she was better off alone.
Lachlyn felt the change in atmosphere and she stepped up to the trellis, trying to find the source of the disturbance. Yep, and there he was, the alpha-est of alphas. Lachlyn took a sip of her cool champagne, enjoying the way it replaced the moisture in her mouth. She’d only met Reame Jepsen twice, the first time at The Den and she’d had another brief encounter with him at the art gallery when Tyce proposed to Sage. But despite not spending more than ten minutes in total with the blasted man, she was irritated that he was the star of some of her very sexy dreams.
Like most alpha males, Reame was big, six foot three, six four? Lachlyn’s fingers curled around the trellis as she watched him move across the ballroom. Greeting someone she knew was important, Reame gripped the other man’s hand, flashing a practiced smile. Mr. Important dipped his head, a clear indication that he was submitting to the alpha male. Reame stepped into the group Mr. Important was standing with, and all four men, two CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, an investment banker and a world renowned economist, took a tiny step back. Reame Jepsen dominated the space, claiming it as his own. He was the super-alpha in a room of men who were accustomed to calling the shots and taking charge.
Lachlyn released a long sigh. Reame Jepsen bothered her.
No, he bothered the hell out of her.
And here came the moths to the flame, Lachlyn thought, amused. A tall, thin blonde spun around from the next group, squealed and all but threw herself into Reame’s arms. Cheeks were kissed before the blonde was elbowed out of the way by a redhead, then a brunette. She supposed it was business as usual for Reame. With his caramel-colored hair, olive skin, masculine face and light eyes, he made female eyes water, ovaries quiver and brains start to churn. Linc’s best friend, or so she’d heard, was the most eligible bachelor since Connor Ballantyne, and that list had included, up until very recently, her very hot and rich brothers.
He was a catch, a prize, a goal.
Lachlyn wasn’t a game-playing girl.
She was about to turn away, about to pull her eyes off his angles-and-planes face when his head shot up and their eyes clashed and held. He lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips, his light eyes not leaving her face, ignoring the woman hanging off his arm. Lachlyn stared down at him as the air between them fizzled and crackled.
She wanted him.
She was pulsing with lust, attraction, desire, need. Hot, spiky lust. Her womb was as tight as a drum and her lungs had lost their ability to breathe. Lachlyn felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle, goose bumps lifting the skin on her arms. The thought of that sexy mouth on hers, what it would feel like, how he would taste—whiskey, mint, man—drowned out rational thought. The fantasy of her dress up to her waist, his hands on the back of her thighs, her back against the wall as he slid into her was as strong as a memory from yesterday, as powerful as reality.
She understood why. He was the biggest, most powerful, highest-ranking man in the room and millions of years of biology had programmed her, and every other woman there, to want to mate with all that strength and power. Mating with him would ensure her offspring would be given the strongest chance of survival, the best genes. Her attraction to him was pure animal instinct and nothing to cause her any concern.
But Lachlyn didn’t date alpha males. Hell, she didn’t date at all. It would be easy to chalk it up to what happened to her so long ago, but Lachlyn refused to give that rapist-in-training that much control over her sex life.
Sex wasn’t the problem, that much she knew. No, thanks to her mom’s disinterest, her lack of response, her fears had taken on a different form. Lachlyn refused to ask for anything, to give up even a small measure of her independence, to make space in her life for a man, to allow herself to ask for anything, even his company.
Men liked to feel needed and Lachlyn refused to need anyone ever again. Stalemate.
Lachlyn shook her dark thoughts away, refocusing on The Alpha Male’s face. She could appreciate him for what he was, a fine specimen, and her response to him was normal, natural even. Looking at him was like looking at a Botticelli painting or a Rodin sculpture...she could admire him, appreciate his masculine beauty, but unlike art, there was a personality behind it, quite a forceful one if she read him right. He was tough and strong—someone people relied on. He would expect his woman, his mate, to allow him to protect her, to shelter her, to slay her dragons.
Lachlyn had expected the person who should love her the most to help her slay a dragon once and she’d been left to do it herself. Luckily, she’d won the battle, but she’d never put herself in the position of allowing anyone to disappoint her again.
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