life where I’m not constantly lying to people I’m developing feelings for.
But I don’t because I’m an idiot who apparently enjoys torturing herself.
I keep strolling toward the charter boats, forcing one foot in front of the other.
Slater is standing on the deck of the largest boat, talking to someone.
Men in expensive jackets, clearly clients, standing near the bow, chatting with Slater about something while he nods and gestures toward the fishing equipment.
I peer closer, trying to get a better look at their faces as I climb up onto the deck, and my stomach clenches with sudden dread.
No. It can’t be.
But as I get nearer, as the angle changes and I see one of the men clearly, ice floods through my veins.
“Ash,” Slater states, turning toward me with that a professional smile he obviously uses for clients. “Let me introduce you to our guests today. They’ve booked a private fishing charter.”
He gestures to the two men, and I force myself to look at them even though every instinct is screaming at me to sneer.
“This is Dr. Langston Reed and his business associate, Rex Anderson. They run a popular radio show.”
Reed steps forward, hand extended, and I see him clearly now in the morning sunlight.
Mid-fifties, silver hair perfectly styled in a way that probably requires a professional.
Button-up shirt and jeans under his designer jacket.
Confident smile and cold blue eyes. The kind of man who’s used to being the most important person in any room and expects everyone else to acknowledge it.
“The True Bond Hour,” Reed states, his voice smooth, every syllable emphasized. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
I can only stare at the outstretched hand, my vision narrowing, my chest tight.
Because the devil who is against everything I stand for with my radio show, the man who believes Omegas should be submissive and controlled and trained like pets, the person I’ve spent years fighting against with every anonymous broadcast, is standing right in front of me.
Expecting me to shake his hand.
Expecting me to smile and be professional and spend the next several hours trapped on a boat with him.
And I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to survive this without exposing myself or committing murder.