Alpha Me Not

ALPHA ME NOT

White Wolf 3

Jianne Carlo

www.loose-id.com

White Wolf 3: Alpha Me Not

Copyright © August 2012 by Jianne Carlo

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

eISBN 978-1-61118-848-6

Editor: Maryam Salim

Cover Artist: Marci Gass

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

Loose Id LLC

PO Box 809

San Francisco CA 94104-0809

www.loose-id.com

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Warning

This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

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Dedication

For my Viking

This isn’t so much a dedication as it is a warning. Ballroom dancing lessons are in your immediate future! Happy thirty-fifth anniversary.

All my love always,

Your JB.

Chapter One

Joe Huroq tossed his duffel bag onto the bed, scrubbed the week’s worth of stubble on his chin, and blew out a long sigh. It had been a hellish three months, and he’d seen the worst of the emerging Eastern European countries, but the mission had been successful.

Yeah. Right. The team had rescued the kidnapped daughter of an oil executive from the scumbags holding her for ransom. But he’d taken one look at the broken shell of what once must have been a normal thirteen-year-old, and known she’d never be whole again. She might have been better off dead.

He knew not to go there.

The plaintive notes of “Stairway to Heaven” wafted to his ears. Joe grinned.

His back-fence neighbor, Terri, was in one of her moods. He’d learned to gauge Terri’s state of mind by the music she blared while suntanning nude in her backyard. That particular rift meant she’d had a down and dirty fight with her girlfriend, had a twelve-pack of Heines on ice, and was halfway to being pissed.

Joe’s grin went ape-shit wide. Exactly what he needed.

Shoot the breeze with Terri, get a nice buzz on, jump in the pool, and forget the bleakness in the teenager’s eyes. He shucked his button-down shirt, tossed his boots, socks, shed his worn and grimy jeans, shoved off his briefs, grabbed a towel, and padded to the back door.

Spring in Hallie was his favorite time of year. A light breeze lifted the noonday heat, and the fresh aroma of just-mowed grass perfumed the air. A seven-foot wooden fence bordered his and Terri’s backyards. She upped the volume when Joe slipped the deadbolt on the gate between the two properties.

Must’ve been a doozy of a fight.

Terri and her significant other, Petra, had a tempestuous, passionate relationship. He’d come to believe Terri secretly loved makeup sex and deliberately picked fights with Pet.

He spied Terri on the opposite side of the pool. She lay nude on a lawn chair, her face covered by a wide-brimmed straw hat. Joe raised his face to the sun and rolled his shoulders. No place in the world like the good old US of A, and nothing washed away the sins of the universe better than an afternoon of dissing the latest political gaffes and arguing about sports teams while drinking beer and scarfing down pizza. He studied the wispy white clouds dotting the powder-blue sky as he made his way over to Terri.

A four-seater patio table with an open blue-and green-striped umbrella stood adjacent to the twin lawn chairs. He glanced at Terri and frowned.

She looked…different.

Those boobs. Perfect. Rounded.

At least a C-cup, with milk-chocolate areolae, and fat, pink-tipped nipples.

His cock stirred, and he stumbled.
What the fuck?

He’d never felt the slightest attraction to Terri. He dropped his gaze lower and salivated. Inky, tight curls framed a heart-shaped mound of pubic hair from which peeked the prettiest pink pussy lips he’d ever seen, bar none. His jaw sagged, and his cock vaulted to commander-in-chief attention.

Holy Batman and Robin
. He had died and gone to vagina heaven.

The song ended. His knees buckled. Joe grabbed a chair to try to steady himself. The metal feet squeaked on the pavers.

Terri jackknifed to a sitting position.

Not Terri. Not Terri at all. Whoa!

The female scrambled to her feet, grabbed the towel from the chair, and clamped the terry fabric over those perfect breasts. “Help! Help!”

Joe blinked.

She spun around and sprinted to the small deck connected to the back of the house.

A fine ass.

High, muscled, and sweetly curved.

He licked his lips and focused on her sleek thighs and the hint of pubic hair that did a stripper’s grind-and-tease peep show with each long stride.

And all the while she shrieked like a fire engine on full alert.

The high-pitched screams made him wince, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her backside, and he couldn’t have moved an iota even if someone had put a GLOCK to his head.

She threw open the back door, raced inside, and slammed it shut.

Joe shook his head, hoping the blood pooled in his groin would somehow speed back to fuel his lust-dazed brain.

The crack of a window being opened penetrated his sex stupor.

“I called 911, you pervert. Get out of my backyard!”

Fuck.

That’s all he needed. He snatched his towel, hightailed it out of Terri’s yard, and locked the gate between the two properties. The local police station was less than five blocks away, and the notoriously underutilized force jumped at the chance to ticket a jaywalker, so Joe knew they’d nail the naked-guy-invades-neighbor’s-pool call in a heartbeat. He barely had time to gather his far-flung clothes and shrug on his pants before the distinctive whirring and staccato rapid-fire sequence of police sirens fissured the quiet of the cul-de-sac. Inserting first one arm, then the other into his shirtsleeves, Joe sprinted to the living room and flung open the door just as two cops, weapons drawn, pounded up the five stairs to the front porch. Hands in the air, he froze. “I can explain.”

The good officers didn’t buy his version of events.

“Exactly what offense are you accusing me of?” Joe asked after his fifth reiteration of what had happened.

The policemen exchanged glances. “Trespassing.”

A finable offense. “You can’t take me in on that. And there is the fact that a stranger’s in my neighbor’s house. What if she’s a squatter?”

One of the cops snorted. “A squatter who calls 911? Nice try.”

“I’ve owned this house for five years. Terri’s been my neighbor for three of those five years. Why is this stranger in her house? Maybe what you should be concentrating on is the fact that Terri’s missing.” Joe’s temper surged. Damn it. He was tired, hungry, and pissed. Not even the memory of those perfect breasts alleviated his anger.

The two men conferred quietly with each other.

“What’s the verdict?”

“We’re running a check on the property next door.”

Three hours later, Joe headed to the shower.

He stood under the streaming hot water for much longer than he should’ve, and still the tension in his bunched shoulders wouldn’t abate. No matter how hard he tried, the vision of those perfect breasts kept popping into his head, and his blasted cock kept rising in hopeful anticipation.

So Terri was in Ireland on an archaeological dig.

Joe vaguely remembered Terri mentioning she’d applied to be a member of the team assigned to a recently discovered Celtic burial mound. And this Susan White had rented the house for the period Terri would be away. Joe shampooed, lathered, and rinsed. He toweled off and fingered his jaw.

He mulled the situation over while shaving.

Once he’d come into his wolf, there’d always been a string of available women. He both relished and hated one-night stands and had fallen into the habit of sticking to one woman at a time. He picked females who knew the score and wanted regular, safe sex with no emotional complications. His frequent stints overseas resulted in stop-and-go fucking. A three- or four-month absence proved the old adage about the heart growing fonder an out-and-out lie.

He wanted Susan White.

And he was going to have her.

Joe dressed, spent thirty minutes on the Internet investigating his new neighbor, and then went out the front door. Whistling, hands in pockets, he ambled down the sidewalk. His street, Elm Close, backed the one Terri lived on, Birch Crescent. Both cul-de-sacs were mirror images of each other and ended in the traffic circles that fronted his and Terri’s houses.

He rounded the corner to Mission Street, strolled past Treehouse Park, and turned onto Bonaventure Boulevard. Glancing at the park as he traversed the five-minute walk on Champion Avenue, he noticed two junior soccer teams kicking a ball around.

Birch Crescent was one of those Hallie streets that exuded old-world charm. He fixed his attention on Terri’s country-style bungalow at the end and dead center of the road.

More a cottage than a house, the dwelling oozed quaint southern country. A wide front porch held the requisite two-seater wicker swing chair, and three antique milk cans painted a soft ivory dribbled a variety of trailing ivies, daisies, and pink petunias.

Side-by-side beds of cabbage-patch flowers, lavender, and catnip led to the steps and the front door. Joe hesitated for a second before thumbing the doorbell.

Positioning himself so she wouldn’t be able to see his face from the windows, Joe listened to the sing-song ringing and sniffed. The aroma wafting from inside was pungent with the perfume of garlic, onions, and basil. His mouth watered. Italian sauce. Marinara maybe. His stomach complained its emptiness.

The door swung open.

Joe’s dick went loco.

Long hair, straight as a pin, glossy and blue-black, framed an angular face and caressed toned, tanned arms. She wore painted-on jeans, a skimpy tank that molded those perfect breasts with tongue-licking caresses, bare feet, and she appeared about to plow him.

He was so done for.

Her eyes widened, and her nostrils quivered. “You!”

Joe’d been a Boy Scout. Always prepared. He stuck a booted foot against the doorjamb.

She tried to slam the door shut. He countered by exerting pressure on the wooden panel.

“I’m here to apologize.”

Her fierce scowl and narrowed eyes, spitting fire, damnation, and intent to maim, didn’t faze him one bit.

“We got off to a bad start. Your landlord, Terri, and I are good friends and neighbors. I’m Joe Huroq.”

Big, black eyes widened. She planted fisted hands on curvy hips and gave him the once-over, pausing with a lip-curling sneer at his obvious arousal, which thickened in optimistic expectation.