Bad Love an Alpha’s Regret by Elise Sinclair

Chapter 133

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Chapter 133

AARON

Leah looks like a go dda mn sacrificial

offering.

And it’s a miracle we made it out of that

suite without me dragging her to the

nearest horizontal surface.

She has no makeup on, at least not that I can tell. But her lips are painted bright

red.

It keeps me staring at her mou th and thinking about all the things I want to do

to it.

The whi te dress is long and almost demure. Until she moves or leans to

the side, then I get a glimpse of all that toned, tan thigh. And don’t even get me started on the top half.

Did she always look this?

My memories of Leah are vivid and I’ve known her body for years, but lately everything seems

heightened. It’s like

we’ve been together in color and all of a sudden everything’s high def.

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Her body is sexier, that’s for sure.

Or maybe that’s just my obsession with

her.

It’s something I need to hide better.

Because as an Alpha of my stature I

can’t afford this kind of weakness.

My wife should be a possession. A means

to an end.

The physical embodiment of the peace between our packs.

But instead I find myself wanting her, longing for her when we aren’t in bed tangling up the sheets,

thinking about

her when there are a thousand other

priorities I need to address.

When the limousine pulls to the curb, I step out first and then I extend my hand

to help her out.

Her fingers are so small and smooth

compared to mine. Next to me, she looks

petite and breakable. Yet she can match

my passions.

That scene from the shower…

Holy sh it, it’s ingrained in my brain.

Every whisper of her fingers over her flesh. Each throaty little moan. The way

her nipples tightened up just because

she was staring at me.

I’m hard again.

Da mn it.

I adjust myself and guide her into the

restaurant.

“You’re really taking this first date thing

seriously,” she mutters.

I should’ve from the start. I know that

now.

But I didn’t appreciate her then.

She was just a tool.

“It’s this way,” I tell her. I tip the maitre de a couple hundred and he leads us to a private part of the

restaurant.

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He opens a large, dark paneled door.

This is a separate, hidden club within Gallery. It’s Michelin-starred and every

bit as luxurious. But this area is for

guests requiring more…discretion.

There is a senator at one table

surrounded by two women who are

definitely not his sixty-year-old wife.

Another table has a Hollywood star and

his entourage.

Next are a pair of professional football players.

Several mid-level gangsters occupy a long table against the left wall.

“It’s just this way, sir,” our maitre de says.

“Thank you, Antoine,” I tell him.

We keep moving past a private wine

cache and toward a second room. It’s

screened off and Antoine sweeps aside a

heavy curtain.

What the he ll?

I stop suddenly and Leah slams into my

back.

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