Read Ladies Prefer Champagne Alpha Male Romance Mega Bundle Online
Authors: Champagne Jackson
“Me too,” he moaned, throwing his head back and slapping my ass triumphantly. “Let’s cum together, Shaniyah, darling…”
We both moaned in unison, our flesh practically combining into one organism as we worked harder and harder in our passion.
Suddenly, my orgasm was upon me. I squealed and gasped, my body cumming hard and fast… My pussy and ass spasmed, and of course, that meant my ass gripped Rogue’s cock even tighter, massaging it and squeezing it as he fucked himself in and out of me…
And then, I felt Rogue bear down on me, sink his teeth into the back of my neck, and let out the more terrifying and erotic roar of pleasure I had ever heard. For a moment, I forgot I was having sex with a human and you could have convinced me that there was an actual animal on top of me…
My orgasm must have pushed him over the edge because he was cumming now. I felt his thick cock pour stream after stream of hot, delicious, burning wolf cum into my ass, shooting it deep into my gut… I loved the way it felt as he came inside of me, as he emptied himself into me…
And finally, he was spent. He collapsed on top of me, a panting, hot, sweaty mess of a beast.
With Rogue’s hand in mine, I descended the stairs, prepared to face my parents’ questioning and confused faces.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked me for the umpteenth time. I elbowed him lightly in the gut.
“Yes. For the last time. I want to tell my parents.”
“But…”
“They’ve fed you and housed you for years. They deserve this too…”
The breakfast table was laid out as usual, with the normal spread of pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, and more. My mother glanced at Rogue and my father peered at him suspiciously from over his newspaper.
I could tell what they were thinking, of course: just who was this young man who had just spent the night with their daughter?
“Mom, dad… I…”
I couldn’t bring myself to say anything else. Their accusing glances all but reduced me to tears.
“Would, er, your friend like some coffee?” my mother asked finally after several tense moments. I glanced at Rogue. He clearly had no idea whether or not he liked coffee.
“Sure, he’ll take some coffee,” I said finally answering for him. “Put lots of milk and sugar in it.”
“So, does your friend have a name, Shaniyah Jessica?” my father asked, using my middle name: something he only ever did when angry at me.
“Jesse O’Grady,” Rogue replied. “Or, er, Rogue, as you’ve called me…”
My father set down the newspaper.
“We’ve got a dog by the name of Rogue…”
“Aye, sir, you do. Or, you did. That dog… is me.”
And Rogue related his story to my incredulous parents. When he was finished, my father rubbed his temples in frustration.
“You can’t expect me to believe this—“
“Sir, you sing in the shower every morning. You like to sing Fleetwood Mac most days, and Pink Floyd on Fridays.”
My father stared at Rogue.
“Son of a… How the hell did you know that?”
“In the winter, I sit by the door of your bathroom. On account of the warmth.”
My father narrowed his eyes. And then burst out laughing.
We devoured our breakfast in peace after that. Rogue and I were both hungry, as you might imagine, after our night of love-making. After breakfast, my parents politely excused themselves to give us a chance to talk.
“You know I’m leaving for college soon…” I began, my hand covering his still. I felt him tense up.
“I’ll come with you.”
“Really?”
“I will, Shaniyah. I…”
He looked down at his nearly empty bowl of oatmeal.
“I’ve loved you for years. And I’m not about to let you go… Now that I finally have you.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll get a job. In town. Wherever you’re studying. And I’ll be the man you need me to be.”
I flung my arms around him. That was all I needed to hear.
Take Me to Church
Table of Contents
Eden
The Lord works in mysterious ways.
That’s what my grandma always said. She used that phrase, no matter what the occasion. Out of milk at the corner store? The Lord works in mysterious ways. Flat tire? The Lord works in mysterious ways. You got laid off, your dog died, and your aunt committed suicide? Mysterious ways. Always mysterious ways.
And I’m sure that’s what she would have said about my getting pregnant at fifteen and being shuttled off to a convent as soon as it was convenient for my ultra-Catholic parents. I was a dumb little girl and even though I’m only nineteen now, I like to think I’ve grown up a little bit—even if the last few years have seen me going through the routine of prayer, community service, and tending to the convent gardens.
Let me back up a little bit. I’m sure this sounds positively medieval, so you’ll have to forgive me. My name is Imani, Imani Pineiro. My family is an old Hatian-Cuban clan in New Orleans. We’ve been in the town for nearly two hundred years. Our family has produced cardinals and gangsters. Businessmen and war criminals.
One of my great-great-great-great grandfathers was a lieutenant general under Robert E. Lee and was executed after the war for the way he treated Union prisoners.
One of his brothers was the pastor who gave him final rites before they stood him in front of a firing squad.
When I got pregnant, it was a huge scandal. I was just a freshman at a Catholic girls’ school outside of town. It had been with a boy I met at another school’s dance. The sex—if you can even call it that—lasted less than two minutes in the back of his car before he kicked me out and I stumbled back to the dance, my lips swollen from the way he had been gnawing on my face as he humped me like a wild animal.
I didn’t think much about that night until I missed my period and from then… Well…
They pulled me out of school (I would have been expelled anyway) and stuck me in a home for wayward girls that was already attached to the Lady of the Woods Convent, about thirty miles outside of New Orleans.
It was understood that once I was eighteen, I would take orders and become a nun—and that’s what I did. My life, as far as I was concerned, was over. The love and warmth that my family had shown me ever since I was a child had disappeared, replaced only with their cold disapproval.
Every family meal processed in silence, broken only by the terse request that one of us pass the grits or sweet potatoes. On the weekends when I went home to my parents’ house, I found myself avoiding them at all costs.
I spent most of my time in my room, the family dog curled up on my feet, my nose buried in a book.
After the dog died, I stopped coming home at all. I could read just as easily at the girls’ home.
And the baby? I miscarried after only two months. It was there and gone in a flash. Sometimes, I wonder what would have become of the child—what would he or she have become? But it was pointless to wonder. Just like my grandma used to say, the Lord works in mysterious ways… I suppose.
Whenever I saw my old friends, I couldn’t help but burn with jealousy. They went through high school, going to dances, falling in love with boys, and playing sports.
Then, they went to college.
They would always gasp when they saw me, telling me how much I had grown up, how beautiful I had become—it must be all the clean living at the girls’ home, they would say. I would just roll my eyes and leave as soon as I could. What did being pretty matter if I were locked up, a prisoner in all but name?
I don’t even think I’m all that pretty. My mother and my sisters are much prettier—they look like old-time movie stars, with sultry looks and long, perfect hair. It straightens easy. They look like R&B stars, no doubt.
Me, though?
I look like my grandma, more Cuban, more black than anyone else else, with thick dark hair, plump crimson red lips, and smoky black eyes, plus deep, dark, mocha skin.
I’ve got a nice figure to be fair, but who would ever know, what with the robes and habit I had to wear every day?
I liked working in the garden at the convent, however. I felt a little bit less like a prisoner. I felt like a free woman, a woman able to go outside and do what she wants, not a girl who had been imprisoned at the age of fifteen for a stupid mistake that had never even amounted to anything. I even successfully petitioned the mother superior to expand the garden outside the walls of the convent.
Under my supervision, we started growing more and more fruits and vegetables, to the point where we were beyond self-sufficient. We started bringing our produce to a farmer’s market down in New Orleans every weekend, and the money we donated to a school in the inner-city.
It was the long days, toiling in the garden—a garden that by this point had really become more of a small farm—that I began to fantasize about running away. As the sun set each evening and I began to hoe one last row for beans or carrots, I could see myself just dashing away, off into the sunset, never to be seen again.
And why shouldn’t I? I was nineteen now. If I wanted to leave, there was nothing they could do to stop me. I could just disappear into that brilliant, orange setting sun and they wouldn’t be able to stop me. I could show them. I could show all of them.
So, you’re probably wondering why I didn’t do that. The truth was, I was scared. I had been first in the girls’ home and then the convent, for almost five years. Where was I going to go? I had no money of my own. My family wouldn’t take me in. I had no friends on the outside anymore. I didn’t really know how things worked… I almost felt like a time traveller, someone stranded on a desert island contemplating returning to society.
It was a world I no longer knew and it scared me.
At least in the convent, I could be assured that my days would be a regular routine of awaking at five, followed by a solid two hours of prayer and then a meager breakfast, before my day of work in the garden began, punctuated by breaks for meals and prayer and culminating in an evening mass before I was in bed at ten and ready to do it all over again. It was a tiring life and it didn’t leave me much time or energy to contemplate escaping.
That is, until one summer afternoon. It was blazingly hot and I was the only one working in the garden.
This was how I preferred it. I had changed out of my dark robes and into jeans and a sweatshirt—still miserable in the ninety-degree weather but more comfortable than the black robes and about the most liberal thing the mother superior would allow me to wear for work outside the convent.
I was plucking some fresh tomatoes off the vine when I heard a thrashing in the bushes surrounding the garden. I turned around, suddenly concerned, gripping my trowel.
There were coyotes and wild hogs in the area but they usually didn’t come around the garden, despite the prospect of fresh food. I had specifically placed the garden close to I-10, the nearest interstate and a large road, which ran parallel to the convent. The cars kept the animals away. I thought it was a stroke of genius on my part but no one else seemed to understand how brilliant it had been.
“Hey! Get out of here!” I called when the thrashing continued. If it were a coyote, I hoped it would be scared by my voice. If it were a hog, then I doubted it would be scared of anything.
And then, out of the brush, came tumbling a distinctly unhog-like and uncoyote-like figure. It was a man—a tall man at that, dressed all in black leather, with splashes of red across his body. He was wounded.