Werecats and Werelocks (Collection)

by Dakota Cassidy

  "Wait. Stop right there. Did you hear that?"

  Glynice Ackerman halted her purposeful steps, placing a hand on her longtime friend Beulah's arm and held up a wrinkled finger. “Shhhhhh."

  "Did you have too many Cosmopolitans at Hwang's, you crazy bat? Don't shush me, old woman."

  Glynice narrowed her eyes at her friend. “I said shut up and listen, and don't call me old. You're older than me by three years. Now, hush!” She cocked her head, turning it to the left, then to the right. Damn, she'd swear she'd heard a cat howling.

  "Glyn—"

  "Shhhhhhhhhh,” she hissed, placing a hand over Beulah's mouth. Turning her head once more, she reached for her hearing aide, cranking it up a notch. She nodded her head in affirmation.

  Beulah swatted at her hands. “Get off me, you crazy coot!"

  But Glynice grabbed her hand and dragged her around the corner of the Chinese restaurant they'd just eaten far too much in. Not to mention it was a work night and they'd consumed alcohol long past what was considered an acceptable Happy Hour. “It's a cat, Beulah. Don't you hear it?"

  Beulah yanked her arm from Glynice's grabby hands and straightened her tweed jacket. “I don't hear a damned thing but your senior ramblings. Now let go of me. I have to get home to Angus in time to give him his heart medication or he'll die on me and I don't fancy joining one of those date sites with that cute Dr. Phil on it at the ripe old age of seventy-five. I think my choices would be severely limited to monthly Viagra subscribers and men who wear white socks with their sandals."

  Glynice waved her off, distracted by her mission. “You go then."

  Beulah's aggravated sigh rasped the cold night air, slicing into Glynice's freshly turned up hearing aide. “I can't leave you here alone. It's dangerous for a woman to be out this late at night. Rapists wander the streets at this hour."

  "Beulah, it's nine o’ clock. That's only late to old broads like us. Kids are just getting started at this hour and ask yourself something."

  Beulah trudged behind her friend, dragging her feet through the cold slush that had accumulated as they'd chatted during dinner. “Uh, what?"

  "Who, mugger or rapist, would accost an old woman in galoshes?"

  Beulah chuckled. “I see your point, friend. But I'm still not leaving you alone."

  Glynice tilted her head again. “Over here,” she said, picking up her pace to a brisk trot and stopping at a Dumpster.

  "Meooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!"

  "Hell's bell's, Beulah! There's a cat trapped in there. Hurry, help me open the lid..."

  Frankie yowled for all she was worth when her acute hearing picked up the two women talking.

  As they tried to pry the lid open, she planned her escape. If she was quick, which wasn't terribly likely seeing as she was downright weak from lack of salmon, she could escape the trash can without the “Oh, poor, homeless kitty” spiel. Frankie knew all about being caught unsuspectingly when you'd shifted at a most inconvenient time. It'd happened to her cousin Ralph and there was no way in hell she was going to be someone's pet, thrown the occasional sardine from time to time while she ate dry cat food, lapped tap water and slept on some cheaply carpeted kitty condo.

  No. Way.

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  Chapter Two

  So maybe it wasn't the worst thing that could've happened to her.

  She did, after all, have Bart's Bacon and Tuna Treats to gnaw on.

  And really, Glynice was truly lovely. If one were to choose their captor, Glynice was now high on Frankie's list of most treasured abductors. She had scooped her out of the trash can, weak and undernourished, whisked her away to the local twenty-four hour deli, bought her some outrageously priced canned cat food and treats and given her a yummily warm, hand-knitted blanket to sleep on.

  That said blanket was in a cage was neither here nor there.

  That she was sporting a big, red bow around her neck, a couple of pokes from some vets needle, the suggestion that she be spayed and was left feeling grumpy about it all was petty after such great lengths had been taken to see to her comfort.

  However, that she was in some strange house, on some moron's desk that apparently worked too much, had next to no family and didn't have time for anything other than business acquaintances as his Christmas present was stretching her generous nature.

  A line sincerely had to be drawn here.

  Frankie closed her eyes, ignoring the mat of hair she'd shed since her adventure had begun and allowed her mind to drift. So Glynice worked for this guy, and according to the conversation she'd had with her friend Beulah, Sam was a lonely man. Always wrapped up in his business. All work, no play made him dull, dull, dull. Sam was the only one who didn't seem to notice his life lacked a good frolic through a buttercup field.

  So Glynice, being the motherly sort and an employee of Sam for a number of years, had decided he needed the tender, loving care of a pet that would snuggle with him at night. Greet him lovingly when he came home. And she thought Frankie was the one to fill the position.

  The hell?

  How many times did a feline have to hiss at only the merest of glances before her valiant rescuer got the hint? She was so not going to cuddle with some strange old man.

  She'd gone out on that fated walk because she didn't want to cuddle with just anyone—or wonk with them as tradition in her culture deemed necessary.

  Of course, because she wasn't willing to mate with the man her parents had chosen for her also meant she was perpetually stuck in her cat form for indeterminate periods of time. It was just unfortunate timing when she'd run out of her parent's house needing space, then ended up shifting and was unable to return to her human form. Stubborn ass that she was, she'd refused to go home and admit defeat. And just look at her now.

  "What did you say, Glynice?"

  The sound of heavy feet coming from the hallway startled her, the husky voice of her new “owner” carried on a chilly whoosh of air brought in by the opening and closing of the front door. Frankie slammed her eyes shut and curled tighter into a snug ball, but her ears perked up.

  "You did what?"

  Frankie would nod in sympathy if she were in human form. Sam must be hearing the goodwill Glynice thought she'd spread for the first time via a phone.

  A longwinded sigh, followed by the slamming of a door came just before an astonished, “A cat!” happened. “Look, Glynice, I know you think I'm overworked and I don't get out enough. I know you think I need more fun in my life, but I like my life just the way it is and it doesn't have the time or the room for a cat in it. And cats aren't fun, they're aloof and hairy."

  Oh, good. She had neither the time nor the room to be someone's aloof, hairy cat either. They were officially even.

  "No, Glynice. I don't want to see the pretty cat. Yes, I'm sure it's very fluffy, but I have a meeting in twenty minutes and I left my briefs here. I don't have time to fool around with some homeless cat you saved from a Dumpster, but thanks for the yuletide cheer just the same."

  Pacing ensued by the sound of scuffling feet and then the rustling of papers. “I know they don't require a lot of care, Glynice. Yes, I know all they need is some food, a bowl of milk, toy mice and a cat litter box, but I don't have time for a pet."

  Frankie could hear the war he was waging with himself not to yell at Glynice. When that woman got something in her head, God himself couldn't pluck it out.

  "Ohhhhh, don't you dare do that to me Glynice Ackerman—don't play the pity card. If the cat needs a home then we'll find it one, it just won't be here."

  Well, that was okay by her. She didn't need his, by the minimal view she was allowed, stuffy, boring, dark brown and light beige home.

  "You named it?” Disbelief rang in his tone.

  Oh, indeed. Frankie had a fine new name now. Glynice had dubbed her Wiggles and that held truth to it. She had wiggled—okay, fought to get away from the vet and his shiny needles. Hopefully two rabies shots in one year wouldn't
kill her.

  "Glynice, be clear on one thing. When the holiday is over, you and I are finally going to talk retirement packages.” He paused, apparently listening closely to his secretary.

  His laughter was a sharp bark, oozing sarcasm, but it also held a hint of affection too. “Oh, I am so not a tyrant and you know it. What employer on the face of the planet lets his secretary take two-hour lunches so she won't miss a sale at Bergdorfs? What employer in their right mind gives any employee his time-share in Cabo for a month? A month! A long month where he has to deal with everything he does, like playing lawyer, plus what his secretary does."

  Another pause, and then, “I know the heat is good for your arthritis, Glynice. Look, I'm just saying I don't want a cat. That doesn't make me mean. It makes me practical and I have friends, Glynice. I just don't choose to throw darts with them or play golf once a month. I have my work friends and that's plenty."

  Dude was dull as the day was long and it showed not only in his décor, but apparently enough that Glynice had decided he needed some un-dulling. He just wasn't playing quite the way Glynice and Beulah had planned. Which was just fine by her.

  Frankie Lane was no one's pet.

  She just looked like one right now and if she could only find someone, anyone, acceptable enough to mate with temporarily she could shift back to her human form and begin the hunt for the real man of her dreams.

  Because the man of her dreams was definitely not Henry Weintraub.

  Bleh. He was squicky, but her parents found him suitable enough and the mating of their only daughter was a ritual she had no choice but to abide by. Which meant if she didn't hurry up and wonk like soon, she'd be stuck in her cat form forever. Within the shifters of her culture a strict rule applied. Go forth and breed and do it before you're thirty or suffer the wrath.

  But somehow, playing with one of those peacock feathers held by the hand of a small child, having her tail nearly yanked off, being potential meat for a dog, eating dry cat food and using a cat litter box seemed worth suffering the wrath rather than ending up with Harry.

  Until she'd impulsively left her parents in a rush, shifted, got lost, and couldn't find food because she'd never had to do something so degrading before in her life. She just went to the store and bought it. Which some might call spoiled, but what-evah. She'd still rather starve to death than bunk down with Harry. It wasn't that he was a bad person—he was just—just squicky and so not meant to be hers. It was the best word she could come up with.

  If she'd spent less time creating a career for herself and more time hunting down a mate like so much prey, she'd be sitting pretty. Like her cousin Maude in Queens. She had a suh-weet deal. A nice house and a couple of kids and a husband who was a Scottish Fold in his cat form. He had an awesome accent...

  But alas, here she was on some guy named Sam's desk, listening to him talk about how he didn't need a pet, and she was doing it from a cage.

  A cage...

  Caaa-razy.

  This was all too much. A catnap was in order.

  She fell asleep to the tune of Sam rebuffing Glynice's heartfelt, well thought out gift.

  Damn, that woman so knew how to pluck the guitar strings of guilt.

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  Chapter Three

  Frankie stretched with a wide yawn, rolling as best she could in the confines of the cage to her back, giving it a good scratch. As her head lolled upside down, she caught sight of the cage door.

  It was open.

  Fly.

  Flipping over to her belly, she tentatively poked a head out of the opening and sniffed the air, her whiskers fluttering. The room was dark and there wasn't a sound coming from anywhere in the house.

  How generous that her new master had decided she could have free rein. He might regret that when he sat on his boring leather couch tomorrow.

  But that was spiteful, wasn't it, she thought, hopping down from the shined to within an inch of its life desk and onto the plush carpeting in Sam's office. She padded out and into the entryway, ignoring the call of a box of takeout that, to her nose, undoubtedly had veal cordon bleu in it. She should get up on the countertop and yark up a hairball or two just to show him who's who ‘round here, but she opted against it because the scent of something else was far more enticing.

  It made her cock her head in question and follow its heady path down a small hallway and up a flight of stairs.

  A door stood open at the top of the stairs and it was exactly where the delicious scent was coming from. Frankie's nose dragged her into another thickly carpeted room where she stopped dead as the familiar surge of flesh and bone shifting overtook her.

  Two things happened at once.

  She saw a naked man with a bunch of muscles, lying face down on the bed and at the most inconvenient of times, she began to shift. After five bloody days of degradation and torment, now—now she was shifting?

  Which would be cause for a yippee skippee if not for the fact that clothes were crucial after shifting. Oh, and sex. If she hoped to remain in human form, boinking had to happen ASAP.

  Squeak.

  Okay, so from where she stood, naked as the day she was born, this Sam was daggone hot. But then, in her human form her eyesight sucked big, fat man hooters and her glasses were probably somewhere off the coast of Oregon by now, lost in her flight to get away from Harry. So maybe he was a total toad and she just couldn't see it well enough to tell. Her glimpse of him before she'd shifted had been brief...

  She squinted, moving closer to the bed. Damn, it was dark.

  The incessant roar of her nerve endings increased, tugging at every cell in her body like she was a tightly strung violin.

  Holy fuck.

  If she didn't do something to get the hell away from this poor, unsuspecting soul, he was prey. Ohhhhhh, prey was so not okay. She didn't even know this man, but her body didn't have its listening ears on—because it kept creeping closer to the bed.

  Her hormones called to her, screaming in agony for satisfaction, every muscle in her newly shifted body on fire with uncontrollable need. Her steps to the edge of the mattress were slow, cautious, but the nearer she got to the bulky outline under the sheet, the harder her heart slammed against her ribs and the stronger her hormones demanded attention.

  Her nose twitched, his scent filling her nostrils with luxurious, raw, sound asleep man.

  Frankie's legs trembled when she inhaled, letting the smell of his natural odor permeate her senses. Waves of his personal aroma, spicy, male, decadent, bathed her nostrils.

  This was bad. Bad. And getting worse.

  An arm snaked out, grabbing her around the thighs and pulling her to tumble onto the crisp sheets covered in that delicious scent that had drawn her here in the first place.

  Oh, and what an arm, strong, firm, muscled with just the right amount of ripple. Frankie shivered, the shudder twitching along each available inch of her body.

  And then his lips were on hers, crushing her mouth, slipping his silky tongue in to stroke hers. Fleeting denials came and went. She was kissing a stranger. And it was an amazingly good kiss. So she was sharing an amazingly good kiss with a stranger.

  Hellllooooo, stranger, her cautious half whispered sinisterly.

  I know his name, so he's not totally a stranger, her logical side chimed in. Seriously, Glynice gave him a cat for a Christmas present. He couldn't be Attila the Hun if Glynice thought he'd at least entertain the notion of owning a pet, right? Pet lovers were good peeps. Obviously Glynice had a good heart. She had saved her from smothering via the stench of garbage. She wouldn't just give her to someone who was a fucktard.

  Fire shot to her pussy, sweet, hot, pangs of wanton need spiked in her gut when Sam dragged her to him, shoving the sheets away and pressing his flaming skin to hers, making her forget that he was a stranger for a moment. God, that was so good, flesh against flesh, molten, sizzling, overwhelming.

  If she didn't consummate soon...

  And
now she was contemplating having sex with a stranger.

  Sweet mother.

  But if she didn't have sex with him, the mere scent of him would make her explode. When the fever of mating took hold it clouded your thinking, turned you into a total sexual animal. A body without a brain. Chemistry and scent were everything in her world and Sam had both in spades.

  But she was contemplating having sex with a stranger.

  And this stranger, whether she knew his name or not, didn't much seem to mind. In fact, he'd started it.

  Neener, neener, neener.

  This thing she was thinking about doing was like indiscriminate bar sex without the benefit of the booze. She couldn't even see what he looked like. Yet her hormones demanded she submit.

  But then she forgot everything when moisture gathered between her thighs instantly at the feel of flesh-against-flesh.

  Sam's flesh.

  His skin was smooth but for a patch of hair on his chest, rubbing against her breasts with enticing friction. He curved a hand over her hip, stroking it, pulling her against the rigid outline of his cock—from the feel of it, a cock that was thick, but perfectly proportioned to his long, lean length.

  Frankie fought to keep from gasping when his fingers slipped between her thighs and delved into her cunt. His rough-tipped fingers, a contradiction to his cushy office job, stroked her aching clit as his mouth devoured hers.

  Her thigh went around his hip to allow him deeper exploration. Sam obliged by inserting a finger into her swollen passage, plunging deeper with each thrust. Frankie's hips bucked upward then rotated on the digit, clinging to his shoulders, digging her nails into them as she clenched her jaw tight.

  Sam tore his lips from hers, skating along her neck and shoulder to end at the hard tip of her nipple. His hot breath lingered over it and Frankie lifted herself up, begging for him to pull it into the hot cavern of his mouth.

  He took a long pull on it, then twirled his tongue over the pebbled flesh, making her suck in a sharp intake of air. Pleasure, wet and electric sizzled along her veins. The grip her hormones had on her leaving her dizzy and weak. His fingers left her body, making her cry out her disappointment, but there was more when his hair scraped her breasts as he moved downward.