Alpha's Valentine's Day Virgin Page 2

  “Maybe it’s just you, princess,” he mumbled, his eyes running over my body and stopping to stare at my chest.

  I folded my arms and hunched my shoulders. Yes, God had blessed me with a big chest and no, he didn’t need to look at it. There was something about Big Dog that made me want to act invisible. I knew he had unclean thoughts about me, and I didn’t like it.

  The small rough hand he put on my arm gripped me tighter and he pulled me towards him until my hip hit the shelf below the counter. He was strong for his size, which made sense since he was one of the local gang’s enforcers. The Southland gang had been bugging and harassing us for months.

  His shoulder muscles bubbled up under the black jacket her wore. Black seemed to be the standard of dress for the gang members: black shirts, jackets, ripped black jeans and various items of leather. Today, Big Dog had on a leather vest.

  His beady eyes bore into me from his overly round face.

  “When are you going to let me taste your cream, honey?” he whispered close to my ear. “I bet you’re the sweetest thing in here. And the warmest, too.”

  My body started shaking with rage. I had wanted to punch Big Dog in the face the first time he walked in here, but my father’s strict rule of non-violence kept my arms locked at my sides. My fists still clenched, though.

  The double doors to the kitchen swung open and my father walked though. Dad always had a commanding presence and he kept his head held high.

  “Mr. Big Dog,” he said, his slight accent still apparent in the nasal quality of his voice. “We have an agreement that you do not manhandle my daughter.”

  Big Dog dropped the hold on my sweater, but not until he licked his lips and blew me a kiss. The thug shifted his weight and rolled his shoulders back. A snake tattooed on his neck became visible.

  “We also have an agreement that you pay us on the first of the month.”

  He thumbed the side of his bulbous nose and raised his busy black brows. Those harry face caterpillars were the only visible hair on Big Dog’s body; his scalp was shaved clean.

  “Dominick is aware that you have been having problems getting customers due to the streets of Gray Acres getting more dangerous. One would think that you would pay us—on time—to protect this place. Perhaps it would assist your business to pay us a bit more. Things are getting worse and worse out there.”

  My whole body was hot with anger. I could feel my cheeks burning red and I had to physically clamp my mouth shut. I hated how the Southland gang was manipulating us. They did the damage that we supposedly paid for protection from.

  My father glanced at me and I knew it was to make sure I kept my mouth under control. Then he looked back at the thug.

  He crossed his skinny arms in front of his chest and rose up to his full height. My father is not a small man. His limbs are skinny, but he is at least six feet tall and he likes to emphasize that point whenever Big Dog comes in. Apparently posturing is okay in his book, just not fighting.

  “If Mr. Dominick knows that I have less customers, then he also knows that I have less money to pay him.”

  Dad looked down his sharp, hawk-like nose at the gang enforcer.

  “But I will make this deal in the spirit of friendship. I will give your members a free pastry when they watch the store. But I have to see them working. None of this ‘boys just passing by’ stuff!”

  My father had the tendency to act and talk like this whole situation was just a bunch of young boys acting up, rather than what it was— a highly dangerous street gang that beat and killed people in our area. He tutted and admonished them as if he could ground them to their rooms or deny them dinner.

  Dad walked around me and opened the display case. After pulling out an extra large apple strudel, one that was still warm, he set it down on a napkin in front of Big Dog.

  “Tell Mr. Dominick that I will have his money tomorrow. I just need to get my budget in order.”

  I knew that was code for selling more of my mother’s jewelry. Almost every precious thing she had ever been gifted or inherited was gone. It pained her, I knew, yet she never said anything to my father. But I could see the sadness in her eyes when he took things out of her jewelry box.

  The two men before me stared at each other a long moment. I felt my breath catch as Big Dog seemed to consider my father’s offer. But he wasn’t saying yes or no yet. Maybe he was wondering if agreeing to such a deal would cause him to lose face in the eyes of the other gang members.

  Tension crept into my shoulders and I realized that the way I had balled my fists was causing my nails to cut into the flesh of my hands. But I couldn’t release or relax.

  Big Dog grinned widely; a move that displayed the gold covers he had put on his teeth. He reached forward and took the offered napkin. With his fat, stumpy fingers, he pulled off a corner of a pastry and stuck it in his mouth.

  “Mmmmm,” he groaned, while chewing with his mouth open. “You’re lucky you cook good, Mr. Blenko.”

  He held the rest of the pastry aloft in an odd salute and backed towards the door.

  “I will tell Dominick about your offer. If you get the money in tomorrow, I’m sure he will be agreeable.”

  The gangster pulled the front door open, turned abruptly and strutted down the sidewalk with his exaggerated gate. When he was out of sight, I unclenched my fists.

  Mary and my mother must have been listening at the kitchen door, because just then they both popped their heads inside the bakery and looked at us. Mary was shaking slightly; she wasn’t good with confrontation or arguments. I, however, lived for them and I was disgusted by my father’s dealings.

  My face felt hot. I crossed my arms in front of my chest and glared up at him.

  “You just invited that whole gang in, you know. They’re going to eat everything we make.”

  My father turned slightly, eyeing me now—he had been staring in the direction Big Dog had walked when he left our bakery. His face was emotionless, and his mouth formed a thin line.

  Part of me wanted to turn away from his glare, but I couldn’t stop myself from speaking.

  “No one will ever step foot in here with those thugs constantly coming inside. At least before, they left the customers alone. You…you promised them food when they come in, like they were distant cousins or something!”

  Dad put a hand on the counter and leaned.

  “What would you have me do, Celeste?”

  His voice was even but not hard.

  “You know the police do nothing. I find it best to treat these men as human. Men who can be reasoned with and negotiated with. If I don’t believe that, then there is little hope in our situation.”

  His response was open and honest, and it made me uncomfortable. I dropped my eyes.

  Father continued as he strode forward and put his hands on my shoulders.

  “I know what you’re thinking in terms of alternative solutions, but none of them are any that I would agree to. I will not have a gun in this house, Daughter. It will only cause them to bring theirs. I am keeping you and your mother safe in the most logical way I know how.”

  He leaned down a bit and gave me a kiss on the forehead.

  I couldn’t think of any way to retort or change his mind, so I bit my lip and kept silent. Father would not be swayed. I knew he was doing what he thought was just and right.

  He was a man of values and integrity—part of me was ashamed that my response was as far from his as it could possibly be.

  I wanted to rip Big Dog, his boss Dominick and every other Southland gang member limb from limb for even looking our way.

  Chapter Three

  Celeste

  The small bedroom that was mine was positioned above the bakery’s seating area on the second floor. My windows looked down to the street below and to the building across from us. It had been empty for about a year. And it was a sight that constantly depressed me.

  When I was a little girl, the street had been full, lined with shops of every s
ort and the families that ran them. A dress shop used to be opposite my window and it brought me joy every morning when I was a child to watch them put out the display dresses.

  Old Woman Judy was a masterful seamstress. Her dresses were gorgeous, and as a child, I longed to have one.

  Every morning, her two shop assistants would roll out a clothing bar and two stands. Sometimes they would try to catch the shopper’s eye with bright colors: cobalt blue, deep red or lemony yellow. Other days, they would just stack dresses of any color on the display and it was like looking at a rainbow.

  Seeing what they put out every morning was one of my true joys. When the shop closed, I was fifteen, and part of me died a little. I never was able to buy one of Mrs. Judy’s dresses. Not only were they too expensive, but they also weren’t conservative enough for my parents’ rules about how I was to dress. It remained a dream that never came true.

  There was no riot of color to cheer me when I looked out my bedroom window that night. It was just gray: gray building, gray sky, the gray of old snow that had been sitting on the streets for too long, mixing with the trash and dirt. The sight was depressing, so I closed my blinds and flopped onto my bed.

  There had been no more customers after Big Dog came in. That was often the case, as if his mere presence put a curse on the place that wouldn’t wash off till the next morning.

  Mary and I had finished my cookies, scrubbed the mud from the floors and waxed the wood to a shiny finish. If we had any customers tomorrow, they would find the Crescent Moon Bakery perfectly clean.

  I burnt my chocolate chip cookies slightly, an act that earned me another lecture about money from my mom and a frown from my dad. So, I sent half a dozen home with Mary for her little brothers and sister and stashed the rest in my bedroom.

  I thought I had been stealthy about it, but after our humble dinner, Mom had caught me by the arm and pinched my hip with her boney fingers. She didn’t lecture; she just frowned and tutted.

  Laying stomach down on my mattress, I pulled the Tupperware container full of cookies out from under my bed and popped the lid open. I liked my cookies slightly burnt—I wasn’t ever certain if I subconsciously burnt them on purpose.

  I put a crisp cookie to my lips and bit off a chunk. It practically oozed chocolate. Two cups of chocolate chips had probably been too much. I savored the flavor of my baking experiment, tasting the hints of cinnamon and nutmeg I had added in.

  It was good. A nice treat after a rough day. And a tiny way to rebel against my parents and the whole depressing world.

  I ate my second cookie while staring at the ceiling. The thought of my mother pinching my hips came to me and I didn’t reach for a third.

  Was I really getting fat?

  I rolled over and got up to look at myself in the full-length mirror I had attached to my bedroom door. To me, I looked the same as I always looked: perfectly curvy, if I did say so myself.

  Mother was slightly tall, with small breasts and no hips. It was quite obvious that I was adopted. Maybe she still expected me to look like her, even tough there was no blood shared between us.

  Her face was long and narrow with brown eyes; mine was round with defined cheekbones and icy-blue eyes. Our religion required that Mom and I dress modestly in long skirts and long sleeve shirts or sweaters.

  I didn’t have to cover my hair, although I was forbidden from cutting it. So, I just kept it tied back in a low ponytail. It was golden-blonde, nothing like the black of my mother’s.

  I looked myself up and down and scoffed a little. If she wanted a daughter who looked more like her, then she should have chosen one. I was adopted when I was three—there was no secret about what my coloring was going to be, even at that time.

  Mary asked, once, if I remembered my life before I came to live with the Blenkos. I don’t really.

  I told her that any memory I have is a hazy jumble of images: flashes of government buildings and social workers, people promising that they were going to help me. Oddly enough, I didn’t remember being in an orphanage. In that jumbled mess of recollections, there were none of other children surrounding me.

  I stuck my tongue out at my reflection. I looked dumpy, not fat. My red sweater was much too large; it didn’t show the area where my waist narrowed.

  A slight quiver went through my whole body as I looked at myself.

  What would a man see? I wondered. Would a man find me attractive?

  My fingers slid to the hem of my sweater and I pulled it over my head. Ivory skin exposed, I glanced at my bulging breasts.

  Mother always hated buying me bras—double D cups are expensive, and I needed thick straps to hold up their weight. I looked at my image again in the mirror: huge, round boobs, narrow waist and wide hips.

  I secretly liked the way I looked. I liked the curve of my figure. Maybe I was plump, but in my not-so-humble opinion, the weight looked good on me.

  I hoped my future husband would think the same thing. If I ever found one. I had a few boys interested in high school, but my father wouldn’t let me date. He wanted me to marry within our church, The Path of God; he was insistent.

  That had always seemed unlikely, though, and still did up until this day. There were very few people in church that were my age—just Mary and me, really—and not many new members joined.

  Maybe I would be single forever. The thought was depressing, especially this close to Valentine’s Day.

  I wanted to be touched by a man. I was a twenty-three-year-old virgin.

  Really, I had never even been kissed.

  What would that be like? I often wondered.

  I snuck romance novels and read them when my parents weren’t around, but words in a book and actual reality were very different.

  I also sometimes played with myself in my lonely bedroom, exploring my own body since no one else could. I knew my parents thought it was a sin, but they didn’t have to know about it.

  Because I had no money and nowhere else to live, my parents might have been able to control how I dressed and looked and acted in the outside world, under the threat of kicking me out when we had fights, or, more often, just by shaming and guilt tripping me due to my natural desire to bond with and please them.

  But in my own bedroom, I was in complete control of my body and my thoughts. And today, my thoughts were on sex.

  How would a man look at me?

  A pair of deep brown eyes popped into my head. I startled myself by realizing that they belonged to the tall man from earlier today, whom I had tried to get to come inside but didn’t.

  Had he gazed at me with lust or was it just the sweet treat I offered?

  He had been handsome under that rough, wanderer getup. His tall body and broad shoulders appealed to me. I was able to tell that he was muscular by the way his old duster had pulled at his arms.

  I closed my eyes and imagined him before me, duster and hoodie gone. In my vison, he wore his rough jeans and an old gray t-shirt that showed his large pec muscles. He smiled a lopsided smile and reached for me like we had known each other all our lives.

  In my fantasy, I ran to him and he picked me up. My weight was nothing to his strong arms and back.

  “Hello, darlin’,” he said.

  Alone in my room, I giggled to myself. I didn’t even know what a man would say to me if he wanted me.

  Would he ask me if he could kiss me or just lean down and do it?

  Yes, I liked that second idea better. I supposed I wouldn’t know what to say if he asked me first, even if I wanted to.

  I imagined my mysterious stranger leaning down and putting his lips on mine. He was gentle at first, but then his mouth became more insistent. In my mind, I opened my mouth to him and let his tongue explore mine until I caught it and sucked it quickly.

  Surely, he would want to touch my breasts, or I hoped he would. I opened my eyes and took off my bra.

  Full and heavy, my breasts stuck out before me like ivory globes. I ran my hands over their sides, enjoyin
g the feeling of skin on skin. I imagined my mystery man reaching for one.

  Were his hands big enough to hold one? Would he squeeze it with his strong fingers?

  I imagined him doing just that. He took my left breast in his hands and squeezed it tight. Then he ran his fingers around my nipple.

  I mimicked his movements on my own. My nipples became hard, their pink color turning to a darker dusty rose with my excitement. He took my nipples—one by one—to his mouth and sucked gently. The fantasy made my pussy begin to ache.

  Such a man would want to see me fully nude. I unbuttoned my long skirt and pulled it down over my hips, shimmying slightly so as to not tear the fabric.

  My panties—white cotton and plain—came off next. I was nude in front of my mirror and dreaming of standing exposed for my mystery man who had been at the window.

  He would tell me how beautiful I was while he undressed himself. He pulled his tight t-shirt over his head, messing up his wavy brown hair, and his stomach was exposed to me. Hard in all the areas I was soft in, his defined muscles gleamed like the mounds of power they were.

  My eyes worshiped every inch of his torso, until they dropped down to his jeans and the button he was unbuttoning. The jeans parted and dropped, revealing boxers underneath and long strong legs.

  Then his hands reached for his boxers and… wow. I’d be standing in front of a nude man for a first time. A nude man who wanted me and wanted to take my virginity.

  My hands slid down my front, over my stomach, to the mound that sat at the top of my legs. I rubbed myself gently, inching down slowly till I found the folds of my pussy.

  Every touch I gave myself, I imagined it was him—the drifter from this morning. I thought about his fingers tenderly teasing my folds, opening them gently and seeing if I was wet for him. I was.

  As he touched me, I reached out my little hand and felt the silky-smooth skin of his dick. A thing I had never seen in person, only in pictures; glances that Mary and I took of an anatomy book in the public library.