Ruff Trouble

by Sharon Maria Bidwell

  They slowed, and she squeezed him on every inward stroke as he’d asked. She threw back her head as far as the sofa allowed, knocking her hat askew. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her beautiful face as she responded to his body dancing with hers. Her eyes closed. Although she wore her hair in a tight chignon for work, it now spread in a warm brown web, loose about her shoulders. With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her mouth took on a tortured appearance. Her lip popped free as her grip on his arms tightened. Her hands weren’t the only things squeezing him. “I…oh!”

  The plaintive cry took him with her. He pushed as deep as the position allowed. The fluctuating waves of her orgasm beat against his cock, Bobby already coming, so the ebb and flow threatened to milk every drop. Her eyelids fluttered as he sagged against her.

  Her hands drifted, stroking his back. A vague impression told him he should withdraw, or at least ease his weight. He did neither.

  “You didn’t knot.”

  “Is it disappointment I hear?” His surprise made him move where gallantry failed. He propped himself up with an elbow against the arm of the sofa. “You know I don’t always.” If he were in dog form, he would, but it happened on occasion in his human shape, more often around the time he sensed Chantelle was most fertile. They weren’t trying for a family, but his animal half didn’t care about contraceptives and choices, simply responded.

  “Maybe.” She grinned at him. “You were the one telling me I wasn’t full enough.” A trace of sarcasm emphasised the word. Oh, so she had noticed.

  “Yes, well, as nice as it would be to tie to you, makes it awkward for me to put you in the shower and fuck you again.”

  “Oh, is that what you’re going to do?”

  “Hm…hmmm.” He made sure he sounded both decisive and appreciative. She tapped the peak of his cap.

  “Not wearing this, you can’t.”

  “It is removable,” he reminded her.

  “I like it on you.”

  “Sure you wouldn’t prefer the helmet?” He waggled his eyebrows, referring to the conical custodian helmets male constables and sergeants wore when on foot duty. His version came with plenty of innuendo.

  “You get enough of boobs in your face; you don’t need to wear one on your head. As for helmets…” Chantelle glanced between them, although he remained inside her.

  “I think I’ll leave my helmet where it is and carry you to the shower.”

  She pursed her lips and cocked her head. “Fine, we can do that. Then you can do something else for me.”

  “What?”

  “You can end this fight with Sam.”

  Bobby groaned. He pulled out of her, an emotion akin to homesickness striking him in the general direction of his dick. The particular organ wanted to return to where it nestled so comfortably.

  “We are not fighting,” he said, uncertain whether he addressed the Sam issue, or argued with his cock. Down boy! No. You can’t go back there. Well, you can…in a few minutes, in the shower. Patience.

  “Maybe not a fight.” Chantelle ignored the hand he held out meaning to pull her to her feet, oblivious to any concerns she might leave a wet patch on the seat. Great; even that mental picture turned him on. Both stared at his dick as it betrayed him. Stop waving at her.

  “Bobby, he’s miserable.”

  “He’s moody.”

  “Miserable.”

  “Moody.”

  “Well, yes, but more so since I came on the scene.” Chantelle toyed with her navel, one finger circling, drawing his gaze to the action. She laid nude, one leg out, one bent back, and a heel on the edge of the sofa, knee swaying side to side. He got little flashes of flushed and distended lips and fought not to fall to his knees to kiss them. If he did so while they were having this conversation, she wouldn’t let him worship her. She’d box him around the ears with her knees and clamp his head in the vice of her thighs. She pouted. “You know he loves you.”

  Bobby took a deep breath. Not the first time she’d told him, but he’d heard it for the first time last week. “I’m sorry. I don’t see it. He’s said nothing, never given me any such sign.”

  “As far as he’s concerned, you’re straight.”

  Bobby deliberately glowered at her.

  “Fine, macho man, but you know what I mean.” She kicked at one of his legs. “You’re policemen. How many gay police do you know who are obvious about it? It’s not as if another man would be a big deal for you, but Sam isn’t to know. He’s not about to tell you he loves you and end your friendship, or risk losing your respect. I know you won’t react that way, but he doesn’t.”

  No way to argue. Sam had been…was an excellent policeman before some drunken bastard aimed a stolen car in Sam’s direction. Sam ended up with a pronounced limp and a desk job. Analyst. Yeah, right. The perfect job for Sam…not!

  Chantelle had taken over Sam’s position in the department, and Bobby fell instantly and secretly in love with her—secret to anyone but Sam, who perceived it in his eyes the moment Bobby noticed her. Sam had warned him to tone down his reaction before everyone in the station realised, but had done nothing to come between them, when he might have blabbed. If Sam loved him as Chantelle claimed he did, Bobby called that heroic.

  Undoubtedly sensing his emotions, Chantelle continued. “I know it eats at you. You wouldn’t have met me if Sam hadn’t been harmed. We both sort of owe him.”

  Crouching, Bobby met her gaze. “What would you have me do?”

  She shrugged. “If it were possible, would you shy from a relationship with Sam?”

  “You mean if I’d known, would I have done something about his feelings?”

  She hesitated, nodded. Bobby gave the idea his attention.

  “I like Sam well enough.” Chantelle raised an eyebrow. “Fine, I love the guy, but I hadn’t thought of Sam sexually.”

  “Because he’s a man?”

  “Because he’s human.” Bobby spoke with care. “To be with Sam, I would have to explain what I am. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you why.” His penis sometimes behaved the way a canine’s did, and if he ‘tied’ to Sam while inside him, it would take some explaining. He imagined it now, having to hold the other man still while Sam spat and cursed at him, all so he wouldn’t injure himself or Sam by trying to pull away. The scenario was the best course of events he might hope for. He’d hate to spot fear in Sam’s eyes.

  “So, you’ve as much to fear as Sam, maybe more.”

  “I guess. It was never an issue because—”

  “Because you were too blind to see he loved you. Hell, Bobby, I can smell his yearning every time he’s near you. Why can’t you?”

  “I…don’t know. I mean I sensed arousal, but I believed he was—”

  “Horny?” Chantelle gave him wide disbelieving eyes.

  What to say? “I’m a man. I think that way. Sue me.”

  “I’ll do more than sue you.”

  “Darling, I’m with you now. I like women. I wouldn’t have minded fun with Sam, but…” He stopped talking. “Hang on. You said would I shy from a relationship with Sam if it were possible. You’re not talking past tense.”

  She grinned. “Took you long enough.”

  “You want me to…” He took off his cap, ran his fingers through his hair. Struggled to deal with this.

  “What if I said the idea of you and Sam together gets me hot and bothered?”

  “I’d say I like you hot and bothered. I’m not sure how Sam would feel.”

  “What if I were to tell you he’s a little bi?”

  Bobby blinked at her. He knew he was blinking. His eyelids bounced open and closed. The action made him more aware of the imbalance of having a contact in one eye even if it didn’t interfere with his vision. He needed to remove it and, oh…yes, fuck Chantelle in the shower. “I’d say I’ve missed a lot somewhere, and you need to get me up to speed.”

  “We can do that, after our shower.”

  “Shower,” Bobby agreed. He stopped
thinking beyond fuck Chantelle in the shower.

  Chapter 2

  As Sam Sanders entered the restaurant, his reflection startled him in the mirrors lining the wall behind the bar. Sourpuss. What his mother used to call him whenever he got this expression on his face, albeit with much affection. Same countenance many of his friends called his sometimes-gloomy mien with less tenderness. Even those who loved him found his mood swings tiresome. While he should outgrow his sullen state of mind, they snuck up on him more often. Most when Bobby was in the room.

  Now Bobby was with Chantelle, things should be better. He must accept what he’d known all along: Bobby was a heterosexual. Useless to deny the man had met one hell of a woman in Chantelle. Despite his natural attraction to men, Sam also responded to dominance. He’d endured an attraction to women before; in time he accepted why. All the women he longed for were strong-willed. If Chantelle had ever come on to him, thrown him on his back, and straddled him, he wasn’t at all sure he wouldn’t have gone along with her for the experience.

  He’d known the moment he met her Bobby would fall, longed to hate her for it, unable to. He wanted to begrudge her Bobby, and vice versa; carried a yen for them to share his misery, unable to wish that either. He loved Bobby and suffered a strong attraction and liking for Chantelle. Impossible for him to have Bobby, so he needed to find contentment. Be gratified the man he loved had found the perfect mate.

  Give it up. Let him go.

  Tell an aching heart.

  “Cheer up, mate,” a man advised on his way out, reacting to Sam’s expression. “Might never happen.”

  “That’s the problem; it won’t.” He must have scowled because the smile on the man’s face became uncertain. The speed with which the stranger departed was none too sluggish. Did Sam appear murderous? He took another look in the mirrors. Crap. He did.

  Having spotted the table where Bobby sat with Chantelle—her musical laughter attracting every man and many a woman’s attention—he headed over, trying not to hobble. A walking stick didn’t help much, and nothing lessened the pain. God knew how he would smile, so he strove for appearing less grouchy.

  Chantelle caught sight of him first. Her grin froze, almost a rictus, and she blinked. Her gaze flicked down, up again, and, Sam jolted, and shrivelled inside.

  I must look like shit.

  He didn’t need Chantelle’s appraisal or, a second later, to witness its twin in Bobby’s eyes to fathom he didn’t appear his best. No matter how much cold water he’d splashed on his face, grey circles defined his eyes. In a self-conscious gesture, he lifted a hand, and ran it over his chin, wishing he hadn’t when the stubble scraped his skin. So what if he hadn’t shaved this morning? He’d washed and donned clean clothes. What more did they want of him?

  “I’m tired.” Best to pre-empt questions so he addressed his demeanour the moment he reached the table without greeting them. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” The couple sat in a booth facing each other. Which seat was he supposed to take? He dithered, before he chose the nearest, which was next to Bobby.

  “You seem a little worn,” Chantelle declared. “Sorry we noticed.”

  He shrugged. At least her comment gave him an excuse to hide his predicament. How did one choose between sitting beside the man one loved or the man’s girlfriend?

  She’s more than his girlfriend and you know it. These two will be together forever.

  “Are you all right?” Chantelle sounded worried.

  Fuck. How am I going to do this? How am I going to cope being around them?

  He wouldn’t. Had known it awhile, decided some time ago to consider a different job, a change of life. Hell, any alteration to get away from the happy bubble surrounding these two.

  “I’m fine. I need food.” He reached for the menu, flipped it open, and focused on it, ignoring the exchange between Chantelle and Bobby. These two had been doing the silent communication ‘couples’ thing from the first day they met. Sickening.

  Swallowing his nausea with a slug of the water Bobby poured for him, he tried to disregard the unspoken conversation going on beside him. Words danced before his eyes while he tried to read the menu. He needed to choose what he might keep down rather than what he fancied eating.

  “You look a little queasy.” Chantelle’s hand slid across the table toward him, but she pulled it back as though uncertain her touch would be welcome. Bobby remained silent. How like a man to let the woman undertake the concerned part of the conversation.

  Sam grimaced. “Like I said, I need food. Order me…” He scanned the page, chose a meal at random with potatoes in it. He needed to line his stomach. “I also need the bathroom.”

  * * * *

  “Did he say bathroom for my sake? I’ve heard Sam use franker words for taking a trip to the loo.” Chantelle’s tone lifted with a cadence of surprise. Her smell indicated amusement as did the twitch of her lips.

  “Probably. He tries to be polite around you.”

  “Polite, but…”

  They looked at each other.

  “Moody.” They spoke in unison, laughing. The waiter came over; they ordered.

  “You honestly think Sam would be into the three of us if we offered?” Bobby rearranged his cutlery for no good reason.

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t mind sharing your guy?”

  Chantelle pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t like sharing you with another woman.”

  “Hypocrite.”

  “Yeah, I know. I take it you mind sharing me with Sam?” The lilt of her voice made it a question, her expression thoughtful. Her smell told him otherwise; pensive more like. Anxiety tightened the skin around her eyes.

  “You blame me for wanting you all to myself?”

  “No. I just…He’s not going to put up with this. He will quit his job.”

  “He’ll quit his job, anyway, was going to even before the accident. He was good at it, but I can’t say he ever considered it a calling.”

  These facts had been easy to collect from Sam’s scent. When people loved what they were doing to a degree where it fulfilled their spirit, it left a detectable odour. General happiness came through as less distinct. Some days Sam was generally happy, but it had never satisfied him, not as Bobby remembered. Not physically, or sexually. Bobby had ignored these things, because they were men, and a man didn’t interrogate another man about his feelings. Even when Sam had been injured, they’d laughed it off, slapped each other on the backs. The officers at the precinct had called Sam a lucky sod for being confined to a desk job and let him hide behind the pretence. Bobby had let Sam shrug and say, “Them’s the breaks,” without questioning the statement. “He’s no happier behind a desk full-time than I would be.”

  “True, but it’s not solely the job. He’s going to move.”

  “Move?”

  “Ask him. He’s ready for change, because if his life doesn’t, he will curl up under the pain.”

  “Pain?”

  Chantelle sighed, the sound deliberate. “Christ, you…” She appeared to struggle for the right word and settled for, “Men! You’re all the same, no matter the species. Pain of the accident, of wanting someone he believes he can’t have, of not knowing where his life is heading. He needs a new start, and it includes moving away from everything and everyone he’s known. I’ll lay odds.”

  “How can you know? Don’t tell me you can smell all that?” Bobby didn’t, though it wouldn’t be the first time her scent perception proved to be sharper than his, if by a margin.

  She smiled a strange I’m a woman and I know everything smile.

  “Fine. I’ll ask him.”

  “And if I’m right? Can you reconcile with it? With not having Sam in your life? Because that’s what it means, you know. If Sam moves away, he intends to break ties with us. He has to, for his sanity.”

  “I’m not even sure about his loving me.”

  “Smell him.”

  “I have. All I’m getting is belligerence.”


  “Of course you are. We need to get him in the right situation.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “We eat. We chat. We take this party back to…your place with a bottle.”

  Bobby was sure she’d almost said our place. No one knew of their relationship except Sam, and both had their own homes to go to, but Chantelle spent many a night at Bobby’s home. One day their luck would run out. Once discovered, even in the unlikely event someone allowed them to keep working at the same station owing to a lack of manpower, they’d never be on the same rota again.

  How much more complicated would the work situation be if they brought Sam into their relationship? Would theirs be the first British police station to deal with a ménage situation? As far as he knew no one had written that into the rule book.

  “We get him relaxed,” Chantelle finished saying.

  Sam and relaxation didn’t go together. Chantelle shook her head at his expression.

  “There’s no point, though, if you’re unhappy about this.” Chantelle leaned over the table, her attitude urgent. “Bobby, he’s been gone too long for your average trip to the bathroom. I’d say he’s taking his time to avoid us. He doesn’t even want to be with us over a meal.”

  She stared out the window, speaking while appearing to study the moving traffic, though there was every chance she didn’t focus on anything. “I love you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours, and the only way I’ll ever leave you is owing to some misfortune or disaster. None of this would be a problem if you and Sam hadn’t been an item before I came along.”

  The waiter had brought their drinks, and Bobby almost choked on his first swallow of beer. “Sam and I were never an item.”

  She chewed on her lip. “No? Before the accident, what was your relationship? If you’d known of Sam’s feelings, would you have made a move?”

  With dog species, humping was a dominance issue regardless of sexuality. Among shape-shifters lines blurred, were complicated. “I’ve never wanted to dominate Sam. Our working involvement was equal.” His statement sounded questioning even to his own ears.

  “It was? Did he ever defer to you?”