by Lynn Marie
“I don’t give up easy,” he said.
Excitement stirred in her stomach and she tried to ignore it, but she could feel the pounding sensation growing between her legs. God, he was persistent. And sexy. For an arrogant, entitled prick, he was sexy. And the closer he got, the more her body responded. And she hated herself a little bit, but even her voice had deepened and taken on a husky quality.
“You don’t even know me.” And she’d done nothing to encourage his interest.
“I’d like to.”
“Why?”
She’d been expecting a brush off, maybe, or some half-hearted compliment in the way of a guy who’s just been put on the spot. He surprised her. He reached down and scooped up her hand before she could back away. “You’ve got a quick mind, an even quicker tongue and fire in your eyes. And,” he began, lifting her wrist and inhaling noiselessly though his nose, “you’re practically the only female in this town that doesn’t wear perfume. You smell like… sunshine and… butter and blueberries.”
She jerked into focus through the haze of lust. It had been hours since she’d taken those muffins out of the oven… was he saying he could smell it? Also, he’d just smelled her. Which was weird.
For some reason, Dana’s advice popped into her head. Be open to things.
Blowing out a long breath, she extracted her hand from his. Surprisingly, he let go easily—maybe because he’d sensed imminent victory. “All right. I admit that I’m interested, but would you do me a favor and dial down the predatory charm? Just let me…” she stopped and tentatively reached up to cup his face in her hands. She’d never been one to kiss a stranger, but the way she was feeling… she just had to know. “I just want to try something.”
Dutifully, he held still as she came up on her tip-toes. When she didn’t quite reach, he bent his neck to close the distance. Their lips came together softly and she brushed hers against his once, twice. This could work…
Suddenly, as if a dam had broken, she lost all interest in sweet and gentle. A moan escaped from her mouth, only to be swallowed by his. She pressed herself into him, feeling all his hard edges and stiff muscles. She crushed her mouth against his, all in an effort to close all space between them. She wanted—needed—to be as close to him as possible. She needed him touching her, she needed him between her legs, and she needed his mouth.
His hands cupped her rear, sending little electric jolts of pleasure up her spine, and lifted her into the air until she felt the coolness of the laminate counter on the back of her thighs. He circled her waist with his arms and she explored the planes of his shoulders and back as he deepened the kiss. His tongue touched hers, ran along her bottom lip and inside her mouth.
She heard herself moan again as his fingers brushed the side of her breast. Heat bloomed under her skin, setting her on fire from within. It was the hottest at her center and she found herself rubbing against him—against his hardness—seeking relief.
Rubbing herself? What was she, a cat in heat? Pulling away, she looked at him and panted, lost for breath and words.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. His expression mirrored hers—desire and bewilderment.
“My thoughts exactly,” she said. She tugged down the hem of her skirt and cleared her throat as she slid off the counter, down the length of his body. He groaned and stepped back to give her room to stand.
“What… the hell was that?” she asked, breathless.
“Honestly, I’m not really sure. That wasn’t… you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
They weren’t even touching, but the energy in Evelyn hadn’t slowed. She still needed him in the worst way and her pulse was still racing. He stared down at her through slit lids.
Bedroom eyes.
“So what now?” The knowledge that her apartment was just upstairs tickled the back of her mind. They could do this. All she had to do was say something.
He’d been reaching for her again, but as if awakened by her question, he pulled back. “Dinner. Tomorrow night.”
Tomorrow night? Her face must have betrayed her disappointment because he grinned and caught her chin between his thumb and index finger. “Tonight I’ve got an appointment to keep, Kitten. And as much as I’d love to take you here and now on this counter, and even though you’d let me, I’m not going to because you deserve better.”
Somehow, his comment managed to be both chauvinistic and chivalrous. She could have argued—would have—except that she’d been hot enough a minute ago to have sex with a stranger in full view through the giant window.
“Still think I’m predatory?”
“Even more than I did before. I have a past and I’m complicated,” she warned. Mr. Perfect had to know what we he was getting into.
“We all have scars,” he countered easily.
“Fair warning.”
He chuckled. “Well, I appreciate it. Seven o’clock? Where do you live?”
“I’ll meet you.”
She recited her cell number and gnawed on her lower lip as she watched him add her to his contacts. Was this the man the Tarot had predicted? It all seemed so impossible but Dana had just done the reading. “And just out of curiosity… do you have a pet? Like… a dog, or a… wolf?”
His eyes widened and he returned his phone to his pocket. “Why do you ask?”
Odd that he hadn’t just brushed it aside. After all, it was a completely ridiculous question. “Just curious,” she shrugged.
“I don’t have any pets.”
“Oh.” Evelyn couldn’t decide whether she was disappointed or relieved to not be meeting her destiny today.
“See you tomorrow night.” His lips met hers and, just as quickly, he pulled away. “For luck,” he whispered.
Evelyn swallowed hard and watched him go. Shaking her head, she smiled to herself. She was about to wear out the batteries in her vibrator.
Chapter 2
That night, two miles outside of the city limit in the middle of old man Sully’s cornfield, people sat on makeshift benches of cinderblocks and two-by-fours. They surrounded an area where the corn had long since been trampled and now held a circle, roughly drawn in the dirt. Indeterminate chatter filled the air, punctuated with squeals of excitement and loud laughter as the spectators waited.
The noise died abruptly as two men entered the dirt ring. They faced each other, expressions grim. All eyes drifted skyward to assess the position of the moon, and when Old Sully perceived it to be in the correct position, the men began to disrobe.
They threw their clothes to the men waiting on either side of the ring and began their change. Noses became snouts, torsos condensed, skin darkened and hair grew, spread and thickened until it covered the length of their bodies. They fell to all fours, trembling in stoic silence against the pain of rapid cellular death, and wolves stood where men once had within a matter of seconds.
One wolf was noticeably bigger, with bushy grey fur and fury in his yellow eyes as he snarled at his opponent. The other wolf’s black fur gleamed in the moonlight as he stood patiently, opting not to indulge in the wolf version of smack-talk. A lone howl sounded and the wolves lunged for each other. Almost immediately, the larger of the two had flipped the other on his back and was snapping at him. The black wolf wriggled out, managing to avoid the razor-like teeth aimed at his throat.
“Go, Michael!” cried an elderly woman from her seat in the front. Her encouragement was met with looks of vague disapproval from her first-row peers, who sat in the customary silence.
The black wolf’s lips curled up in a grin. Michael spun to face the larger wolf and they circled each other, each searching for an opening to exploit. He stayed low, using the difference in size to his advantage. Brock, his challenger, was stronger, but slower. And his youth made him impetuous.
Brock came down from above, coming up on his back legs for an instant to get the jump. Michael wove in and swiped at his attacker’s soft belly. Only the younger man’s quick reflexes saved him from spilling first
blood under Michael’s claws; he danced away. He lost his balance and Michael exploited it, leaping forward to pin him to the ground. Brock recovered more quickly than he anticipated, however, and used Michael’s own momentum to help him out of the ring. There were no formal rules about staying inside the circle in the dirt—rather, the ring was there to ensure the spectators didn’t get too close.
Michael dug in his back claws and growled low in his throat. Where had the punk learned that move? Before he had time to ponder it, Brock lunged again. This time, Michael was already gone. Wolf fights had the same principals as human fights—it took twice as much energy to swing and miss. They continued for a few minutes that way, with Michael evading Brock and effectively tiring out the younger, larger wolf.
The people in the stands shouted their support and booed alternately. It was hard to tell whom they wanted to win.
Growing more desperate and angry by the second, Brock stopped to catch his breath and Michael took his chance. His powerful back legs propelled him forward and he slammed into Brock’s flank. They rolled and a dust cloud rose so thick that it hid them from view. Everyone stood, virtually as one entity and the noise died.
When the dust settled, Michael stood over Brock, baring his teeth. Blood dripped from his jaw to where it bloomed from under the grey fur of Brock’s shoulder. Michael changed back, spat and wiped his mouth with a forearm, leaving a long streak of red. Sweat rolled down his torso, pooling between the ridges of his abs. There was a beat of silence, when all that could be heard was Michael’s labored breathing and a faint whimper from Brock.
A deafening roar filled the night air as the crowd spilled from their seats.
“Well done!”
“Good work, Mike.”
“You almost had him, Brock! Almost!”
Michael accepted a few pats on the back and handshakes, and tuned out the rest. Not everyone in the town was on his side. He knew it by now—accepted it. Someone tossed him his pants and he shucked them on.
“Jesus, Mike. You about tore my delt,” Brock grumbled, standing and gauging the damage to his shoulder.
At least I wasn’t aiming for your neck. “It’ll heal,” Michael replied with a shrug. He offered his hand for the customary shake after the challenge and Brock eyed it defiantly for a couple seconds before he gave in.
It wasn’t so much a handshake as a bone-crushing, petulant display of machismo, but Michael was used to it.
“You’ll never measure up,” Brock murmured.
Michael drew back his hand.
As he crossed the ring, he caught his mother’s eye. She grinned and winked at him before she disappeared. The crowd was thinning, as most pack members changed and ran wild after a challenge. The rest of them filed into the parking area to drink, smoke and shoot the shit. Someone had brought speakers and soft rock joined the cicadas and distant howls. Later on there would be a fire pit and dancing, courtesy of the younger pack members. Michael remembered these nights—they’d been just pack meetings for him then, not Alpha challenges.
Nostalgia and loneliness quickly soured his endorphin rush from winning.
Without warning, a meaty arm came around his neck, pushing him forward. Instinctively, he lashed out, twisting in his attacker’s grip to catch the arm under his own and twist it.
“Ow! Mercy!” Trip howled, up on his tip-toes.
Michael released his friend and Trip clapped him on the shoulder as they headed for Michael’s truck. “Bravo, Chief. Another one bites the dust.”
Michael cracked a grin and shook his head. “Don’t know where he learned some of that. He nearly had me this time.”
“Your cousin’s a tank. What is he, 6’10”?”
“He’s got a couple inches on me, yeah.”
“I bet he lifts 450 at least. I can’t believe you got out of it.”
“Yeah.” Michael rubbed the back of his neck and caught sight of his reflection in a truck as he passed. He stared at himself in the window, hard. Being Alpha, even for the months since his father had died, had aged him years. The brightness of his blue eyes remained, but wrinkles had started forming at the corners at the ripe age of 30. And he constantly looked like he needed to catch a shave and sleep for day and a half.
“Here we are.” Trip lowered the back end of the truck and hoisted himself up. As Michael took his seat, Trip grabbed two Buds from the cooler he’d brought and settled next to him.
“Thanks.”
“Eight full moons down, five to go. How do you feel?”
Michael twisted off the bottle cap and savored the first swig. “Tired. ”
They fell into comfortable silence as they enjoyed their cold beers. Brock walked by, surrounded by a group of his friends. Their eyes locked and Michael made sure he wasn’t the first to look away. Punk kid. Someone needed to tell him how stupid his earring looked.
A low rumble came from Trip, an irritated growl. “When is he gonna give up?”
“My guess is never. Not even if I beat him at every moon until the end of my probationary year,” Michael said with a sigh.
“So what are you going to do?”
He considered it for a second, taking another gulp. “What else can I do? I’m going to fight him as many times as he challenges me. I’m going to earn this position and I’m going to prove to him and everyone in this town that I deserve to be Alpha.”
Trip whistled and his eyebrows disappeared under the blonde hair hanging down on his forehead. “You practice that one much, Braveheart?”
Michael felt his shoulders drop as he half-smiled at the dig. Trip had a knack for saying exactly what he needed to hear to get the fuck out of his own head. “In the mirror every day, actually. I wear a kilt and paint my face.”
“I tell you, if I were Alpha, I’d prefer more of a totalitarian reign, myself. The first thing to go would be the probationary year and all the challenges after ascension.”
Michael turned to Trip with a smirk. “That tradition is hundreds of years old. This is the only time in an Alpha’s reign that anyone from the pack can challenge him and not be killed for it—some guys will always think they’re the strongest or the smartest, and they need their asses kicked to show them otherwise. I’m demonstrating my physical power and I’m uniting the pack under new leadership,” he said, loosely quoting his father.
Trip shrugged, a sheepish smile. “Guess I hadn’t thought of it like that. It just seems like a good way to accidentally get your guts ripped out.”
Another group passed by the truck, this one females in their early twenties. They ogled the Alpha and his Beta, trying to be covert, and settled around a blue sedan a few yards from Michael’s truck. Too far for Michael or Trip to make out what they were saying, but close enough for them to catch the scent of arousal on the breeze. They wore fuck-me heels, red lipstick and tight skirts. His wolf rippled underneath his skin, but they left a sour taste in Michael’s mouth.
“Someone finally rented out Wendy’s place—some woman,” Trip said, looking past Michael to a fluffed up blonde who was giving him the look. “Here I was, thinking this town could use some new meat.”
Michael couldn’t really blame Trip for his divided attention. He’d sized up the girls and decided against it. Obvious and easy wasn’t his type. It was Trip’s, though.
“I know, I met her.”
“And?”
His thoughts fell back on Evelyn and a smile crossed his face. She was tough—he liked that. She dressed her age and he couldn’t tell whether or not she wore makeup. Her hands were work-roughened in a way he didn’t usually come across in city folk (and she clearly was from a city)—calloused and flecked with small scars that made him smile when he’d felt them.
And those hips and that ass… His cock twitched as he wondered what she’d look like without all those clothes. She’d be soft all over, that much he knew. And that small taste was enough to drive him crazy for another.
And the heat between them was unreal.
“We�
�re going out tomorrow night.”
Michael wasn’t sure his friend had even heard him—the blonde was smiling at Trip and tugging surreptitiously at her shirt to make it conform to the curve of her breasts. “Of course you are. Oh well, I can’t win ‘em all. But looks like I’m hooking me a fish right now.” He grinned at her, nodded and lifted his beer in salute.
The blonde woman started approaching fast and she looked determined, but once she saw Michael looking her way interestedly for the first time, her resolution seemed to waver.
Trip swore in irritation. “Aw, hell, Mike. Did you have to look? I knew I should have gone to her.”
With a chuckle, Michael leaned back against the side of his truck and shrugged. “What can I tell you? There can only be one Alpha.”
Trip snorted. “Dick.”
There were certain attributes to being a shifter that he wasn’t going to complain about, and being tall and built were a couple.
The only difference between him and Trip, apart from the two and a half inches he had on his best friend (that he was going to hound him about until the day they died), was that, as opposed to All-American blond and brown-eyed Trip, Michael had dark hair and tanned skin. But his eyes were like ice; being a descendant of the Alpha line came standard with a larger build than your average wolf and iridescent eyes.
Bottom line, he had been told that he looked dangerous. And the fact that he never went to the bar looking for temporary company, like Trip did, made him unobtainable—a challenge, as it were.
“I’m going to do some damage control,” Trip muttered as he jumped down to intercept the blonde before she could change her mind.
“Good luck,” Michael said. He didn’t mind sitting alone.
A wolf howled in the distance and Michael finished his beer and went for another.
It was damn peaceful in the darkness of Sully’s cornfield after a fight. He could let his mind wander and his shoulders loosen. Here, he wasn’t a first son, an Alpha or even a wolf. He was just a guy. Not that he was complaining about his life. He had it made—family money made his job as an architect superfluous but enjoyable. It was just that sometimes… Sometimes he didn’t want to have to worry about meetings of the Elders or the challenges…
