The Alpha CEO’s Unloved Wife

Chapter 33

Pillow Talk 

She woke with her cheek on his chest and his fingers stroking through her hair. The day was late and both breakfast and lunch trays were on the dresser. Like her previous heat, Jane found it hard to eat or drink, her body focused on one thing alone. Baron had summed it up crudely but accurately the first heat, she thought. She needed her alpha’s c-ck, to be filled with his seed, over and over, until her body was convinced that conception had occurred and the estrus passed.

“My father is dying,” Baron said quietly. “Cancer. The result of forty years of smoking. He won’t live to see our grandchildren.”

“I am sorry,” she whispered.

“Hmm,” he pressed his face into her hair, breathing in her scent, a werewolf trait, she thought, seeking comfort from the scent of mate or family. “I want to give him the answer for his father’s murder, to restore our family, before he passes.”

She caressed his skin offering comfort. “I understand,” she said. It made sense, she thought, of his determination, of his risk taking, that he was pushing his agenda of revenge on such a time schedule. “I am sorry. I wish that I could help you.”

“My grandfather was a shrewd businessman,” he said. “Ruthless. People say that I am like him,” he was amused and proud of that. “But he had enemies. I have been investigating them first. Quite a list,” he sighed. “Down, now, to four. The four that I thought least likely, as they had least motive, and least means.”

her, and the subtle scent of him that rose warm from his skin, the feel of his

would rise as strongly and as specifically. She had never had another she-wolf to

amorous, responding to the change in her scent almost automatically, becoming in tune with her

eyes close, the tension in his face ease into pleasure as she took him into her. His hands on her hips encouraged her to the pace and motion that he wanted, and she felt him arch his back, thrusting into her in rhythm with her rocking, his

big, alpha husband, his skin golden-brown against the pale sheets, his dark, glossy curls tousled, and his strong jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes,

you like what you

flushed, breathless with pleasure, the slow ache of an orgasm

me of the children’s story, the one with the maiden with skin like snow, hair like night, and lips,” he reached up, the pad of his thumb

him, flattered that he would compare her with a fairy tale beauty.

against him and rolled so they

and his expression gentle. “My little omega,” he murmured,

her head so that they were face to face, nose to nose, with her cheek on his bicep. “You still have not told me who bruised your face the other night, he murmured, tracing his fingers over her skin. “The bruise is all but gone

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