When she emerged, she found Sam in the tub. The moment she’d switched off the shower, he’d begun running water into the bath again. He grinned. “Hey, you aren’t the only one who got cold outside.”
“No way you got as cold as I did.” Chantelle dithered. She’d stepped from the shower naked and now had a towel wrapped around her. Pointless when about to get wet again but she grabbed the towel for modesty sake. A stranger fact, but she’d never been in a bath alone with Sam. Under him. With his cock in several orifices, but never in a bath together. Though ridiculous to hesitate this struck her as more intimate. Resolved, she threw aside the towel, stepped into the water, tensing for the resulting burn on cold feet.
She spoke not a word as she settled, Sam parting his legs to accommodate her. Mindful not to squash his injured leg, Chantelle moved as if they were both made of porcelain. “I won’t break.” Sam’s breath puffed against her neck.
“You’d be surprised. I have the strength to snap you.”
“But not the inclination.”
“No. Not that.” The bone-weary cold receded. Lying against Sam, letting him wash her was unexpected and pleasant. “Did Bobby give us permission to have sex as he was leaving?”
“I rather think he did.” Did she hear amusement and pleasure in Sam’s tone?
“Do you want to?” Did she sound disappointed? Worried? Hopeful? Difficult to tell while so unsure of her feelings.
“I’ve no objection…” Sam didn’t complete the sentence.
“But not the inclination?” She echoed his words back at him.
“It’s nice to know Bobby trusts me around you, but…no. And it has nothing to do with you.”
“Relax.” Chantelle caught hold of his arm. “You’re bi, but if I weren’t part of the picture, you’d be happy with Bobby. I get it.”
Sam’s silence spoke volumes. His smell stated he was troubled. “You’re half right, but it’s not as simple anymore. If…” Sam swallowed. “If something happened to Bobby, I’d still want to be with you. And vice versa. I love you both, couldn’t leave the other. You’re family.”
Sam squeezed out the face cloth, re-dipped it in hot water to use again, not that her breasts needed any more washing or attention. Despite Sam loving Bobby a little more, he did appear to have a strange fascination for her anatomy at times. He loved Bobby entering her; and, if they both had sex with her, his preferences of where he preferred to penetrate her spoke of his liking for men. She wasn’t blind to these things, but she believed him when he said he’d want to stay with her even without Bobby. As Sam said, they were now a family. Truth was if something happened to Bobby, she’d need Sam to help her keep breathing each day.
“Do you realise this is my first Christmas with what feels like a real family?” He hesitated. “Sorry. Must be still new to you too.”
Guessing he referred to the relatively short time she’d been mated to Bobby and without family before then, she said, “I’m not fragile about my past.” Shifters could be rare. So rare they sometimes ended up with humans, in many cases, hiding their true natures. Other times they simply fell in love with humans. If they didn’t find one of their own kind, at times, shifter families died out. As had hers. When the last relative she lived with died, Chantelle’s natural shifter desire to make a family of her own arose. To find a mate she was not only drawn to but fell in love with made her fortunate. To have a shifter and a human in her life was a blessing. “You’ve spent Christmas with me and Bobby before.”
“Yes, but not in our own place, not where we get to decorate a tree. More than one.”
Boxes of ornaments had arrived earlier in the week. Chantelle and Bobby had left the decorating choices to Sam, but now she longed to see all his hard work completed “How many?”
“Three. One in the entrance, one in the bar, and one upstairs, which will be ours.”
“Will there be garlands?”
“Lots.”
“Mistletoe?”
“Plastic, but yes.”
Chantelle twisted her head, straining her neck to kiss Sam. “Merry Chris—”
Sam put his hand over her mouth. “Don’t say it until the day. Please.”
“Oh. Okay.” Chantelle settled back against him, puzzled by his insistence but happy.
When the water had cooled enough to force them from the bath, Chantelle plastered a smile on her face to hide her emotions. Though she tried to dismiss it, Sam’s reticence to have her wish him Merry Christmas had left her with a sense of foreboding. She knew Sam. For some reason he didn’t want to jinx things. Damn the man! Sam’s belief nothing ever remained perfect was catching; try as she might she failed to shake the notion something was wrong, and she ought to know what, be able to prevent some disaster befalling them.
* * * *
If the man trying to peer through a set of binoculars didn’t have enough reasons to hate the bitch inside, he added another to the list. He was up a tree—a goddamn fucking tree!—trying to spy on the occupants of the Hare and Hounds public house. Raising an arm to peer through the instrument once more, at the same time trying to cling to a branch below with his legs, and one above with his other arm, he caught a whiff of himself. He smelled like an effing cat had pissed on him. What else should he expect having spent the last three nights asleep in the woods?
He had the van, but he didn’t want to risk someone seeing the vehicle. He hated the woman for the inconvenience, too. Had hated Chantelle Shepherd from the day she’d arrested him. Then she’d killed his brother. He didn’t know how—they claimed it was his brother’s fault, attempted hit-and-run in which he’d died himself—but Charles knew better. Carl was good at hit-and-runs. Carl had tried to off the bitch, he was sure; but the man dying by accident? No. The whore was responsible.
He’d stick around until he had a good idea of their routine; needed to know staff movements, delivery times. Trouble was he needed to catch one of them alone, and the opportunity was limited. He wanted to kill them all, but he wanted them to suffer first. He wanted her to suffer the most. The best way to hurt someone like this slut was to hurt one of her men; his brother hadn’t been wrong about that.
Men. The idea shouldn’t be so shocking; what he expected of the whore. More of a surprise to hear she’d resigned from the police, even astonishing to discover she was shacked up with the other cop. Bobby Pooch hadn’t left the force, but he’d done the next best thing and gone rural. Trying to hide his perversions from his fellow officers, no doubt. Pervert. Something wrong with a man who shared a woman with another man. He wanted to torture the pig for that alone, but Bobby was a dubious choice. Strong. Fit. A cop. Better to target the cripple.
Lifting the binoculars again, Charles Manning grinned as Sam Sanders came into view. By the time he finished with this guy, Sam was going to have more than a limp to worry about. By the time Charles Manning got through, this bloke wouldn’t be able to walk at all.
Chapter 5
The supplier letting them down on so simple a thing as not putting half a dozen boxes of mulled wine on the van made Chantelle grit her teeth. The tip of her tongue tingled with the suggestion of telling Sam to forget the whole thing, but they had announced mulled wine would be available as an optional free drink with every meal during the opening week to their Christmas celebrations. To test the popularity, they’d ordered some ready-mixed variety before investing in making their own. The festivities hadn’t begun in earnest, and they were already being asked if they had any. The hot wine warmed many passers-by while out for a winter walk. They were also short on mince pies.
She’d been in such a good mood all morning. The last couple of days, in fact, ever since her wild run as a dog chased, and caught, by Bobby. The soak in the bath with Sam hadn’t gone unwelcome, either. They seemed closer since. Now, she faced a day spoilt by her not wanting to take the long drive to collect boxes the supplier should have delivered the day before. Driving was yet another item on the list of things Sam’s damaged leg made diff
icult for him, so she kept the complaint to herself, not wanting anything to mess with Sam’s state of mind. He struck her as relaxed, and happy; even his leg behaved. So, she’d rolled off a breezy, “Oh well, I could do with a drive,” from her lips, and made her way out to the car with a light step.
Not until the Hare and Hounds passed from view, did she release a snarl. Two hours of her day wasted all because some idiot hadn’t checked off every box loaded. This better not happen again. She hated incompetence.
Taking her anger out on the radio, she flicked through stations, unable to find one to satisfy her. Too many played happy renditions of Christmas songs. With her merry attitude dimmed, she stopped on a station playing Blue Christmas. The tune made her feel better for a few seconds, and then emotionally gloomy, so she flicked the radio off in favour of silence.
Happy thoughts. Take a page out of Pan’s book and think happy thoughts.
One popped into her mind right away. Last night had been…Chantelle licked her lips. Bit at them, scratched over the soft pad of her lower lip with her teeth. Last night Bobby’s teeth had tugged on her lips. Both sets. A happier thought could not be had.
Oh God.
A shudder went through her, mind drifting back to the previous evening. Strange how their relationships fluctuated. Sam never complained if she and Bobby wanted to go off together, and, knowing how Sam felt, she wasn’t at all bothered if Sam and Bobby shared some alone time, although she preferred it if they allowed her to watch. For the most part, they made love as a threesome. Lately, Sam needed them more than she and Bobby needed each other, but the night before Bobby had declared their neglect of her, and he meant to make amends.
“Sam, do you mind?” To Bobby’s question, Sam had shaken his head, the expression on his face tightening everything inside her the same way the memory did now. Damn! She already had too much sensation going on lower down than was safe for driving.
Concentrate. She tried her hardest, but even Chantelle’s determination was no match for the recollection assaulting her of Sam spread out on the bed, her riding him while Bobby used his hands and mouth on her, kissing her, delving in everywhere any part of him reached. Bobby had caressed and loved Sam too, touching and being touched, and Sam beneath her, hard, so hard…
Too much. Chantelle pulled over. Good thing she hadn’t reached the main road yet and had isolation. Her breath rasped through her. Shaking hands killed the ignition and unfastened her jeans, reaching in, fingers filling her. She gasped at the sensation of penetration, her eyelids growing heavy, her head tilting sideways, a moan easing out over a lip she clasped between her teeth.
She remembered…Sam had never felt so magnificent. What the hell had he thought of them using him? Making him into a toy to use between them, and not one word of complaint spilled from his lips. She’d believed they’d both climax when Bobby pushed her to lie over Sam and went behind them, putting his mouth over where Sam’s body fused with hers. The position was awkward but Bobby managed and both she and Sam had shouted aloud.
A plaintive cry left her now. The memory of Bobby’s tongue flicking and licking over the connection of soft and hard—Sam’s cock where it pierced her, her fleshy lips drenched with both arousal and Bobby’s licking. His tongue had driven sensation through her body as if they threaded her form throughout with electrical live wires.
The memories made her stop thrusting with her fingers and begin a scissoring action around the small button which ached with longing.
A laugh erupted out of her. Anyone passing by would have believed her mad, or—the truth—a woman on the verge of orgasm. Her mind would take her there more than her hand, so she sank back into recalling the previous night.
She’d come. Oh, she’d come, but Sam hadn’t. Because Bobby had told him no, not yet. It was as if Bobby had Sam trained to his command, but he’d tested his endurance. After Chantelle had slumped, senseless, Bobby had laid her in Sam’s arms. She’d felt safe, so safe, Sam still inside her, hands stroking, fingers pulling sweaty strands of hair from her face. She’d stared at him and him at her, and they’d seen each other.
The wonderful moment she lived for. The sex was fabulous, but made more so when they acknowledged the sharing. She rested, cocooned in Sam and Bobby’s love while Bobby lifted Sam’s legs and entered where Sam needed him.
So strange, to lay there sated yet her desire re-kindling. To tune into the lust of two men, to watch Sam gaze at Bobby, and know Bobby stared back, punctuating each thrust with a knowing look.
Sam. Poor Sam. Bobby had driven him mad with desire while all the time Sam’s cock had nestled, trapped, somewhere tight and hot. Unable to resist, Chantelle had squeezed him. Sam had shouted and changed the game again.
They were so good at setting a rhythm, timing their strokes, and Chantelle was so used to both men, it took a gentle persuasion to get her body to open. Bobby had left Sam and moved into her. One back, one forward: the moment Bobby rocked, Sam matched his pace. As she felt them, they felt her. They built up her pleasure until it soared, until she thrashed between them, her throat raw from the deep guttural cry they ripped out of her.
A sound she echoed now.
A vague awareness of pain in her left hand spiked through her pleasure but she paid no attention to it. She writhed on the seat, feet braced against the floor for there was no space to kick, as the waves of her climax took control of her without mercy.
Seconds passed—minutes?—before she came to her senses. She panted, chest rising and falling. Her bra struck her as too rough against her nipples. Her fingers of her right hand were drenched in hot silkiness, still buried between her aching thighs. Her left hand…Ow! She’d struck the steering wheel.
Taking moments to settle, reach for tissues, clean up, straighten her clothes, her hair, refresh her lipstick, Chantelle sat there, viewing the world through fogged windows. Her hands still shook too much to drive, so she sought the one thing to calm her: Bobby.
He spoke on the second ring. Wow. Fast pickup. “Bobby?”
There was a pause. “Anything wrong?”
Her tone must have given away everything. “I’ve just…”
“Oh?” The concern eased out of his tone, changing to wry amusement.
“Talk dirty to me.”
“Mud. Sludge. Dust. Grit. Muck.”
She laughed. “You’ve got people around you.”
“Hmm.”
“And they’re now looking at you as if you’re crazy.”
“You betcha.”
“Tell me you love me.”
There was a slight hesitation, Bobby no doubt preparing for the attention from the other officers. “I love you.”
“And Sam?”
“You know I do.”
“Just needed to hear it.”
“Tonight, I’ll say it until I lose my voice.”
In other words, husky. Chantelle giggled.
“Better now?”
“Yes. Now I’ve calmed, and I can wait.”
“And now I have work when you’ve made me want to focus on other things.”
She heard something on the other end. “Did one of your workmates just call you a dog?”
“Yep, as in horn-dog.”
“So true. You gotta go.” He didn’t have to tell her.
“I’ll be pining all afternoon.”
“Me too.” She disconnected. With a much steadier hand, she put away her phone, believing she was now ready to face whatever the rest of the day had in store for her.
* * * *
A timpani of falling pans made Sam jump. Christ, what the…Kathleen was on the early roster all week. Must be she who dropped something in the kitchen. He grumbled a little about having to get up when he’d only just sat down, but he needed to check she was okay. Despite the inconvenience Sam approached the swing doors, whistling. After the night before he struggled to wipe the grin from his face, but if Kathleen were injured the whistling would be inappropriate. Sam fell silent, mindful his mood might
come across as callous. Setting the box of plastic mistletoe on the bar, he tried to increase his pace. If all were fine in the kitchen, he wanted to get back to hanging the artificial sprigs which had arrived only that morning, and, if time allowed, he wanted to finish decorating while Chantelle was out.
“Kathleen, was that you?” He pushed the door with one hand, after a glance through the glass aperture to make sure he wouldn’t bump into her coming the other way. Although the view showed the full length of the kitchen, she was nowhere in sight. “Are you there? Are you hurt?”
Sam stepped through, only to recoil. The door slipped from his grasp and swung into his bad leg, stealing his breath and any chance he might have to back out as the resulting pain paralysed him. Not that he would have run once he caught sight of an unknown assailant who knelt on the floor behind Kathleen, an arm encircling her neck.
Tears ran down her contorted face. Her hair, which she usually clipped up and kept under a hairnet while in the kitchen, hung free. Her eyes and nose were red, her lips twisted in misery. Her hands…tied with a couple of those plastic pull ties. Sam took all this in though aware of the most distressing sight—the knife the man held close to her throat. Once in the force, always an officer: Sam assessed the situation and quickly worked out, even with her hands free, the way she sat with her legs splayed sideways, she’d never move in time to do anything before the strange man cut her.
Sam tried to take in the kitchen, noting the many dangerous and excellent weapons to hand. He’d never get to one before the man hurt Kathleen.
“We’re going to do this the easy way.”
Sam doubted that. Kathleen sniffled. “It’s okay,” Sam told her. “You’ll be fine.” He wasn’t certain of that but the chances the man wanted the young waitress, or only her, was unlikely.
“Oh, the only way she’ll be fine is if you do as I say.”
“There’s money. Not much in the till, but there’s a safe.”
“Nice to know, but I don’t have time.” The stranger sounded disgruntled to miss out on the take. “I’ll grab what’s in the till on the way out.”
Ruff Trouble Page 11
