by Anne Marsh
BAD WOLF
ANNE MARSH
The wolf totally gets a bad rap in Little Red Riding Hood. There he is, eating that naughty girl up, and the huntsman barges in with his big ax. I’ll bet she loved it. I’ll bet she adored her big, bad wolf right up until she didn’t get her happy ending.
This wolf doesn’t disappoint in bed. Ever.
Everywhere else? Absolutely. I’ve got a long, colorful history of disappointing my pack mates and fellow bikers in the Breed MC. I’ve never met a rule I wouldn’t break, but now I’m ready to make up for it. I’ll atone for my crimes. Live happily ever after. If I’m lucky, I won’t even die of boredom. Being the good wolf is the least exciting gig I’ve ever had.
But after I kidnap a midwife, being good gets harder than ever. I need said midwife to nurse my Alpha’s mate through a difficult pregnancy. Kidnapping Rain was supposed to be my good deed for the day and a sure-fire way to make up for the mistakes I’ve made with my pack, but now my arms are full of sexy, smart woman and I’m totally up for a change in plans.
I want this woman.
I want her to be mine.
And yeah… I want to be hers.
But what’s a wolf to do when he falls in love with Little Red Riding Hood? I’m supposed to keep my hands (and all my other amazing parts) to myself because kissing the midwife is off-limits for this reformed bad boy. Or it should be. Because I’m about to be a very, very bad wolf indeed.
*** This is a full-length, standalone paranormal romance with a filthy-minded, down-and-dirty wolf shifter who doesn’t have a filter but who does possess another outsized attribute to make up for it. You don’t have to read the other Breed MC books to enjoy Fang, but you will have a whole new appreciation for what he has to atone for. ***
Copyright © 2018 Anne Marsh
All rights reserved.
www.anne-marsh.com
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locations or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, with the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Original cover design by Kim Killion
Formatting and ebook design by Geek Girl Author Services.
Contents
Bad Wolf
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Want More?
About the Author
The Breed MC
Reading List
I’m no hero. Never have been, never will be. One good, long look at me tells the entire story. I’m the guy pulling a carpe diem with his jeans unbuttoned and shoved down just far enough to bare my best part. The guy with the leather MC club vest, a battered T-shirt, and all the right stuff going on below the belt. I’m hot as fuck.
Right. I get it. You’re too busy staring at my dick to talk.
Shock and awe, baby. Shock and awe.
I don’t blame you. I’ve got an enormous dick, a monster cock, and right now it’s sticking out loud and proud for anyone who walks into the alley to see. Ten inches, thick as my wrist, and I know exactly how to use my tool. If you don’t believe me, ask the biker chick I’m banging against the bar’s back wall. I work said miracle dick deeper inside her until I’m practically coming out her throat and she’s shrieking my name loud enough to be heard clear across Baton Rouge. The screaming, the scratching, and the way she’s clawing at me are popular stops on my orgasm tour, but right now we’re headed for the main attraction—and my big O is definitely worth the price of admission.
I could make a killer living renting out my dick, but when I’m buttoned up and not drilling deep into club pussy, I’m a patch-wearing member of the Breed MC, a hardcore biker, all-round bad boy, and a werewolf. Only the first three are public knowledge. My hair is buzzed close to my skull in a way that makes you look at my eyes and realize that I’m one part stone-cold killer and one part don’t-give-a-fuck. The ink marching up and down my arms and throat is bold and colorful because the only thing I keep on the down low is the shapeshifting, and that’s only because I’d never do anything to hurt my pack—at least not now.
I’m totally fucking reformed.
You don’t believe me? You’d like to point out that humping a random chick in an alley behind a biker bar doesn’t scream model citizen? That putting her back to a brick wall instead of a Sealy Posturepedic smacks either of urgency or an unflattering unwillingness to put extra time into what’s shaping up to be a ten-minute relationship? I feel you because the ambience is definitely lacking. The pavement beneath my motorcycle boots is littered with cigarette butts, broken glass, and beer caps of the cheap twist-off variety. The décor is of the suspicious stain variety and the eau de dumpster wafting our way from the other end of the alley makes me regret my super-sharp werewolf sense of smell.
Doesn’t seem to bother the woman riding my dick any, although that could be because I’ve got her distracted. She tightens her arms around my neck, dragging my face toward hers as her pussy clamps down hard. Not sure if she’s coming or trying to snap my dick off so she can keep it as a souvenir. Since I don’t kiss on the first date, I divert and bury my face against her throat. Bad move. She’s drenched herself in something musky. If roses had a hooker twin, that would be the scent clinging to her skin like one of those perfumed strip things stuck into a magazine so you can take a particular perfume for a test drive, rub it all over your body, maybe stick it in your panty drawer.
Too much?
Suck it. I’m reformed, not dead.
The universe clearly isn’t certain on this point, however, because this is when my phone goes off in my back pocket. For a moment, I think baby girl is aiming her pocket rocket at my ass, which is a no-fly zone. I don’t get fucked. Not anymore. It takes me a moment to realize it’s actually my phone. See—it’s just my alarm, okay? Nothing to get bent or in a pissing match about. I just have to remember why I set the alarm for four in the afternoon. I’m not an alarm kind of guy. Unless it’s club business, I don’t care when I get up, show up, or get off.
So I pound harder, cupping my girl’s ass and working her against me. She moans louder and louder, her noises almost drowning out the annoying buzz of my phone. I’m gonna come. My balls tighten as I jackhammer harder, pushing my hand between us so I can work my companion’s clit. She deserves an orgasm for all the work she’s putting into this. And yes, mine will feel even better if she’s squeezing me tight while I finish. We both win, so don’t bitch.
This is me. The not-hero, totally villain me. Okay, so maybe my reformation didn’t one hundred percent take.
“Fang,” she moans.
“Right here, baby girl.” I piston harder, catch her clit between my fingers, and pinch. She shrieks like a fire alarm and combusts. This is excellent timing because my phone vibrates again, right as I realize that I’ve forgotten her name. Or maybe I never bothered to learn it? Doesn’t matter. We’re having sex, not a relationship. Not like we’re gon
na be buying monogrammed sheets together and so I need to know her initials.
She collapses against me, and I do the gentleman and keep holding her up, my hands cupping her ass as I come hard. I’m done, she’s done, and it’s time to get this show on the road. I pop her off my dick, lob the condom into the dumpster (which is a fucking three-point shot that baby girl totally fails to appreciate), and start buttoning up. She sags against the wall, trying to make her legs work which is smart, seeing as how the pavement is fucking nasty.
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re the best.”
The gratitude’s genuine, but the superlative is a lie. Seems polite though, which is another part of my whole turning-over-a-new-leaf thing. Sex doesn’t have to be competitive gymnastics; I don’t have to flash a scorecard and deduct points for the way she failed to stick the landing or keep her legs together in the air.
“When will I see you again?” she whines.
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Because my answer is a definite never. Yeah, we’ll bump into each other at the bar or ride past each other on the road, but when the highway of life’s so full of pit stops, why get off in the same spot twice?
“Gotta go.” I lean down and brush a kiss over her cheek. See? A whole new fucking leaf. That’s me being Mr. Tender and giving a shit about her feelings.
“Why?” She tries latching on but I’m expert in avoiding entanglements. Okay. I don’t give a big shit about what’s going on in the feeling department there.
“I’m having a baby.” I buckle while she blinks, trying to process my words. She’s not a quick thinker. Eventually, her eyes descend straight to my stomach and stay there, like somehow I’m hiding a half-hatched pollywog in there and I might go all Exorcist on her and pop a mutant wolf cub out.
Not today.
She’s still whining and bitching behind me, wriggling her skirt down into place, when I clear the entrance to the alley. My bike’s parked right out front under the watchful eye of a prospect. My dick may make the rounds, but no one touches my bike without permission.
The prospect nods his head when I come bursting out. He tries to swallow a smirk. “Done?”
I give him credit for trying to pretend he hasn’t heard shit. It’s a wasted effort, though. Not like I care if I have an audience, and the kid’s probably jealous. On the other hand, baby girl back there might be up for seconds if he asks nicely and he looks like the kind of guy who could be convinced to do aftercare. At the very least, he’d buy her a drink. I wink and jerk my head toward the alley. Have at it.
And then because I’m turning over that new leaf, I even let him know the coast is clear. “Got an appointment.”
It’s the truth, too. I’ve got a 4:30 with some chick at a birthing center. And no, it’s not what you think it is. I need some female advice. That’s why I’ve been scouring the Internet the last two weeks with Yelp as my wingman. That’s why I’ve called four different women’s health centers, and that’s why I’ve hung out at places like Babies-R-Us, listening. FYI? Women talk, and they love to compare birth stories. I’ve learned a hell of a lot in fourteen days.
Fuck, I even bought the Bible of childbirth, that What to Expect doorstopper of a book. Unless the printed word lies, I’ve got forty weeks max to make everything right, a clock that started ticking the minute Jace’s super sperm did a tango number with Keelie Sue’s egg. As far as I can tell, she’s already way past the halfway mark, chewing up my available time. Her pregnancy started off fine. She puked, she bitched, she glowed. From the look on my Alpha’s face, the rumors about pregnancy sex were less rumor and more fact. My brother was definitely getting some. And then everything changed. About a month ago. Keelie Sue still showed up at club functions and she still sang a happy song about Jace having knocked her up with his super sperm, but she got paler. And as her belly got bigger, the rest of her got thinner. The puking didn’t stop, either. And then sometimes she’d flinch, her hands flying to that never-ending belly and holding on like something hurt deep inside or maybe she was trying to keep the baby in.
It’s not that I care. I don’t. In addition to sucking at relationships, I’m not a baby person. And for extra bonus points, Keelie Sue and I have a rocky history. Yes, I tried to bang her. I’m sure you’re surprised to learn I failed. I was. I never have any problem nailing the girl, thank you aforementioned monster cock. But with Keelie Sue, I made the mistake of trying for something more. Her daddy was our pack Alpha at the time, and he made it clear that banging Keelie Sue would get a wolf promoted to number two. Yes, I was jonesing for that job. I planned to make a quick transition from two to one, too. I don’t take orders well. Showing your throat to someone, submitting, letting someone else run the show… these are not a few of my favorite things.
But shit backfired when I went after Keelie Sue. I may be the master of the quick fuck, but my dating skills are rusty. I scared her, I offended her, and I hurt her. So I have some making up to do, and lending her a hand with this pregnancy shit seems better than a dozen red ones. Somehow, I’m gonna fix this pregnancy for her. Make it work, make it stick, make it fucking perfect.
I owe a shit-ton of people after the crap I’ve pulled in the last year—challenging for pack leadership and losing, and just being an all-round, overachieving ass. It’s not that I’ve been visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future and feel a need to atone for my own past dickishness. It’s just that every good villain eventually gets his comeuppance, and it turns out that I do love my pack—even more than my dick… and my dick’s really fucking awesome. You can stop looking at me like that. This isn’t a bros before hos moment. This is just part of that new leaf shit.
I gun my bike up the highway. We can pretend that I ride flat out because I’m worried about making my appointment on time, but the truth is that I like going fast and my ride’s built to accommodate. A wolf can pack a whole lot into a day that way. Take today, for instance. I had the whole morning for club business and beating the shit out of anyone who needs it, followed by a little up-against-the-wall action in a waterfront bar. Even had time for a beer before my four-thirty. The sun’s up, the birds are singing some kind of shit nature song, and everyone’s busy reproducing.
I may be the one who just jizzed in a club pass-around, but here’s a fact. I was thinking about getting my rocks off—not about propagating the species. Once I came and she came, our relationship was done. The people hanging out at the birthing center, however, clearly have a whole different take on sperm donation. First thing I notice when I haul ass into the parking lot is the overwhelming number of minivans. I count four Baby Onboard signs and a dozen stick-up sun shields. It’s like a baby factory exploded and now the sky’s raining newborns. It might be possible to get pregnant just walking through the parking lot.
I zip into the first empty spot I see. I no sooner kill the engine, than I spot the corny Reserved for Baby and Mama sign stuck at one end of the spot. Well fuck me. Wait. Been there, done that, and now I’m thinking I should have double-bagged my dick in case baby-brewing really is contagious. I back out of the spot and take the only other visible opening—which is way in the back of the lot underneath some kind of flowering tree that’s shitting dark purple berries everywhere. This does not bode well for the remainder of my day.
I stride toward the big glass door fronting the lot as that seems like the obvious way in. Not like I want to try for a chimney and make like Santa Claus, or sneak in the back. I’ve never been Mr. Subtle, as Keelie Sue can attest. I pass two visibly pregnant women waddling with slow determination toward the same entrance. The first one looks like she swallowed a freaking watermelon, but the second one’s got her beat. I’d be willing to beat she’s hauling around a dirigible in her stomach. She looks like she’s about to pop and drop a baby in the parking lot. I pick up my pace because no way I want to be around for that.
You think I should have stopped?
Held the door, held a hand, got ready to dial 9-1-1?
&
nbsp; Yeah. Dream on.
I’ve got an appointment to make, and pregnant women aren’t my thing. Plus the dirigible-eating one’s wearing a muumuu the size and color of a circus tent. I hotfoot it inside, letting the glass door slam shut behind me. I warned you I’m not hero material. While you chew on that, I check out the birthing center. It has that weird chemical smell all doctors’ offices seem to have, like they pump that shit out of the air conditioning vents or stock it in a little potpourri bowl. Hard not to inhale that smell and start worrying about the state of your innards. The waiting room is full of windows and a couple more baby mamas loll in chairs, soaking up the sunshine flooding the place.
The walls are covered with that faux wooden paneling that was popular in the eighties and that somebody’s tried to cover up with a thick coat of white paint, pink and blue carpeting, and a wall full of baby pictures. It’s so fucking cheerful that I feel an urge to belt out a dirty ditty or moon someone. Since I’d probably send them into collective labor and then my appointment would get pushed back, I refrain. I’m totally learning restraint.
The birthing center has eight certified nurse-midwives. I picked the one that women swore undying allegiance to on Yelp because I want the best for Keelie Sue. Her name is Rain Sullivan. Her accessories include a bachelor’s degree in nursing from San Diego State, a shit-ton of experience as a registered nurse, and a somewhat more recent degree from a graduate program in midwifery. As far as I can tell, she’s never lost a baby since setting up shop in Baton Rouge, although she’s fielded a few hairy situations that were way over-shared on Yelp. And honestly that’s perfect. I don’t need someone who can slap a BandAid on a booboo—I need a woman who can sew your goddamned leg back on after you’ve accidentally chopped it off with the lawn mower and your ex has run the flopping, bleeding limb over for good measure. You know that movie where the alien baby comes exploding out of the baby momma’s belly? I’m betting Rain can tape that shit back together.
