by Adele Niles
I love ol’ Zane. He’s more of a hothead than Griffin or me, but that’s because he feels like he’s gotta make up for past mistakes. When he was younger, he decided he was gonna break the mold and go straight, so he signed up for the highway patrol. Got through the training and everything before he figured out local law is made up of bigger assholes than any biker club.
If you do right and mind your own, no biker is going to mess with you. But around here I’ve seen the boys in blue pop bros just for looking at them wrong.
But Zane’s reality check did have one good outcome. It made him one hell of a Sergeant at Arms for the club. At least, when he can keep his temper under control.
So when he storms in today, I’m not particularly surprised.
“What’s up, bro?” I ask.
“There’s Howlers out there and I know it. I can smell ’em! Especially that goddamned E. J. His stink is worse than a shithouse in August. I wish that fucker would slip up just once with me there to catch him.”
Zane’s a short guy, at least by bear shifter standards, with spiky, dark brown hair and a beard that looks like he was drunk when he shaved.
But the kid’s a lady magnet. Must be those big brown eyes of his. Or he’s doing really right between the sheets.
You hear that? I ask my bear. I wouldn’t mind a little practice in that department.
And my bear answers just like I knew he would. So go do it, asshole. Just don’t fall in love.
And my bear is right. There are plenty of ladies out there who wouldn’t mind those terms for a little hard rockin’ from an URSA brother. Even those stuck up city girls moving out here, takin’ up our space, and breathing our air. I bet I could have them all begging for more—if I trusted them enough.
But my thoughts are brought back to the problem at hand by Zane’s relentless pacing of the clubhouse floor.
“Okay,” I tell him. “I trust your instincts. Let’s ride.”
Chapter 3
Belinda
I fight with the sheets on my bed. I am naked, the window is open, and the breeze is cool, but still I lie here in a sweat.
I know my mother’s right, and even my friends message me the same thing. Stay clear of bikers! They’re not nice people!
But I’ve been listening to those messages all my life. That’s why I’m lying here, a twenty-three-year-old woman who’s never had a man. A twenty-three-year-old woman who’s waiting for Mr. Nice.
I roll on the sheets and they fall off my body.
But what do they mean by nice? Nice to kittens? Nice to old ladies?
Or a nice kisser?
That gorgeous giant at the church door looked like he’d be a good kisser. And pretty good at some other things too. My own hands squeeze my breasts. Just as he would do.
I might be a virgin, but my thoughts are far from innocent. I have needs, but just haven’t found the right man I could trust to fulfill them long term. For this, this would have to do.
I think about the biker. He’s mysterious. Sexy. Unlike anyone I’ve even considered. Maybe that’s what makes him even more attractive to me. A man like that could never want a curvy, younger woman like me. But that doesn’t matter.
This is my fantasy.
My hand slides down my stomach and finds the inside of my thigh. Blood rushes between my legs and I can feel myself getting wet. I imagine him touching me.
His hands are so big. So strong. He could do with one hand what takes me two. I slip a finger in inside and rub with gentle pressure on my g-spot while my other hand teases my clit between forefinger and thumb. I envision his face over mine. His mouth coming down. His hand cupping my juicy mound.
My knees come up and I imagine him drinking in my nakeness with his eyes. He wets his lips…and that’s all I can stand.
Thinking about him makes me come and come in pulsing spasms as I rub where I want his hands to rub. I thrust my finger where I want his cock. I imagine his lips on mine.
When the final tremor in my belly subsides, I’m still panting. I roll over on my side and grab my pillow. I hang on to keep me grounded, to keep me from washing away.
I finally feel myself drifting off. It’s been an exhausting day, and I need the healing peace of sleep.
But my sleep is not peaceful.
In my sleep, he visits me again.
* * * * *
I feel a bit calmer when I wake up in the morning. I feel my reason restored. Hell, yes, this guy is sexy, but that doesn’t mean I should do anything about it. I should just enjoy the view and my dreams.
I pick up my camera. This is my life—the one thing I love more than anything else. Even if I never sold another coffee-table book, or got hired at another wedding, or got another photoshoot assignment, I would still take pictures for the sheer joy of the art. So this is what I need to do.
I need to get that biker out of my mind and focus on the important things in life.
I smile at the thought of doing something productive, and begin checking my equipment. I wipe my lenses carefully and pack each piece in its proper compartment in my camera case.
Maybe my mother is right. Maybe I haven’t given this place enough of a chance. I bet I could find a lot of things here to please the eye of my camera.
Maybe the wildlife. Or maybe the more colorful locals.
Maybe the motorcycle riders…one of them in particular.
What? Wait! How did that thought slip in there?
I drop my head. This guy was starting to be like the last doughnut.
You know you shouldn’t. You know you want to. But no matter how many other things you shove in your face trying to avoid it, it’s going to keep calling to you until you just go over and eat it.
I wonder for a second what he’d think about being compared to a doughnut, and then realize I’ll never know because I’m never going to tell him.
I’m just curious about the motorcycle club, I tell myself. And maybe they would let me photograph them. After all, if they’re hiding out, they are doing a pretty poor job of it, making all that noise with their motorcycles or whatnot.
The little-known URSA Motorcycle Club of the Catskills. Hmmmm.
It might make an interesting coffee-table book after all. Wasn’t “ursa” Latin for bear? And didn’t they have black bears on the backs of their jackets? There might be a story there.
Might make a general interest story for a newspaper.
I find myself smiling at the prospect of having a new project. I pick up my keys and my messenger bag and start downstairs.
My mother calls out from the living room. “Going out?”
“Yep,” I answer, feeling invigorated for the first time since moving here.
“Well, be careful. Call me every couple of hours so I know you’re okay.”
“Oh, mom,” I say in mock frustration. “What could possibly happen in a quaint little town like Maiden’s Fork?”
* * * * *
The first thing I do when I arrive in Maiden’s Fork is look around for a gas station. I find it, and it looks to be the only one. There is one pump and one attendant, and it seems the extent of his job is to pick his teeth and take money.
I fill up my tank and then hand him my card.
“Gotta charge you extra if you use a card,” he says through irregular yellow teeth. I wonder how a guy who picks his teeth as much as he does can have such bad dental work, but I don’t want to start a conversation with him about teeth or anything else.
“Is there someone who can check the air in my tires?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “You.”
I shrug. I know he’s trying to get a reaction, but I’m not going to give him one. My dad taught me how to check the air in my tires—and how to change a tire, too—so I get the gauge out of my glove box and drive over to the compressor.
“If you use the air compressor—” old Yellow Teeth starts.
“Yeah, I know. You’ll have to charge me extra.”
He holds his eyes on
me. He chews his toothpick and slowly holds out his hand.
I give him two bucks and he doesn’t offer me any change.
After my encounter with the gas station attendant, I drive the length of the town, past the old Dutch church, and then turn back to park. Then I find I’m in no hurry to get out of my Jeep. Now I’m faced with the actual prospect of coming face to face with these bikers, my enthusiasm from the morning begins to wane.
But there seems to be something pulling me forward. The desire to know more. Or maybe it’s my pushback against my mother telling me not to go. Either way, I decide to at least walk past the entrance to see if someone’s there.
And there is someone there. It’s the blond hottie from yesterday leaning up against the door.
My heart misses a beat. I want to turn and walk away before he notices me, but he’s looking the other way, and I just can’t seem to get my legs to obey. They seem to want to hold me here until I take a little look. So I do.
My eyes start at his feet and make their way up his gorgeous frame.
He’s wearing black engineer boots and standing in an arrogant stance. But even without the boots he’d be intimidating. He’s at least six feet of lean, mean meat. His jeans mold his muscled thighs and tight glutes and outline a beautiful bulge to the left of his brass button fly.
His biceps are the size of my thighs. He’s wearing nothing underneath his cutaway jean jacket, so I can see his shredded chest sports a six pack beneath it, just meant for stroking.
My fantasies from last night come into my mind and my panties start to dampen.
My lips are parted and I’m openly staring at him when he does that odd sniffing thing again and his head starts to turn toward me.
Fear takes over and my mouth snaps shut. I put on the most casual bored look I can pull out of my bag of phony faces. I stride straight toward him as though this has been my intention all along—and then I walk right on past.
I can feel his curious eyes watching my retreat.
I keep walking, with a slightly quicker pace.
I walk all the way to the corner and around it.
And then I run.
Chapter 4
Drake
I stand at the clubhouse entrance, scanning the street. My patrol with Zane yesterday didn’t turn up anything solid, but there was a faint scent of Howler in some places. It could be left over from the last time they tried to encroach on our territory—when we beat ’em back good. That’s why I kinda doubted Zane when he said he thought they were in the area. I’d say they’d be pretty brave to turn up again—but it would really be more like stupid.
I’m looking east, toward the swamp side of the woods, which is where I’d expect them to come from. A scent catches my nose. I’m only confused for a second until the bear in me identifies it as the foreign smell from yesterday—the one Griffin said was nothin’—but my bear said was something else.
The breeze is coming from the west, so I know whatever is giving off the scent is behind me. I decide to play it cool and wait to see if it gets nearer. But it must be standing still because the scent doesn’t get closer.
But it does change.
Gradually, it blends with another aroma. And one I know well.
A horny woman. She’s wet. Wanting. Needing.
My bear starts going nuts. He damn near breaks my back trying to arch up.
Down boy, I command him. You’ve smelled this before.
But that doesn’t stop him. He’s in the heat of the rut. I’ve got a battle on my hands to keep him inside, to keep him from a full out lunge to grab her.
Then as he twists our head, I see her, and I wish like hell I could let him go. She’s got the most beautiful brown eyes I’ve ever seen, and such luscious curves her jeans and plaid overshirt can’t hide them.
But my look must scare her because now she’s in motion. But instead of turning and running like most fools, she walks straight toward me like she knows where she’s going and swishes on by like it’s no big thing.
This lady’s got brass.
And ass.
And I’d love to get my hands around both.
My bear throws back our head and lets out a roar.
I cover it with a gigantic fake yawn, but she’s around the corner and probably not coming back.
Ease off! I tell my bear. If you come out now, she’s gonna head for the hills—or back to the city.
My bear growls a low, nasty growl. I know I’m going to have to do something to appease him or he’s going to tear my ass up fighting to get out.
Okay. Okay. How about this? We follow her for a while and we see what I can find out.
My bear growls a low, ominous growl, but backs off busting my balls.
I step out on the street.
I can’t see her anymore, but she won’t be hard to follow.
Her scent lingers.
The corner she turned down would bring her in the direction of the theatre. I take a shortcut and make it to the theatre in time to watch her walk by. My plan is to keep to the shadows and leave her alone until I get a sense of who she is.
But it’s going to be hard. Because I’m hard. My body is reacting to this lady like a two-year-old stallion to a mare in heat. I don’t know what the hell Griffin was talking about saying this lady was nice but nothing special.
Because as far as my bear is concerned—as far as I am concerned—I have to have this woman. Some way. Somehow.
Then it hits me. Like my old man whackin’ me upside the head.
Can it be? Is this woman my fated mate?
The bear inside me roars in approval.
No! It can’t be. There is only one true mate for a bear, and somehow, he must find her. Great. I’m on board. But if it only happens once in a lifetime, how can my bear know this is the one?
This mate is human, for one thing. She’s got full hips to bear young and luscious breasts to feed them, but this slip of a girl doesn’t look like she could stand up to a strong wind, let alone a ravaging bear. A bear who would scoop her up in his arms and carry her off to his shelter. A bear who would consume her mouth. Absorb her whole body. Get her wet until she is ready. Begging. Whimpering. Pleading to take my seed…
Whoa! What the fuck. I shake my head. I’ve never felt this strong a pull for a female, bear or not.
Could it be my bear is right?
I have to find out. But how? My instincts tell me to be patient, to wait it out.
I need to find out if she feels it, too.
The bear inside me knows she will. But my human knows there’s ritual—humans like things to go in a certain order. And I can’t risk scaring her away.
I walk softly in the shadows behind her.
Biding my time.
Chapter 5
Belinda
I finally slow down as I near the theatre. Here at least is a place I’ve seen before. From here, I can find my Jeep and be home as soon as I want.
My heart slows from its mad pounding.
Why did I go to that church?
I told myself it was to look at the URSA bike culture. But that was not what I looked at. I looked at that man. His culture was obviously the culture I was interested in.
I start walking. Hiking always helps me think, so I decide to take a path that looks like it’s going around the base of a nearby mountain. I automatically fall into a rhythm as the thoughts go through my head.
My brain is telling me to stay away from this man. He is wildly inviting, sure, but looking at him is all I should do. There have to be other women in this town who have noticed this man, and I wouldn’t want to cross swords with another local so soon in my time here.
Besides, I’d always pictured my first lover as a sleek, sophisticated banker, doctor, or lawyer—not a caveman with a body built more for wrestling bison than tender lovemaking.
But my brain isn’t convincing my body because my twat twitches and swells at just the thought of that muscular mass and the idea of how that big cock wo
uld feel inside me. Maybe I’ve never done it before, but a primordial memory tells me how good it would feel.
Maybe I had only been imagining that I want tender loving.
Maybe I actually, truly want it rough.
These thoughts and the yearnings of my body have me so distracted I don’t notice how far I’ve wandered. Judging by the closely-spaced trees and the peaks looming behind, I’ve left the outskirts of town far in the distance, and the switchback path I’m hiking has placed the mountain between Maiden’s Fork and me.
I’m near a clearing, but there doesn’t seem to be much here except a small, broken-down building with a single sign saying “bar,” and a shed out behind. It looks like someone has set up camp in the shed. I might be on private property, so I should politely back out.
I start to head back up the road when I hear the sound of motorcycles. I stop and watch, thinking they might be the URSA club from the church. Maybe my Viking is with them. I wouldn’t mind feasting my eyes on his flesh again.
But as three motorcycles break through the brush around me, I start to think this is not the group from the church. My suspicions are confirmed when I see the patches on their backs. The patches don’t say URSA and display a fearsome bear. They say Howler and are decorated with the salivating lips and snarling mouth of a wild-eyed coyote.
The three riders see me and start to circle me, laughing and howling. They finally pull their bikes up to the bar and kill their motors. They dismount.
The first guy off his bike is a skinny, oily little man with a nervous tic in his cheek. He staggers up to me, pulling on his crotch with his hand. He leans back as he leers at me, raking my body from bottom to top.
“Hey, baby, you come to see us?”
He is so close I can smell his rancid scent. I can see where they got the coyote image. Not from the fierceness, but from the dog breath.
Despite the terror making me shake, I can’t show fear. It’ll only encourage them. “No. I came to enjoy the beauty of nature. And that sure isn’t you.”
He grunts and swivels on his hips.
One of the other misfits slinks up. He walks around me, the sides of his mouth drawn down. He makes a show of running a gray tongue around cracked lips.
