by Fel Fern
Dusty’s gaze turned intense, considering. “Never for a moment did I think you were using me. You’re special to me, too, Trace. You’re the man I’ve been searching for all my life.”
Trace didn’t want to ruin the moment in case he said the wrong thing, but Bowen’s words came back to him. Feeling bold, he whispered, “Your mate?”
Dusty looked surprised.
“Bowen, Bowen mentioned shifters mated for life.” He felt like an idiot for mentioning that. Had he jumped the gun? What if he made the wrong assumption?
Dusty rubbed at his thigh, a small smile on his lips. “You have no idea how pleased I am to hear that word from you, pet.”
He blushed, beginning to like that term of endearment.
“You are?” He had to confirm he hadn’t misread the situation.
“Yes, but you must know, I’m not exactly perfect. I’m a broken shifter. You heard about me nearly losing control a year ago.”
“I’m not scared,” he blurted. “I’m not going to run out on you either. So what? You think you’re flawed, but you’re not. You’re perfect in my eyes.”
Dusty gripped the back of his neck and pressed their foreheads together, breathing hard. “Fuck, can I be so lucky?”
“Have you considered that I might be the lucky one?”
“Sassy,” Dusty remarked. “I really like this wild side of you.”
Him? Wild?
However, Trace couldn’t deny Dusty made him feel a lot braver, eager to try new things he’d been terrified of before. This night alone, Dusty managed to lure him out of his cave and meet Dusty’s family, the most important people to Dusty.
Dusty held out a hand and he took it.
“Are we stopping?” he asked, apprehensive.
Dusty shook his head. “I don’t want our first time to be on the kitchen counter.”
“Bed’s this way.”
He led Dusty to his bed. It was a single. Would the two of them fit or would Dusty prefer to leave after? So many questions raced in his mind, silenced when Dusty gave him a gentle push so he sat on the edge of the bed. He thought shifters liked to fuck their partners on all fours, but he was wrong as he lay on his back, looking up at Dusty.
“Don’t worry, I’m going to make you feel so fucking good. You’ll feel like you’re flying,” Dusty said. The leopard shifter must have read the worry on his face.
“I’m scared of screwing this up but I want you so badly,” he confessed.
“We’ll go slow.” Dusty lifted Trace’s legs over his broad shoulders. Like this, Trace’s dick was exposed and he blushed. Dusty snarled. “Perfect.”
That word made his entire body warm up. Dusty had the lube with him. The shifter uncapped it and applied a generous amount on his finger before working more inside his hole. He groaned as Dusty pushed one finger in. It amazed him Dusty took so much time, preparing him where Morgan simply just took him and he’d felt nothing but hurt as he’d screamed himself raw until he lay there, taking it.
Dusty froze. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. Thinking about Morgan,” he said hesitantly, and Dusty stopped. He knew the shifter was paying attention. Trace promised himself not to think about Morgan but he felt like he needed to get this off his chest. “You know, it’s ironic. Shifters have a reputation for being rough, ridden by their baser instincts, but Morgan was human. You, on the other hand, have been nothing but tender with me.”
Dusty leaned over and kissed him on the lips.
“You’re not mad?” he had to ask.
“I’m furious, not at you, but this fucker who hurt you.” Dusty took deep breaths. “I’m going to make this unforgettable so every time you think of sex, you’ll think of me, of us.”
“Us. I like that.”
“Yeah? Me, too.” Dusty slid his finger back into his puckered entrance again before adding a second. He moaned, not wanting to be anywhere else but here. Dusty began making twisting motions, eventually adding a third.
“You’re ready for me.” The leopard shifter decided.
He locked gazes with Dusty. “I trust you.”
“In case you want me to stop and I don’t catch your lips, tug or pull at me. I’ll stop instantly, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Shit,” Dusty muttered. “Condoms?”
He shook his head. “I’m clean. I had myself tested after the attack, and I know shifters can’t catch anything.”
“That’s true, but I would have worn one to reassure you nonetheless.”
“That’s sweet.”
With no further obstacles between them, Dusty replaced his fingers with his dick. He felt Dusty’s slick cockhead, brushing against his asshole and gasped when Dusty began pushing in.
Like Dusty promised, the shifter didn’t rush, although he had a feeling it took all of Dusty’s self-control to slow down. Dusty was bigger than he’d imagined and it felt for a moment as if he were being split apart. He clenched his hands above the sheets, relieved when Dusty spread his hands over his, not restraining him but simply holding him.
“Breathe, pet. That’s it. You’re doing so good,” Dusty said, his voice calming him.
Once Dusty moved past the thick ring of muscles, it was easier to breathe. Finally, Dusty sheathed himself balls deep inside him.
“Wow,” he whispered. “You’re really in me.”
Dusty smiled. “You feel so fucking tight, pet, so amazing, but we’ve barely begun. It’s time I make you feel real good.”
The burn fled away as Dusty began moving in and out of him, finding a rhythm which suited them. Pain was replaced by something else, ecstasy, because each time their bodies met, tiny licks of flame traveled down his body and went for his dick, rendering his body a vehicle of pleasure.
“God,” he whispered as Dusty fucked him deeper, reaching his most intimate places.
Dusty slammed his lips over his, busting his internal circuits. Dusty pulled away, hammering into him, reducing them both to panting animals. He closed his hands around Dusty’s larger ones, enjoying the sensation of their bodies becoming one, but he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Dusty shifted his hips, his next push brushing against his prostate.
Eyes wide, he gasped, but Dusty only aimed for his sweet spot again.
“That’s it, pet. I want you to see you come for me.” Dusty’s words had a growl to them, an order not a question, but he was only too happy to comply.
Dusty hit that special place in him again and he came, pressure inside him breaking wide open. His mind blanked and he saw stars as he emptied his balls. His breath came out ragged. Only the sound of Dusty’s flesh slapping against his filled the room. Trace sighed in contentment as Dusty locked his mouth over his neck again.
“Bite me,” he whispered.
Those words seemed to hold some unknown significance because Dusty looked pained. The leopard shifter growled softly, biting hard enough to bruise, but not break skin, before reaching climax and filling his ass with warmth.
When he was done, Dusty pulled his softening prick out of his ass and rolled to his side. He thought that was it. His skin felt a slight chill, chased away when Dusty pulled him close until his back pressed against Dusty’s muscled torso.
He turned so they were facing each and other and Dusty could read his words. “Oh, this is nice. You’re better than a blanket.”
Dusty looked affronted. “A blanket?”
The shifter didn’t look mad however, and only kissed him lightly on the lips.
“So,” he began with a grin. He felt sore, but that was the most mind-blowing sex he’d ever experienced. “When are we doing this again?”
Chapter Seven
At the sound of a police siren wailing in the distance, Morgan Weiss tugged his hood down his face, silently seething as the cop car passed the street. His nerves were shot, especially after the prison break. His fellow conspirators advised him to go under the radar a little while, but Morgan had unfinished business in Cherry Hill.
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He walked past a young happy couple, parents pushing a stroller, and wanted to gag. What the fuck. This town was as sickening as he remembered, like everyone were actors from a movie and they were all the best actors of all time.
Morgan kicked an empty soda can out of the way, satisfied to hear the whine of some stray mutt nearby. After all that he’d done, all he’d given for Trace Michaels, what had he gotten in return?
A prison sentence, even though Trace had been asking for it. The artist all but told Morgan how lonely he was, how sometimes he felt lost in his art. Art was the only goddamn thing going for a skinny piece of shit like Morgan. When Morgan had first seen Trace’s piece “The Fall” at the local art gallery, he’d fallen instantly in love.
Sad to say, finding out who the artist behind the work had been was a disappointment. Still, he’d wanted to know what it was like, getting under Trace’s skin, to know the genius underneath. All he’d discovered was a pathetic, miserable, insecure man. Still, he could forgive Trace for being so damn boring on the outside. He’d been elated when Trace and him had started going out.
Morgan had been a model boyfriend. He’d been supportive, possessive, and when he asked for one little fuck? Trace reacted like he was some goddamn villain. Sure, he had some police records and accusations for little things like molestation, assault, and attempted rape charges, but he’d managed to shut that poor asshole up before he could squeak.
He clenched his fists. Thanks to Trace Michaels, his life was ruined. The press had a field day when he was arrested. They didn’t know he was doing guys like Trace a favor. If Trace wasn’t famous, no one would have given Trace a second look.
Morgan found himself walking to Trace’s neighborhood. Fuck the restraining order. Morgan had bent the law so many times, it wouldn’t matter. Besides, he wasn’t stupid enough to get caught again. He glanced at the watch he’d snatched from some brawling twelve-year-old kid in the park. Seven in the morning. Soon enough, Trace would be heading out to his studio.
This was his best opportunity to drop by and tell Trace he was around town, because that old woman who owned the bakery below Trace’s studio creeped him out. There were rumors she wasn’t human but some kind of witch. Morgan wasn’t superstitious, but that old bitch’s stupid cat nearly scratched off his face once.
“Come out, Trace Michaels. We should finish what we started,” he whispered.
He found a spot behind a tree near the building opposite Trace’s buildings and lit a smoke—both the box of cigarettes and lighter were courtesy of some dumb fuck in a suit foolish enough to leave his personal belongings beside him on the park bench.
There were only two types of people in Morgan’s world, the takers and givers. He failed once, but he was going to take everything from Trace as payment for his jail time. This time, he would take precautions. The last time, passion had taken over and the neighbors had heard Trace’s screams. This time, he’d take Trace to a little shack in the woods owned by one of his new friends from prison. Harry said he could hide out in it as long as he liked until the news of the prison breakout blew over. As if.
Morgan had more important things to do. He narrowed his gaze as an enormous, dangerous-looking fucker built like a navy SEAL came out of the building, a familiar, lean figure beside him, smiling up at him.
“Trace,” he hissed under his breath, grinding the cigarettes between his fingers, not caring about the smell of flesh burning. “Fuck.”
Morgan didn’t like it when others took what was his. He had dibs on Trace, for crying out loud. Who was this new man in Trace’s life who moved like a—he swore. A big guy who moved so fluidly like that…and, seeing the stranger’s pupils turn slightly yellow could only mean one thing—a goddamn shifter.
“You banging faeries now, Trace? You’re more of a pervert than I thought—a slut,” he muttered, still unable to think past his anger.
He thought Trace had been too uptight, all high and mighty, unwilling to relax and have one good fuck. The moment Morgan let his little artist bitch loose, Trace banged the first shifter he saw.
“What the hell?”
Morgan pushed a hand into his jacket, tracing the gun concealed there. Once again, a kind donation from some cowboy-looking weirdo he’d passed by who probably thought guns were cool. He hesitated, recalling what he knew about shifters. In prison, the paranormals were separated from the humans, but he’d once seen a violent shifter inmate literally rip the arm off of another. Stomach queasy, he let his hand drop by his side.
The guards back at the prison even carried special guns for the furry bastards, those containing silver bullets. A lead bullet would barely make a dent on Trace’s new fuck animal.
Shit. Morgan hated it when his plans fell flat. No matter. He refused to make the same mistake as before. He’d watch Trace carefully, and once the stupid asshole made a mistake, let his guard down a second, Morgan would sweep in and take care of his unfinished business.
* * * *
Dusty halted midway from giving Trace a kiss, frowning at the empty spot across from a nearby tree next to a trash can. His leopard warned him of a malicious presence that’d been there earlier, raising all his hackles. He sniffed, catching multiple scents of humans. It was hard to pinpoint anything on a street if he didn’t know the first thing he should be looking for.
Trace tugged at his shirt sleeve and he looked at his mate. Mate. Yes. It felt right calling Trace that.
“What’s wrong?” Trace asked.
“Nothing, must be my imagination. Can I drive you to work?”
Trace looked surprised. “But didn’t you have to go back to your place to change to your park ranger uniform?”
“It’s fine. My partner will be there and I’ll just take some extra time.”
Trace frowned. “If you’re sure.”
“I am, besides, your studio isn’t far.” He gave Trace’s neck a reassuring squeeze. Once on his bike, he stopped by a nearby cafe and grabbed them both a couple of sandwiches, ignoring Trace fuming at him by his bike.
“You know, I’m not a kid,” Trace complained when he handed Trace his sandwiches.
In his opinion, Trace needed more meat on his bones. “You were panting on our hike the other day. You need more sustenance.”
“And exercise?” Trace asked wryly, then hesitated. “I know you love the outdoors. Would you take me out hiking sometimes? It seems much better, easier than going to the mall and being around people.”
He grinned. “That’s the reason why I love being a ranger so much. My leopard feels calmer being near the woods and with you.”
“Me? Really? Are you just saying that to earn brownie points with me or something?”
He laughed, shoved the bag to Trace again. “I’m new to this relationship thing, so humor me when I’m simply buying you snacks, okay?”
“Snacks?” Trace eyed his bag of sandwiches, then his body. Oh, he noticed Trace liked looking at him, which was fine, because he liked looking at what was his, too. “I guess, being that big and buff requires consumption of a lot of food. I noticed your friends eat plenty, too.”
“We shifters have a fast metabolism.” They got back on the bike and he walked Trace upstairs to his studio.
“Will you always be this overprotective?” Trace mumbled, but nonetheless purred when he stroked the graceful curve of Trace’s back. “Okay, I’m not complaining.”
“Good.” He kissed Trace on the lips before heading back downstairs.
The smell of freshly baked bread hit his nose and he turned his head to peer inside the bakery. Maybe a few snacks wouldn’t hurt. He entered, surprised Mrs. Irwin had a big smile on her lined face. He chose a couple of buns and neared the cashier.
“Good night?” she asked.
“Oh yeah.”
She opened her mouth and it wasn’t hard to guess she was laughing, then the old witch sobered. Mrs. Irwin placed his buns in a bag, then said, “I need to show you something important. Wait here.”
“Hey, kitty.” The cat looked happy when Dusty gave its ears a scratch. When he stood back up, Mrs. Irwin had returned with a paper in hand. It wasn’t the local paper. He frowned. “What’s this?”
She turned the pages and set it down, pointing to an article. Dusty caught sight of the words, “prison breakout.”
“Morgan Weiss is one of those who escaped the riot,” she said.
He saw red for a couple of seconds, snarling under his throat, but Dusty knew he needed to get his head back in the present. Losing his temper wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all Trace. He couldn’t afford to lose Trace, especially right after finding him. It couldn’t be a coincidence his leopard had sensed something or someone malicious in front of Trace’s building.
Dusty looked at the old witch, who seemed to be studying him carefully. “Can you tell me all you know about Morgan Weiss?”
He listened, memorizing the facts in his head before exiting the bakery.
Dusty wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate humans, unlike some shifters who assumed humans were at the bottom of the food chain. War had taught him it had no favorites, and he’d tangled with humans who had honed their bodies to be weapons, able to meet another shifter toe-to-toe. Morgan Weiss, however, was the worst humanity had to offer.
Judging from what Mrs. Irwin had told him, Morgan Weiss was a snake, careful to keep his distance, and would only strike during the least expected moment. He phoned Mike, knowing his friend had a contact with the local police.
“What? You calling to brag?” Mike asked upon answering his call.
“I need your help.”
Just like that, his friend immediately asked, “What do you need?”
Dusty knew he could rely on his brothers, but he also knew Trace was too proud to admit he needed help. Dusty just needed to make his mate understand what kind of danger he was in. He told Mike about the prison breakout and the possibility of Morgan being in town.
