Werecats and Werelocks (Collection)

by Dakota Cassidy

  Sam wound the length of her hair around his wrist, pulling her up flush to his abdomen, plunging in and out of the silken cavern her mouth had created. She cupped his balls, fondling them, then reached around him to grab his hard, muscled ass and push him deeper.

  She took long pulls on his cock, alternately sucking and stroking him until his loud hiss and the rough yank of his hips dragged his shaft from her mouth. And then he was pulling her to him, settling her in his lap, sliding down over the edge of the couch, and slipping between her thighs to nip the insides of each one.

  His lips were like magic, sipping, gliding over her skin. She held her breath just before he opened his mouth wide and placed it over her pussy.

  Bright colors floated behind Frankie's eyelids, leaving her dizzy and weak. Her hands blindly reached for the back of the couch, clinging to it, rocking against the slippery wet length of his tongue. Her clit throbbed, pounding unbearably until she wound her fingers in his thick hair and drove his mouth against her cunt.

  Harder, faster, hotter he stroked her and then everything was exploding at once. A rushing tidal wave of sharp, sweet relief sliced through her. Her nipples tightened to aching points, her toes curled, her gut clenched, her uterus contracted as she came.

  Tears stung her eyes and the crash of her heart against her ribs became almost uncomfortable, but Sam wasted no time. He was sitting in front of her again in a matter of seconds, and his cock slipped between her slick folds, rubbing, sliding, enticing her.

  Frankie reached a hand between them, taking hold of his rock-hard length and letting it caress her clit. Her fingernails dug into his hard shoulder and her head fell back as soft moans escaped her throat.

  Sam placed his hands on her hips, raising her up to bring her crashing down on his cock. Frankie gasped out loud this time, biting her lip. The pleasure of his entry, swift and forceful was so intoxicating. He fit her tightly to him, molding the lower half of her body to his, rasping her clit against the thick curls above his shaft.

  Her arms let go as he plunged upward into her, hanging limply and letting her hands rest lifelessly on his sculpted, smooth thighs. Sam sought her nipple, pulling on it with his lips, sending sharp pangs of need to her cunt. He ground against her, driving into her, their flesh so connected Frankie could no longer feel where he began and she left off.

  Again, the hot spiral of climax clawed at her, wickedly dragging her into a vortex of nothing but the feel of Sam inside her.

  Sam's final plunge upward was slick, wet, flaming hot. Frankie felt him tense beneath her, releasing her nipple and throwing his head back with a roar of satisfaction, and taking her with him.

  Mary Mother of God. She didn't think it could get any better than it'd been last night.

  Apparently, she shouldn't think so damned much.

  She collapsed against the thick wall of his chest, inhaling his clean, crisp cologne with a shuddering breath. When she could breathe again, she quipped, “I did say you should go to bed, didn't I?"

  "You did,” he mumbled groggily.

  "And you didn't."

  "Nope."

  Sam lifted her off him, turning her to lie beside him on the couch. Oh, hell, this was way too good.

  Her hand instantly curved around his forearm as she snuggled her back into his chest. She shouldn't be encouraging this. She should be getting up and going to sleep in her cage. Like now. But he pulled her closer.

  "See what you get for not listening?” She chided. “I warned you. The fever of mating can be an entity all unto its own."

  "No kidding."

  "This is sort of what happened last night. Except I wasn't nearly as forward."

  Sam's laugh was muffled against the back of her head. “Go to sleep, Frankie. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Yeah, but would he see her like he saw her now, or would he see her with four paws and whiskers?

  Hellafino.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Seven

  Sam bounced his pen on his office desk, ignoring the closing argument he was working on, and instead drifted off to the place known as Frankie. A wry smile lifted his lips, unwilling, but not unnoticed.

  Funny, quirky, homeless, sexy as hell Frankie.

  Who was a cat.

  A cat.

  A week and a half later and he was still having trouble wrapping his logical, Harvard educated brain around that. Yet, there was no denying what she'd done—right in front of him, no less. She'd gone from a perfectly normal looking, albeit beautifully naked, woman to a fluffy, almost white cat.

  And then she'd asked to stay in his house while she figured out exactly how she was going to avoid turning back into a cat because of some cultural ritual.

  A cat.

  And rituals.

  Jesus Christ.

  It was probably best not to dwell on that. Yet, when he thought of her, coming home to her every night for the past week and a half like he had been, he smiled. In fact, he'd catch himself smiling like some dumb ass teenager out of nowhere. When it was totally unwelcome and completely inconvenient.

  You couldn't deliver a stern cross-examination if you were grinning from ear-to-ear like an asshole. You couldn't take a deposition if you were daydreaming about wrapping your wrist around all those long tendrils of blonde hair and almond shaped green eyes that sparkled when she laughed.

  Sam threw the pen down in frustration. He didn't want to like her. He didn't want to look forward to seeing her at the end of each day. He didn't want to admit he left work early so he could do just that.

  See her. Talk to her. Share meals with her. Meals she cooked as part of their bargain.

  His career was demanding. It had never left room for personal relationships. They always ended because owning this law firm took up almost all of his time. The women he'd dated ended up unsatisfied and ignored—at least that's what the last one had said as she'd departed in a cloud of perfume and heels. But that sure the fuck wasn't stopping him from rolling out of his office as fast as he could every night at six sharp, now was it? So what was so special about Frankie Lane?

  He'd like to attribute his fascination with this woman to the sex. Christ knew they'd had plenty of that this past week, and not only that, it was the hottest he'd ever experienced with any woman. It seemed he couldn't stop himself from finding any possible excuse to touch her, but there was more.

  He liked opening his front door and smelling whatever she was cooking. He liked eating it with her too. He liked that she made coming home more than just a place to sleep. He liked to talk to her. He liked to just sit in silence with her.

  He liked.

  Damn.

  * * * *

  Frankie tied her hair back and took one last glance in the mirror at her human form. So far so good. After a week and a half, she still had no conclusions to her problem and that sucked, but she did have Sam.

  Who really had to stop infiltrating her every thought. The habits they'd fallen into were much like any other couple, and knowing eventually that had to end did something weird to her insides. Because they weren't a couple and she had to go home sometime. She couldn't stay at Sam's forever. She had a business—a business she'd run out on during the busiest time of the year—and a family who, even if they weren't exactly cutting edge rule breakers, were her family. And it was Christmas. She missed them. But when she had to leave Sam, she'd miss him too. More than she liked admitting. Every night she looked forward to his coming home. They talked about everything and nothing over dinner, while they watched TV, in the dark after they made love.

  And she was getting attached.

  Fuck. A Duck.

  The reports from Renaldo on the Harry front were he'd assured her parents that while he'd heard from Frankie, knew she was safe, he didn't know where exactly she was. And that comforted her to a degree. Her parents knew she was all right, but she had to go home. She didn't have a choice. Hiding was the short-term answer. Her fate was to mate with Harry and if she wouldn't, she'd
suffer the penance.

  Mating with Harry was unthinkable after Sam, but Sam, even though he never said it, didn't want a long-term relationship. His lifestyle thus far had proven that. He lived in a house that looked like it was one of those model homes. There was nothing that screamed Sam hanging on the walls or even in the way of personal pictures. He was a man, in her estimation, who was just going through the motions of life. Doing what he had to do to be successful, but never enjoying that success by sharing it with anyone else.

  Yet the Sam she'd come to know wasn't just hot in bed. He was a million other things she couldn't pinpoint and that made her secretly smile.

  A lot.

  Maybe if they'd met under other circumstances, the way normal people do when they date, things might have been different, but she couldn't keep kidding herself. The longer she stayed with Sam, the harder it'd be to leave him. Her throat grew tight.

  The front door popped open just as she resolved herself to do what she had to do. Clearing her throat, she swallowed and slapped a fake, carefree smile on her face. “Wow, home early again? It's my fettuccini, isn't it?” Frankie teased with a flirty grin.

  His gaze scanned his living room, then stopped to rest in the center of it. “What the hell is that in the living room?” he growled, clearly out of sorts.

  "Well, let's see. It has lights and ornaments and oh, look they're on a tree. I call Christmas tree, but that's just my wild assumption.” What kind of reaction was that to something as fun as a Christmas tree?

  Throwing his briefcase and cell on the counter, Sam eyed her with those dark grey eyes. It was a different look than she'd become accustomed to this week and it made her pause from the task of getting their plates from the cabinet. “Why is it in my living room?"

  "Because it wouldn't fit in the kitchen and I figured it was way overboard for the bathroom."

  "Why is it here at all, Frankie?"

  She plunked the plates down on his breakfast bar with a clunk. “What the hell is up your ass, Sam? It's there because Christmas is in three days and I thought it might be nice to spread the love and all that commercial crap."

  "So?"

  Planting her hands on her hips, Frankie scowled at him. “All right. Why don't you tell me what the frig is wrong with you? Bad day? Difficult criminal? Retainer bounced? What?"

  Sam's face became hard and unreadable. “Nothing's wrong. I just don't see the point."

  "The point is, it's Christmas. It's fun, festive. ‘Tis the season, you Scrooge."

  His jaw set like drying cement. “Still don't see the point and they make a mess."

  Her eyes narrowed. “Of course you don't. You know, Glynice was right about you. You work too much and you've forgotten what it is to have a little fun. You got lucky when she pawned me off on you, Sam. I could teach you a thing or two about letting loose sometimes."

  He loosened his tie, yanking it off and dropping it to the counter. “I'd say we've been very loose this past week and a half."

  Her cheeks flushed as she backed him into a corner and pointed a finger at his chest, her anger spiking. “And there's your problem right there, Samuel Carsters. You're talking sex. I'm talking Christmas. A Christmas tree for your boring, sterile house that no one would ever know was yours if your name wasn't on the freakin’ mailbox."

  Looking down at her, his eyes seared hers, hard and cold as granite. “So now I'm boring?"

  Frankie snorted at him with derisive fury. It was a fucking Christmas tree, not a Martha Stewart makeover. The hell? “When it comes to the game of life, yeah, you're a total yawn. Jesus, you don't even take vacations and with all the money you have, you could've gone ‘round the world by now."

  His face held a look that had an “aha” written all over it. “So this is about my money? I should have known that's why you were here."

  Her fists clenched at her sides to keep from wailing him right between the eyes. “Don't you go all lawyer on me, Sam. That's bullshit. If you only knew how far from the truth that is. Did you leave your mind back at that office you hole up in for fourteen hours a day? What the fuck does that mean?"

  Sam's eyes narrowed in her direction. “This mating thing all makes sense now. If it weren't for Glynice mixed up in all of this, I'd think you orchestrated it yourself. If you manage to snare me and mate, you not only get to retain your human form but you get the perks my fourteen hours a day bring."

  Her gasp was crisp, sharp and harsh to her ears. “You did not just say that to me."

  His jaw squared, his lips thinned. “Yeah, I did. You're working me, weaving a web of sex and food so you can nail me."

  Oh, of all the fucktards ... “Yeah, Sam. That's exactly right. I cooked so I could win you over. If you'll recall our conversations, and we've had many between all those loose moments, I fucking hate to cook. And nail you? Like keep you forever?” Her voice became raw with that. Raw and tinged with flabbergasted.

  "You got it."

  Fury tingled along her spine, ripe and hot. “Oh, dude. You so have it wrong. I wouldn't keep you forever if somebody offered me ownership of Lord and Taylor's to do it. You're too involved in making that money you think I want so badly, buddy. I was keeping my end of the bargain. I said I'd cook and I did."

  "Among other things,” he drawled with sarcasm.

  Narrowing her eyes, Frankie took a step backward, the angry rush of words that came to mind thwarted only by how insulted she was. He actually thought she'd done this because he was the answer to her mating problem? The fucking nerve. “You know something, Sam? You're not good enough to mate with me. Not by a long shot. In fact, I'd rather mate with Harry, you self-absorbed, arrogant, cranky shit!"

  Whirling around on her heel, she grabbed the coat and a bag of her things Renaldo had given him and headed for the door, opening then slamming it with a force she didn't know she had in her.

  Just who the fuck did Sam Carsters think he was accusing her of trying to nab her a millionaire? Kicking at the slushy snow, her anger fueled her pace out of his swanky neighborhood. The air chilled her to the bone, but she'd be fucked and feathered if she'd go back to his house ever again.

  And to think she'd actually liked him—a lot. She'd even gone so far as to wish they'd met in the lobby of his building. That the attraction she felt for him would have still been there without the urgent circumstances. Yeah, maybe then she might have focused a bunch of energy on working him, as he'd called it, but not in the way he seemed to think. She would have liked to show Sam what it was to enjoy life, appreciate the things he had and lighten the hell up.

  Now she just wanted him to rot in that place called hell because he'd made her feel cheap and tawdry.

  The motherfucker.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eight

  "So how's Wiggles?” Glynice asked, breezing into Sam's office to drop the last of his calls on his desk before rushing home to her family for the holiday.

  Sam didn't look up. He couldn't.

  "Are you still grudging about the damned cat? It's been almost two weeks since I found her, Sam. Get over it already. That hairy little thing's made you smile more in two weeks than in the twenty years I've known you. Your father would be so sad to see you like this, Sam. Here in the office on Christmas Eve. He loved Christmas and so did your mother, and they sure didn't work on it. They went home to you."

  She leaned down over his desk and popped him under the chin. “Now go home to your cat and stop hanging around here. It's Christmas Eve, for God's sake. And you know, the invitation always stands to come to my house for Christmas dinner—if you have a death wish, that is,” she cackled.

  When Sam didn't move, Glynice plunked a hand over the papers on his desk. “Hurry up and get moving. Your cat's waiting. Go home to it.” She chuckled and patted him on the head before whisking out the office door.

  If only he could...

  * * * *

  "She's been like this for two days? Damn, I'm sorry, Frankie."

&
nbsp; Renaldo raised an arrogant eyebrow at him and flipped his palm at Sam dismissively. “No thanks to you, from what I'm told."

  "We had a fight."

  "I heard."

  The set of Sam's mouth was grim. “It was bad."

  "You were a total shit."

  "I can be like that sometimes."

  "Ya think?"

  Sam nodded and crouched down to bring himself face level with the ottoman. “I think. It's instinct for me to look for the crappy in people. I think my secretary pegged me right when she said I work too much. I seem to have forgotten what it is not to be so judgmental."

  Renaldo smacked his lips. “Well, Mr. Greenbacks, way-to-go."

  Sam gazed into Frankie's eyes.

  Her cat ones.

  When she'd arrived at Renaldo's two nights ago, first she'd cried, then she'd called her parents and then, because she wasn't mating anymore, she'd shifted.

  She'd shifted and she couldn't shift back.

  Sam ran a finger under her chin, but Frankie lifted her head and averted her eyes to the far wall. For all the misery he'd caused her by accusing her of being some mate stalking gold digger, she should spew the tuna she'd had for lunch all over his immaculate navy suit and red tie. She knew how to summon a good yark. Instead, she opted to be cool—distant. Do what cats do best. Ignore the living shit out of you.

  "So what happens now?” Sam looked to Renaldo, the worry in his eyes was clear as she peeked at him, but she wouldn't be swayed.

  "Did I get here before you, hot stuff? If there was something I could have done, I'd have done it by now, but I'm late. I have a Christmas Eve party to attend.” He pulled on a pink scarf and brushed a hand over his spiky hair. “And if I were you? I'd hang my head in shame, buddy. If you knew the first thing about Frankie, you'd know she comes from some serious cash. Old money, by the way. Not the new stuff you mouthy lawyers use as a reason to avoid entanglements and as excuses to be assholes."