An Omega For Two: SoCal Cuties — Book 1 Read online

  An Omega For Two

  SoCal Cuties — Book 1

  Aspen Grey

  Contents

  Scent of the Author

  Foreword

  1. Max

  2. Sawyer

  3. Max

  4. Sawyer

  5. Elijah

  6. Sawyer

  7. Max

  8. Sawyer

  9. Elijah

  10. Max

  11. Elijah

  12. Sawyer

  13. Max

  14. Sawyer

  15. Max

  16. Elijah

  17. Sawyer

  18. Max

  19. Elijah

  20. Sawyer

  21. Max

  22. Elijah

  23. Max

  24. Sawyer

  25. Max

  26. Max

  27. Max

  28. Elijah

  29. Sawyer

  Epilogue

  Scent of the Author

  Also by Aspen Grey

  30. Alpha’s Destiny (Texas Heat Book 1)

  Scent of the Author

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  Foreword

  My FIRST MMM series! Something hit me and I just had to do it. You guys voted, so here it is!

  First of all, thank you ALL for sticking with me through my journey as a writer. You are the reason I do it! This series is going to be a bit of a change, but still filled with all the great stuff you expect from me! I’ve been inspired and more will be coming soon!

  <3 Aspen

  Chapter One

  Max

  As I stood on the balcony of the Golds’ sprawling beach house on the coast of La Jolla, San Diego, watching the spray from the waves as they crashed against the cliff breaks, I felt myself wondering about what my life would be like if I was the one living in this house—not the one cleaning it.

  It was, January, which meant “winter” in San Diego, but the breeze coming off the water was still warm. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the refreshing salty smell of the ocean and pretending that the deed to the house was under my name, that I’d just come home from a long day at the office (where I made tons of money, of course) and now I was ready to relax and enjoy a nice blowjob from my sweet omega.

  Of course, none of that was even remotely true, but it was fun to pretend. Not only was I a housecleaner, part-time at that, but I was also an omega—if anything, in that scenario, I’d be the one giving the blowjob to my gorgeous, world-conquering alpha after he came back from work. But that wasn’t the case either.

  “If only,” I muttered to myself as I stepped back inside and locked the door behind me. “But hey, I can dream, can’t I?”

  All I had left to do was the kitchen, which I didn’t mind doing at all, as the Golds had a beautiful indoor herb garden that smelled of rosemary, thyme and basil, which made my chore of wiping down the counters and doing whatever dishes they’d left for me a lot easier. I could still hear the light sound of the ocean waves breaking against the rocky beach as I finished up my work for the day, put my things away and headed out to my faded yellow sedan to start the drive back home. But as I was leaving, Mrs. Gold was coming home.

  Shit…

  “Oh, Max!” she cried out in that shrill, queenly tone of hers as she tumbled out of her big black sedan, Michael Kors purse slung around her stick-like arm. “Don’t go just yet!”

  “I’m all finished inside, Mrs. Albrite,” I groaned, not stopping as I walked towards my car.

  “I just—I have a few bags of trash that need to be put out. They’re in the garage. Could you do that for me?”

  It wasn’t so much of a question as it was a demand, and seeing as how I worked for her, I was obligated to do it. I didn’t really mind, of course, but there was something about her tone that just really grated on me. It was like I was the help—not a hired employee. I was her servant, her inferior, and I could see it made her feel good to boss me around.

  “Sure,” I replied, forcing a smile as I followed her as she opened the garage to reveal three stinking bags of trash, probably filled with her horrible New Age diet crap that always seemed absolutely disgusting and I had no idea how she managed to eat it.

  “There they are, dear,” she said with a smile as she headed into the house. “And again, thank you so much!”

  She didn’t even wait for a reply. She just shut the door behind her and left me there with the stinking bags. My forced smile vanished immediately as I grabbed two of them and stuffed them into the enormous trash barrel. Evidently, it had been too much for her to even put them in the bins. There were plenty of great, nice people living in La Jolla, but Mrs. Albrite was not one of them.

  I finished with the trash, used a wet wipe to clean my hands, hit the garage door closer behind me and walked down the driveway to my car.

  My car sounded like a coughing old woman as I made my way up through the hills, passing all the glorious expensive homes filled with happy people, and merged onto the La Jolla Parkway. It was just early enough that the traffic wasn’t just bumper-to-bumper nonsense yet, which meant I could actually space out and think a little as I drove.

  I thought about what the weather was like back home—I still thought of New York as home, despite having been here in San Diego for the last four years. I left when I was eighteen after my father died. The long, cold, dark winters were just too much for me, and I always had an independent side to me, so I headed out for the West Coast and never looked back.

  The “winter” here meant high 60s every day, or 70s, but slightly chilly when the sun went down. Compared to the three feet of snow, icy roads and temperatures in the low teens, it was like Heaven.

  The alphas were hungry out here and there were a lot of them. The typical surfer dudes with their abs and their tans and their long hair and necklaces, the club guys with their slick suits and gold chains, the skateboard bros and the hippies. After a slew of failed dates and attempts at romance, I’d ended up settling down with my now-boyfriend, Elijah, who worked as a freelancer in the IT industry doing random jobs around the city.

  He’d grown up in Pacific Beach with his family, his father, John, who tends bar and his mother, Suzanne, who works part-time at a daycare. We were now living in a kind of crappy apartment complex in Mission Valley near the hotels. It doesn’t take a great mind to imagine the kind of strange people and things that would occasionally spill over into our neighborhood.

  “Hey, watch it, dick!” A gruff voice shouted from beside me. I glanced over to see a douchebag in a Lamborghini blast past me, obviously unhappy with my presence on the road. The bright yellow shine of his sports car stood in sharp contrast to the faded, day-old banana color of my frumpy sedan.

  “Ah, fuck you!” I shouted back, but he was already gone. I sighed and kept my head down the rest of the ride home. When I finally pulled into the driveway and saw that Elijah’s car was home, I was both relieved and also a little annoyed.

  On one hand, I had my boyfriend at home to cuddle with, but on the other hand, I’d again worked a longer day than him, and probably made a ton less money. I felt like we were spinning our wheels a bit. Elijah’s talents just weren’t being used to their fullest. He needed a steady, salaried job with a technology firm or a software company or something. He kept saying he would get one, or at least try to, but the weeks kept sliding by and nothing happened.

  I’ll have to talk to him about that soon, I thought miserably as I got out of my car and made my way up the stained driveway to t
he main door to the apartment. As usual, it was propped open (illegally) and I kicked away the old box of cigarettes by the doorjamb to make sure it closed and latched behind me. A shady couple was talking quietly at the end of the hall, and I made sure not to catch their eye as I slid my key into our lock and opened the door to our apartment.

  “That you, babe?” Elijah’s voice came from the couch. I set my bag down and smiled as he looked back at me.

  “Who else would it be?”

  “Long day?” he asked with his typical perceptive radar.

  “I don’t stink, do I?” I asked, thinking of Mrs. Albrite’s trash. Elijah leaned in and sniffed me.

  “Nope,” he replied. “Long day?”

  I shrugged. “Longer than yours. How’d it go at the car dealership?”

  I crashed down beside him on the couch and dropped my head on his chest. “Boring,” he replied. “Just had to install a big TV and then call the company to have them activate the Wi-Fi and ads. Most of the time was waiting on the phone for them to get their shit together.”

  “How come you look so tired then?” I asked him, running my hand across his stomach, wishing that for once I wouldn’t have to be the one to initiate things.

  “I don’t know,” he sighed, taking my hand in his. “Just…one of those days, ya know?”

  “I guess,” I replied. I knew the real answer, of course. He just wasn’t feeling inspired. His life was boring, plain and blasé. Of course, I couldn’t say much about my situation either. We were in a rut and had been in one for a while now, and neither of us was sure how to get out of it.

  So I decided to be spontaneous and quickly got down on my knees in front of him. He’d changed into his sweatpants, which came down with a quick and easy tug, exposing him before me. I heard his sharp intake of breath as I took his cock into my mouth and urged it to attention as I began to suck it. He groaned, and although it took a little more coaxing than I’d like, he soon grew hard between my lips.

  “Mmmm, this is unexpected,” he smiled, running his hand through my hair. I smiled up at him like a good omega, holding his arousal with one hand and stroking his balls with the other.

  “Want to put this bad boy inside of me?” I asked him.

  He nodded, and I twisted around and presented myself to him, kneeling before him, doing my best to turn him on with my obedience. I felt my slick starting to form as he got up off the couch and took his position behind me, and gasped as he entered me. Elijah was no slouch, but his cock wasn’t devastatingly large or anything, so there was no pain as he slid into my ass, and I smiled as I felt his balls press against mine.

  “Mmmm, baby,” I moaned, putting on my best porno voice. After a long day—or even a day at work—Elijah took a little extra persuading to get going, and I’d developed the porno voice as an extra method of getting him going.

  I moaned loudly as he started thrusting and reached between my legs to grab his balls tightly, which he loved. He picked up the pace and I gripped the leg of the coffee table to brace myself against his thrusts.

  “That feel good, baby?” I asked him.

  He grunted in reply and I fell forward as he pressed his weight against me, pinning me to the floor in an uncharacteristic display of alpha-like dominance. I closed my eyes and let him take over as he kept thrusting his cock deep into my ass, which was wet with my slick, and smiled wider and wider each time his balls pressed against mine.

  He thrust deep and let all of his weight drape against my body, halting his thrusts for a moment and letting his dick rest inside of me. I reached back with one hand to stroke his hip.

  “Mmmm, getting close, baby?”

  His breath was deep and strong against my ear, and I caressed his body as he lay there inside of me. I pressed back against him, urging him to keep fucking me, but he refused and instead, held his cock where it was like the slightest movement might cause him to tip over the edge and blow his load too soon.

  “It’s okay if you want to come,” I told him. And I wasn’t lying. It actually made me proud that I’d been able to get him so close so quickly. “I like it.”

  I ground against him again, but felt something that made my eyes pop open as I realized what had really just happened.

  He wasn’t close, he wasn’t holding back to keep from coming too soon. He was asleep.

  Chapter Two

  Sawyer

  As I stared out the window of my office that overlooked all of downtown San Diego, watching the lights of the cars as the sun began its journey from the sky down towards the ocean, I felt like the goddamn king of the world.

  My firm, Cooper, Moyer and Reynolds, had just won the biggest case of our entire career, a victory that would not only make all of us rich, but would firmly establish our dominance as the top legal firm in the city. We’d just won a major lawsuit for a local indie author who’d had the plot from their latest book completely ripped off by one of the big Hollywood studios. The film had gone to earn almost half a billion dollars domestic, and twice that at the international box office. They’d thought no one would notice or care about some lowly self-published author’s complaints about plagiarism. They were wrong.

  The guy would never have to work again for the rest of his life—not unless he wanted to, which he would, of course. He was an artist and wanted his work to be seen by the rest of the world, not just sit back on a chunk of change and do nothing into his old age. But our percentage of the settlement was substantial, as we’d taken on the case pro bono with expectations of a win. And boy, had it paid off.

  What a journey, I thought as I looked at my reflection in the plate glass. I still couldn’t believe what I saw: a tall, handsome, twenty-nine-year-old man wearing a designer suit and equally expensive leather cap-toe Oxford shoes. I’d come a long way from the lost, teenage runaway I’d been some fifteen years ago.

  Originally from Modesto, I came from a household of abuse, drugs and drinking, and all-around horrific energy that swirled around me all day every day. Mom and dad fought like mortal enemies, and with the house being as small as it was and me being the only child, I found myself caught in the middle of everything—every time.

  So, at fourteen, I had myself emancipated and got the Hell out. Unlike others who had done the same, I kept my head down and focused, worked my way through school while crashing out on couches and spending occasional periods in shelters. I eventually ended up with a scholarship to Stanford where I got my law degree. I was passionate about law and it wasn’t long before I became partner. It was the proudest moment of my life—up until this one.

  “There he is!” Voices exploded behind me as the door to my office flew open and the boys rushed in. I spun around to see Tyson, Scott and Becker with grins on their faces and hands in full salute as though I was their commanding officer. “All hail the conqueror!”

  That was Tyson, the most verbose and jester-like of the crew. He was wearing one of his almost over-the-top suits with pinstripes and clapped me heavily on the shoulder. I couldn’t help but laugh as we all shook hands. I couldn’t have imagined a better birthday treat than winning the biggest case of my career thus far.

  “Drinks!” Becker cried out. “Time to hit the town!”

  “Drinks and booty!” Scott laughed.

  The next thing I knew, I was being carried out of my office, into the elevator, down into the parking garage and thrown behind the wheel of my own car.

  “The captain drives!” Scott roared as I thumbed the “Engine Start” button and whipped the sports car out onto the downtown streets. The orange glow of the sun finally coming to rest behind the Pacific was in the corner of my eye as palm trees whisked by as we sped towards some unknown destination.

  “Left here!” Tyson pointed at the very last second, causing me to swerve past a Prius and jump a yellow light. “Now right!”

  “Where the fuck are we going?” I bellowed. “You’re shit at directions!”

  “Drinks and booty!” Scott repeated. We whizzed through d
owntown, the boys hooting and hollering like a frenzied pack. I half wondered if they were all going to take their panther forms right then and there. Thankfully they didn’t, and Scott aimed his finger to a scuzzy-looking parking lot with an option slot. “Slide this big ol’ dick of yers in yonder slot!”

  I whipped the car into the open space and switched off the engine. The crew spilled out, patting me on the back and cheering as they led me to the entrance of a club I’d never seen before.

  The Cockpit. That was its name, flashing loud in pink neon that hung above the door.

  “After you, sir,” Scott said, saluting again as I stepped through the door into a hilarious dive that was sort of half-club/half-strip-club at the same time. A laughably out-of-shape guy pranced around a pole at the end of the room, while a handful of betas (probably his friends) threw about twenty dollars’ worth of ones at him, scooped them back up off the “stage,” and threw them again.

  “This way,” Tyson told me, steering me towards the bar. He slammed his credit card down and roared at the bartender. “Start a tab, chief!”

  The bartender, a gruff-looking, no-bullshit kind of guy, threw him a sidelong glance but took the card and gave it a swipe.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked.

  “Four vodka tonics!” Becker cried out before Tyson could reply.