Unable to resist, Bobby slapped a hand hard against Sam’s backside, making the man jolt, but Sam didn’t pull back. He wriggled for more. Bobby stifled a chuckle and peered at his own erection, surprised to notice he already leaked. His own grip heightened his need. Letting go he smeared lube on his fingers and applied it to Sam’s entrance. There was something to be said for an ability to see well in the dark although his dick unerringly pointed the way.
Sam gasped at the touch, no doubt owing to the chill of the lube. He made no sound as Bobby worked his fingers into him, only moaning when Bobby made a slight twisting motion.
“You ready for this?” Bobby rubbed his cock where it so desperately wanted to plunge. Sam’s hesitation was so slight Bobby barely took note. The man nodded, all eagerness, and something assured him Sam merely took a deep breath in preparation, not doubt.
The first nudge penetrated with ease. Resistance halted his progress, but Sam breathed through it. The man didn’t joke, it had been a while. Toys had helped, but Sam needed a few moments to relax.
“Oh God!”
“Is that ‘oh God, it hurts, I can’t bear it,’ or ‘oh God, it’s fucking marvellous’?”
“Either. Both,” Sam gasped out. “I don’t know. But…don’t stop.”
Bobby chuckled. “I’ll take that as marvellous.” He reached as deep as possible with another thrust. Sam yelped, but the cry was not one of pain. He trembled under Bobby’s hands as Bobby moved, long, deep, teasing, sure strokes, bound to ratchet up the pleasure for them both.
Sam reached for his cock, but, expecting the reaction, Bobby grabbed his hands. Cupping the other man’s body, he drew him back from all fours to his knees, pulling him to sit over his lap.
A moan whispered out from between Sam’s lips; he silenced his cries by biting his lip.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Bobby pried Sam’s lower lip free, replaced it with his thumb. Sam bit and licked, likely unable to do otherwise.
“Harder,” Sam demanded. The word sounded strained, warped by Bobby’s thumb.
“Not yet.” Bobby kissed him on the side of his forehead. “After Chantelle joins us. I will fuck her through you. Drive your body into hers. Close your eyes, Sam.”
Although Sam wasn’t capable of noticing as much in the dark as they were, Bobby wanted to see whether Sam would do what he told him. As the man’s eyelids fluttered shut, Bobby almost came.
* * * *
With one of his strongest senses taken from him, Sam needed to rely on the others. The following minutes narrowed to what he felt, heard, and smelled. The way the bed rocked meant someone moved to the front of him. The scent of rose-perfumed shower gel told him it was Chantelle. He would have known anyway, being as she was the sole other person in the room, and Bobby held him so tight, but her fragrance warmed his nostrils as he breathed in the smell.
Bobby rocked within him—small shallow thrusts being all they managed in this position with Bobby’s arms pinioning him to his chest, but each hit the right spot to heighten his need. Bobby watched, Sam knew. Though impossible to see, the man’s gaze stung. This was a test of whether Sam accepted them, agreed to follow where Bobby led. Bobby was the leader of this pack even if Sam could not shift with them.
Bobby’s lips glided along Sam’s throat, to his shoulder, and up again. The man’s left arm lay heavy against Sam’s chest. His right snaked down, grasping Sam’s erection, squeezing, milking. A softer brush of skin against his thighs told Sam Chantelle knelt before him. Bobby’s movements stilled, before pushing forward. The tip of Sam’s cock brushed fleshy lips…sank into wet silk and heat.
The sense of touch without sight focused his body on sensation. Each stroke maddened him. The push and pull on his body increased as Bobby moved back. His thrusts slammed into Sam, lifting him, pushing him into the softness of Chantelle’s sex.
“Look, Sam,” Bobby whispered, and he did, a brief glance as Chantelle’s round hips, her wild tousled hair spilling over one shoulder. Sam slid his hands from her hips to her spine to let her know he was with her and not just Bobby’s toy—the other man using him as a plaything on her. One of her hands groped back, and he grabbed hold, each of them clutching, desperate to connect with more than sex. Yet Bobby was still the dominant one here.
“Oh…” Chantelle bit off her words, the plea dying, maybe because she knew it would be ignored. Bobby laughed quietly and heightened the pace. Sam heard his name, took a minute to realise Bobby had spoken to him. Asked whether he would beg.
“Aren’t you desperate?”
“Yes.” Another of those irritating yet amazing chuckles resounded around the room. He might come anyway before Bobby said, or he might lose his mind first, but he didn’t want this to reach an end and he wouldn’t beg. Not this time. Bobby would have him plead another evening, but not tonight. He’d let Bobby torture him; willingly give all he had.
Sam lost track of time, lost in the push and the pull, give and take wrought on his body, driving each desperate lunge into the woman before him. At last, he heard a hoarse cry of, “With me,” and he swore Bobby’s climax erupted like an explosion inside him, transferring the man’s release into his.
Chantelle’s body reacted a second later, waves of her orgasm gripping him, fluttering, fluctuating around him, prolonging his pleasure and transferring the pulse back to him. Bobby was still coming, but he also swelled. Bobby caught hold of Sam, held him in place. They had warned him. Don’t move. Don’t panic. Enjoy.
Sam had experienced nothing like it. So full with what felt like more than the human body should take. The sensation brought a cry to his throat, not of pain or of any pleasure he’d ever known. Transcendent. He collapsed into the strong arms around him, shuddering, pulling out of Chantelle because he had no control. He melted. Boneless. Almost mindless. Bobby held him, and he couldn’t get away if he tried…not that he wished to.
They tied. Bobby had knotted inside him and nothing had ever felt so right.
* * * *
Sam did not understand how long it took for what was the equivalent of the bulbus glandis in Bobby to disgorge. In canines, it might take five to twenty minutes, sometimes more, and he had some sense it was longer, but he didn’t care. The vague awareness of, at some point, the other man slipping out of him, didn’t matter. Bobby had claimed him, changed him, even though he didn’t shift.
They snuggled in a big puppy pile, bodies entwined, Bobby and Chantelle’s hands on his skin, their lips on his flesh. There was something equal in their caresses; both those he received, and those he gave. He drifted.
Somewhere close to dawn, he opened his eyes when Chantelle’s hand brushed across his face. “Sam, honey.” She leaned over. “Forgive us. We need to run.”
For several seconds what she said made no sense. Then it did.
“Sorry you can’t go with us.” Bobby’s tone, sad, said he meant it.
Sam sat, poised on his hands, and watched as two human shapes went to all fours, shimmered, and changed. Quietly slipping out of bed, he went over to them, crouched, and held out his hands. Wet noses pushed against his palms. Tongues flicked over and rasped his skin. Sam fisted his hands into their thick pelts. Warm brown eyes regarded him as did a single brilliant blue one.
“Be careful.” They’d run like this for years, but Sam still feared for them. “When you get back maybe we should talk about changing our lives.”
Chantelle lunged, tongue flicking out to swipe one of his ears. Bobby butted foreheads with him. Sam stood and limped to the back door. He opened it, letting the two beings he loved into the garden. At the edge of the property, they gazed back, eyes flashing in the grey light as if to say again how sorry they were.
Sam closed the door and stared through the glass, knowing their vision allowed them to see him in his nudity. He gave them a nod. Chantelle spun and fled. Bobby hesitated a moment more before he followed her.
Did they ever mate in their shifted forms? They probably did, and it was fine with Sam. Let
them have the connection; it felt only right they should. He was still the lucky one for them letting him share their lives. He hadn’t been able to resist asking why. Why did they want someone as weak as he? All humans were weak compared to a shifter, but he came with a damaged leg.
“Weak? Oh, honey.” Chantelle had shaken her head. “You’re not weak. They said you might never walk again, yet here you are. Each step causes you pain, yet you’re determined to live your life. How can you be weak?”
Bobby’s stare was enough of an agreement. Sam didn’t feel strong, but who was he to argue with the two he loved?
“It’s okay, guys.” Sam spoke to the empty air, to the night, determined to tell them both with his words and his body when they returned. Maybe he dreamed. Maybe he was mad. He didn’t care. He’d never experienced such contentment, at peace with them out there, running without him.
Because when they returned, they would always find him waiting.
Part 2: Mistletoe and Whine
Chapter 1
Chantelle stood in the doorway which segregated the private part of the building from the public one. Bobby stood behind her at the base of the stairs.
Wearing nothing but knickers and a T-shirt, the garment’s wide neckline hanging loose so it framed her right shoulder, Chantelle hoped she would make an appealing spectacle once Sam caught sight of her. Although, truly, the best way to get him to bed might be for Bobby to wave his dick in Sam’s direction—Sam leaned to loving another man more than a woman. Cock waving lacked finesse.
“Isn’t he adorable?”
“Adorable, maybe, but also dog tired.” The reproach in Bobby’s voice was undeniable, so she excused the terrible pun, even though Sam wasn’t the doggish one in this relationship. They were all snappy at times.
Fingers touching both sides of the doorframe, she tilted her head to one side, waiting. She’d spoken to Bobby, but also Sam, who lay with his eyes closed, head on the bar. He was tired but not sleeping. One didn’t fool a shape-shifter over such a thing. Still, he pretended to be resting.
“At least she didn’t call me cute,” Sam mumbled, opening his eyes. For a few seconds he didn’t move. The muscles in Chantelle’s jaw tightened as she struggled not to grin. With a flick of her fingers, she tossed her long reddish-brown hair over one shoulder so it flowed down her left arm. She’d let her mane grow wilder now she no longer worked with the police, knowing Sam liked it. The gesture of tossing her hair was a come-on.
He struggled to straighten, to blink sleep out of his eyes; whether owing to her invitation, she could not tell. She wished she stood closer, to use her supernatural senses to judge his level of desire, but thirty feet of floor separated them, and he sat almost at the end of the twenty-foot bar. Most of all she smelled a strange blend of people, disinfectant, and alcohol.
“Come to bed,” Bobby said.
“In a bit.”
“It’s midnight. Bed.”
Sam’s mouth opened, closed. When Bobby took that tone, it was wise not to argue.
Bobby stepped closer, placing his hands on her upper arms, and his lips to Chantelle’s right shoulder. He kissed her there before he licked as they both watched Sam shut the ledger that lay in front of him. He took his time, putting off when he’d have to slide off the barstool.
The stool was Sam’s, kept on the private side of the bar, though sometimes inconvenient for the staff. The chair swivelled, had a ring on which to place one’s feet at the base, and a comfortable, padded seat and back support. If he needed a break, Sam would sit, doing paperwork. The staff knew never to comment if Sam took the weight off his leg. His sitting meant the pain had become too much, and, if he didn’t rest, the discomfort would become unbearable; he’d be off his feet even longer. No one ever said a word because they all knew how much Sam hated this, detested having to relax when they were busy, and they had to call someone out from the back to take over because he couldn’t cope. If the discomfort became especially bad, he’d go upstairs, not wanting the patrons to question him. Often, though, a fifteen or twenty-minute break set him up for another hour or two.
Today, they’d been particularly rushed, and, as one of their staff was sick, Sam had stayed on his feet longer than he should, until Chantelle had told him to leave the restaurant altogether. She’d threatened, if he refused, to sling him over her shoulder, and carry him out in view of everyone. Being a supe, she wouldn’t even break into a sweat, and she meant to fulfil her threat. He’d not rested enough.
Chantelle didn’t let her anxiety show when he glanced over as he slid from the seat. The set of his jaw told her he was having a bad night. She was used to lines of tension in Sam’s face—strain made worse since a car driven by a drunk driver had struck his leg. Now Sam’s often sullen expression was in part owing to increasing discomfort. The little ‘accident’ cost him his job. He might have still worked for the police, but stuck behind a desk doing analysis had meant the end of the line for Sam, his leaving the force a mere matter of time.
Pain was the reason he’d worked so late. Didn’t take much to guess he’d chosen to sit and suffer in silence. She didn’t need to read his scent to work out he’d sat waiting for the agony to ease before he tried to make his way up to join them. He didn’t like them to witness his distress.
Fortunately, he didn’t suffer to this extent often. Men and their pride. Or more like Sam and his pride—a thing made worse by the fact he lived with two supernatural beings who sometimes went running on four good legs each and not two.
As Sam put his weight on his bad leg, it was all Chantelle could do not to run to his side. He wouldn’t accept help from either of them, so she and Bobby both stayed where they were, although Bobby’s grasp on her arms tightened to where she almost snarled. She breathed in relief when he let go without being told.
In comparison Sam’s grip constricted on the edge of the bar. A frown creased her brow when Sam failed to move. He shook and gasped.
If Bobby hadn’t moved, she would have, but as he pushed past her, she hung back. Bad enough Sam must accept help. She wouldn’t make things worse for him. He might find help easier coming from Bobby because, although they were both males, Bobby was, without doubt, the Alpha. Sam often deferred to him.
“I’m fine.” Sam spoke on an inhalation. He clenched his jaw even as he got the words out.
“And I’m a cat lover.” Bobby wore boxers so when he gripped Sam by his upper arms and jerked him back, he forced Sam against a bare torso. The pause lasted a second before Bobby spun Sam around. Sam, trying not to put weight on his injured leg, had no choice but to topple into Bobby’s arms. The man appeared more than adorable with those strong limbs wrapped around him. Shock and longing broke through the tension. The vision of Sam and Bobby together brought forth a wave of desire that made Chantelle’s sex and eyes weep. She wanted to do everything possible to make Sam forget his pain.
Holding her breath, flicking her gaze from sensuous Bobby to sexy Sam, Chantelle had to bite her lower lip. She’d never get over the delight of viewing them together. Raw power sparked between them. Through time a surprising aspect of their relationship developed. She never thought to refer to a look as smouldering—too melodramatic for her liking—but the way Bobby stared at Sam, the description fit.
He often gazed at her the same way, but this was different. The animal side in Bobby was more tempered when he paid her attention. The husky in him was head of the pack, and she was his mate, but the human side viewed her as an equal partner. Bobby was proud of her.
Sam…Sam called to the animal side of Bobby’s nature, maybe because a male was always wary of another seeking dominance. Bobby didn’t have to worry about that, and his human side understood, but his animal half owned Sam, enjoyed putting Sam in his place.
Those mismatched eyes of Bobby’s—one brown, one blue—took in Sam’s face with a lazy inspection. The sight made Chantelle bite her lip harder.
“We’re taking this to bed.”
The
y heard no argument from Sam, a mere sharp intake of breath as Bobby lifted him.
“Relax.” Bobby swayed a little, tipped Sam closer. “I know part of you rebels, but listen to the part which likes this. Let me carry you.” Bobby pressed his mouth close to Sam’s ear. “Let me take you to our bed so I can do despicable things to you.”
Humour came through, spiced with a hint of seriousness. Chantelle clutched the doorframe tighter, uncertain whether her knees could support her. A responding curl of desire made her twist where she stood. As Bobby turned, still carrying Sam, she pushed away from the door and shoved herself toward the stairs. If she were lucky, she’d scramble to the top and be waiting without embarrassing herself too much.
Fat chance. She left behind a scent that told Bobby how turned on she was.
* * * *
Although Sam experienced the sudden and unexpected thrill of having Bobby carry him, his lover was right—part of him rebelled. Had nothing to do with being a man in another man’s arms. If Bobby whisked him off his feet with the sole purpose of taking him to the bedroom and throwing him on the bed, Sam would have been overjoyed. The reason Bobby picked him up was to do with his physical impairment and, therefore, his self-esteem.
Bobby and Chantelle don’t care.
Knowing didn’t matter. Why did one’s brain and heart have to disagree? Clinging to logic instead of his distraught emotions, Sam tried to relax.
“Stop it,” Bobby scolded, obviously sensing Sam’s emotional turmoil. A little puff of breath blew against the side of his neck, Sam unable to help leaning into it. “That’s better.” Bobby’s voice was full of warmth and humour, calming, sensuous.
Despite his reservations, Sam moved in Bobby’s arms, not meaning to. Bobby’s grip tightened even though there was no danger of Bobby dropping him. Maybe he reacted to Sam’s small moan.
Ruff Trouble Page 7
