by Lynn Lorenz
He thought of every beautiful woman he’d ever seen in a Playboy magazine, tool calendar, or porno flick.
None of them did it for him. They used to.
“Fuck.” Frustrated, he slid to the floor, his hand flying over his cock, his balls burning. If he didn’t come soon, he’d probably have a heart attack.
He gave in.
Saw the guy from the restaurant. The dark eyes, dark hair, hard body. Pushed him against his cruiser and captured his mouth, thrust his tongue inside and…
Scott cried out as he came, shooting a string of white cum across the shower to paint the glass wall.
Too weak to get up, he closed his eyes and nodded off, until the water turned icy and he had to get out.
That was never going to happen again.
»»•««
Ted had the dream again, waking at the same place he always did. No face, just the tanned arms, blond hair.
It could be anyone.
But the setting? How did he explain that? It was the bayou country, looking exactly like it did right here. The house could be down the road.
If he could just find out where the sheriff lived, saw his house, he’d know at once. Then he could move on, get past this aching from not knowing.
He threw off the covers, willing his boner to go the fuck away, and sat on the edge of the bed until it subsided. The alarm on his phone went off, and he swiped it away. Seven a.m. He stood, slipped on a pair of navy sweats, gathered his things, and checked to see if the bathroom was clear.
The door stood open.
He made his way there and stepped in.
A young man leaned against the sink, dressed only in plaid boxers. Blond, tanned.
Ted groaned. “I don’t fucking believe this.”
The guy turned to him and laughed. “Sorry, I’m almost finished.” He had brown eyes and very pink nipples. One of them had a silver ring through it.
“It’s all right. I wasn’t talking about you.”
“Right.” The guy snickered. “Marie told me we have to share. I’ll just bet you’re not the sharing type.” His gaze swept over Ted as he cocked an eyebrow.
Ted had seen that look a time or two or twenty.
“You got it, kid.” Ted could play the gruff guy better than anyone. This young man was Ted’s type, the kind of twink he’d pick up for a quick blowjob.
“I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-three.”
“Uh-huh. Look, are you finished?” Ted leaned on the doorframe.
“Yeah. I’m done. By the way, my name’s Peter Graham.” He edged past Ted, brushing up against him.
“Ted Canedo.” Ted stepped inside and closed the door.
Okay. Ted’s gaydar pinged. This couldn’t be Kirsten’s meet-up. But he might be an interesting development.
What would Darcy do when he got an eyeful of Peter?
Ted knew exactly what Darcy would do. He’d have Peter down on his knees with Peter’s mouth on his cock.
If Ted wasn’t so out of sorts, the idea of Peter sucking him off would sound very, very good.
So how come it didn’t?
Chapter Nine
Ted joined the others at the breakfast table, arriving before Peter or Darcy. He found a seat across from Kirsten, gave her and the other ladies a smile and a hello, then poured a cup of coffee.
“Mmm. Good brew.” He nodded. “So how does this work?”
“What? Breakfast?”
“Yes. It’s included, I know that, but do we order or…”
At that moment, Marie backed into the dining room with trays of food. “Just help yourselves to everything. Breakfast is buffet-style.”
He laughed, and Kirsten joined in. She had a lovely laugh. Honestly, she seemed perfect, perhaps too perfect. Was it all a front? Could anyone be this…spotless?
Ted remained seated, letting the ladies serve themselves first, and took a biscuit from one of the baskets on the table. He spread butter on it and took a bite. Fluffy and light. Real butter. His estimation of Marie and Maurice rose a little higher.
Darcy strolled in. “Good morning, all.” He slipped past Ted’s seat and leaned over. “Morning, Ted.”
“Morning, Darcy.” Ted chewed as Darcy went right for the food.
“I’m famished.” Darcy sat a few seats down from Ted. For someone claiming he was hungry, he had very little on his plate. A scoop of scrambled egg, one slice of bacon, and a mound of fruit salad.
Ted stood, went to the end of the line, and as he filled the plate, he hoped the rest of the food was as good as the melt-in-your-mouth biscuits.
When everyone had a plate in front of them, Darcy took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat.
“Today I’ll set up my easel outside, block out a painting, and talk my way through it. Then we’ll break for lunch, getting it on the way to this afternoon’s spot.”
“Are you going to tell us where?” one of the ladies asked.
“Yes. I’ve secured permission for us to paint on the grounds of the Bon Rive plantation.” He sat back.
Squeals of excitement erupted around the table. Ted had heard of the place. It was famous and in all the sightseeing books. One of the oldest and most stately homes, the foundation that owned it gave elaborate period costume galas there each Christmas Eve. Guided tours by appointment only.
“That is a coup.” Ted raised his coffee cup at him.
Darcy grinned at him. “Can’t take the credit. My assistant set it up. Here’s the thing, though. We had to agree to let them take some publicity shots of us, for use in their brochure.”
“Oh!” The ladies, like birds on a wire, tittered about it to each other.
Ted’s stomach sank. The last thing he wanted was his face splashed all over some brochure.
“What if we’re not interested in that,” a voice behind him asked.
Ted turned. Peter stood right behind his chair, his hands resting on the back of it. If Ted leaned back, he’d surely trap the young man’s hands between his body and the hard wood.
“Well, I expected that. Anyone who wants to be in the photos must sign a release. If you don’t, no pics. Simple as that.” Darcy smiled, his gaze glued to Peter’s. “And you are?” Darcy’s eyebrow cocked upward.
Ted looked back and forth at them.
He didn’t have to be gay to see a connection clicking. He’d expected it. Not seeing it would have surprised him more.
“Darcy, this is Peter Graham.” Ted made the necessary introduction.
“Hello, Darcy.” Peter gave him a shy smile. He lingered, as if reluctant to leave Ted’s side. “Is that seat taken?” he asked.
Ted shook his head. Why would a gorgeous guy like Peter not want to be in a photo shoot? Not being paid for it? Maybe he had an agent? Wouldn’t surprise Ted at all. The kid was everyone’s wet dream, man or woman.
Peter got a plate of food and returned, pulling out the chair with his foot. He sat, tucked one leg up to his chin, and nibbled on a slice of bacon.
Damn, he was sweet. Bed-tussled blond hair, low-slung jeans, faded T-shirt. A rust-colored tribal band tattoo wrapped his upper arm. He played everything for looks, real Abercrombie and Fitch material.
Darcy ate it up. He practically drooled over the kid. Ted would have laughed if he didn’t know he’d have been drooling too just a few days ago.
Before he’s seen the sheriff.
Shit.
He didn’t even know the man’s name. Hell, he was a PI; a name should be easy enough to find out.
If he wanted to, that is. But he didn’t. So that was the end of it. If he knew what was good for him, he’d stay far away from the sexy lawman.
Besides, he had a job to do, and it wasn’t getting laid. Not by Darcy, Peter, or the damned sheriff.
He took another sip of coffee, trying to wash the image of the man and the cruiser out of his mind.
Since when did cop cars figure into his fantasies?
Since when did a straight man? Oh, yeah. Three years ago, wh
en all he’d thought about had been Douglas.
As they finished their breakfast, Ted watched Kirsten and Peter interact. Just a few words spoken between them; most of Kirsten’s conversation had been with a few of the other women.
Maybe she swung that way?
Maybe he was barking up the wrong tree?
He’d never felt so out of sorts, so off balance. It just wasn’t like him. He was usually so clear about his work and keeping his personal feelings out of it.
He turned his attention to the women’s conversation, picking it up and trying to follow along. He’d become so involved, he didn’t notice Peter had spoken until the kid nudged him.
“Are you working in oils or acrylics?” Peter waited, eyebrow raised, for an answer.
“Oh, sorry. Oils.”
“I can’t stand the smell of linseed oil. It gives me a migraine.” Peter frowned.
“So, I guess you better not put your easel too close to mine.” Ted grinned and winked.
Darcy watched them, and for a second, his eyes narrowed. Unbecomingly, Ted thought.
“You’re right. I’m going to have to make sure I’m far enough away from everyone using oils.” He sighed and turned to the others. “Is anyone else using acrylics?”
A few of the ladies raised their hands.
“Oh good. I’d hate to be out there by myself.” He smiled at them, a look of genuine relief passing over his face.
“You can ride with us if you like,” one of the ladies offered, patting his hand. “We’re carpooling to be ‘green.’”
“Thanks.”
“Or you could ride with me,” Darcy drawled. Peter’s gaze snapped to their teacher.
“Sounds cool.” Peter shrugged acting like it didn’t matter who he rode with.
Ted couldn’t resist. “But won’t the linseed oil on Darcy make you sick? After all, he’ll be painting all morning.”
Darcy frowned at Ted. “Well, it’s not like I’m bathing in the stuff, you know.” He turned to Peter. “If it bothers you, I’m sure you can either drive yourself or go with the ladies.” He gave Ted a nod, proving he could be reasonable and not so grabby.
Ted didn’t blame Darcy a bit for being grabby.
It all seemed settled, and Darcy stood. “Give me a few minutes to get set up outside, and we’ll get started.”
Everyone broke up, some going upstairs, some outside. Ted, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, followed the others out the door.
Some of the ladies were pulling folding chairs out of their vehicles. Ted wandered over, popped open the back of the SUV, and pulled out his Saints folding chair. Tucking it under his arm, he closed up the car and then wandered around to the back of the house where the crowd had gathered.
Kirsten had already found a seat, almost directly behind Darcy’s easel. Everyone else formed a tight semicircle, placed so they could see the master work his magic.
Ted plopped down his chair off to the side and sat where he had a good view of Darcy, Kirsten, and the woods. The scene was picturesque, Spanish moss-draped oaks, the morning sun’s glint off the dark waters of the bayou, and the tree line, dark and green.
He didn’t even smile when Peter unfolded his chair next to him. The kid gave him a quick grin, then focused on the scenery.
“It’s lovely here.”
Ted nodded and took another sip of coffee.
Darcy arrived, set up a blank canvas, and began the lecture.
Ted listened, keeping one eye on Kirsten, but after a while, he fell into Darcy’s teaching. He had an easy way of speaking, explaining why he’d chosen a particular color or why one brush over another, sometimes serious, sometimes humorous. He entranced all of them, men and women.
He’d make an interesting lover, no doubt about it. As the sun rose higher, Darcy rolled up his sleeves, and golden hair shimmered in the sunlight.
To Ted’s left, a young, golden-haired god sat, a casual leg bent over his knee, his plaid loafer dangled off one foot, and his unshaved chin resting on his fist.
Darcy talked and painted, and on the canvas, the bayou behind the little B and B came to life. He really was amazing. Talented, good-looking, the whole package.
Anyone would be lucky to have him as a lover, even if only once.
And yet, no matter how Ted tried, he couldn’t drum up interest in the man. Or in the godlet sitting next to him. So close, in fact, he could smell the kid’s shampoo, feel the heat from his body, the rustle of his clothing.
Nothing.
Shit. Whatever was going on sucked.
Ted didn’t like it, not one fucking bit.
Chapter Ten
Scott sat in his patrol car outside the coffee shop and ran his hand over his face. Man, this morning had been a bitch. He’d woken up incredibly hard, and not even a quick jerk off in the shower had helped ease the tension singing in his body.
If he could just stop having these god-awful thoughts, he’d be fine. But they haunted him, shook him to his core, and made him doubt everything he thought he knew about who he was and what he wanted.
He took a sip of the scalding coffee, wishing it would burn those crazy thoughts right out of his head. Wished he could stop thinking about the guy from the restaurant. Wished he could stop thinking “mate” for one goddamn second.
Mate. His body craved his mate. Like an addict craves drugs, an alcoholic craves a drink, or a bored housewife craves chocolate. He had no control over it, and that scared him to death.
Craved. That was a word he’d never understood until his gaze met that man’s gaze, and his world shattered.
Urges. Another word that he’d just come to know, a word he usually associated with his wolf. Those urges were animalistic, wild, and feral. The urge to mate—oh fuck there it was again—the urge to hold and protect and keep safe, the urge to kiss and be kissed. To love and be loved.
But not with another man. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. He wasn’t a prude; he believed that who a person loved was their own business. He did. He just never thought of himself as…gay.
“I’m not gay,” he said to no one. Maybe he just needed to hear it again, from his own lips, to convince himself of it. Somehow, he knew even if he said it a thousand times, it wouldn’t stop the need his body felt for a complete stranger.
He downed the rest of the coffee, turned on the car, and headed back to the station. Along the way, he resolved to talk to someone in the pack, someone older, who might know more about this mating thing. And how to get out of it.
Someone had to know a way. But who could he trust to ask? Even asking the questions would expose him. Who in the pack did he trust implicitly?
Bobby Cotteau? One of the oldest members and Scott counted him as more than a friend. The man had been like a father to him. But to see disappointment in Bobby’s eyes? No, Bobby was the last person he would go to.
That left Mike Hawkins. His best friend, beta, and the most reliable man he knew. Strong and confident in his position as Scott’s beta, they’d been together since grammar school. He’d had Mike’s back, and Mike had always had his.
Scott decided if there was anyone he could ask about this, it would be Mike. Mike could keep a secret; Scott knew that from their experience as teens, getting into trouble in the small rural parish.
He’d call him tonight and see if he wanted to get a beer after work.
Scott pulled into the station’s parking lot, parked, and made his way to his office.
“These are for you. None of them are urgent.” Terri handed him six pink slips of memo paper, took his coffee mug in exchange, and waddled off to refill it for him.
He plopped his hat on the hook behind the door and fell into his seat. He picked up the phone and punched in Mike’s cell phone number.
On the third ring. Mike answered. “Now, what does the sheriff of St. Jerome Parish want with me?”
“Can’t a friend just call a friend?” Scott laughed.
“Not if he wants a favor. That requires paperwork
.” Mike chuckled. “What’s up?”
“Want to get a drink after work?”
“Sure. This pack business?”
“Personal.”
Mike’s breath whistled over the phone line. “Personal? Shit, I don’t think we’ve talked personal since I told you about finding Sharie.”
Scott remembered that phone call, the one telling him his best friend had found his mate. And Sharie had been perfect for Mike. It had been an easy decision to let her into the pack.
“Look, it’s nothing major,” Scott lied. “I just need to bounce a few things off you, that’s all.”
“Sure.” There was a pause as Mike rustled papers. “How about six at the Rougaroux?”
“The Rougaroux?” Scott hadn’t thought about meeting at the pack’s hall.
“Well, if I know you, this is going to be something you don’t want anyone overhearing.”
“How the hell—” Scott exhaled. “Yeah. Six at the Rougaroux.”
“See you then. And Scott?”
“Yeah?”
“Relax. Damn, I can feel the tension over the phone line. It can’t be that bad.” Mike laughed.
“Sure. Later, gator.”
Mike hung up, and Scott stared at the receiver.
It can’t be that bad.
Ho-ly shit.
»»•««
Ted and the others finished lunch at a small café on the road to the plantation. Not bad food, great sweet tea, and they’d managed to push a few tables together for the large party.
Darcy held court. The women hung on his every word. Kirsten seemed interested, but not overly. And Peter’s gaze kept dancing from Darcy to Ted.
Peter had taken the ride with Darcy. Ted had driven behind Kirsten, keeping a professional eye on her, and a completely unprofessional one out for the parish police cars.
Hoping to spot the sheriff.
How fucked was that?
Every time the door to the café opened, Ted had to check it out, see who it was, and every time a stranger walked through it, a small piece of him sank. A larger piece of him, the hunger and need to fuck, ratcheted higher.
His body was primed to blow. His cock grew to a hard shaft in his pants. He shifted in his seat to ease the discomfort. If he didn’t lose it soon, he’d stand up and give everyone at the café an eyeful.
