Bunny Tails Splitting Hares

by Camille Anthony

  Bunny Tails: Splitting Hares

  Camille Anthony

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2009 Camille Anthony

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  ISBN: 978-1-60521-215-9

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  Publisher:

  Changeling Press LLC

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  Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046

  www.ChangelingPress.com

  Editor: Margaret Riley

  Cover Artist: Reneé George

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  Bunny Tails: Splitting Hares

  Camille Anthony

  Ouida’s having a bad hair day, and it’s about to get worse. She’s unknowingly crossed a line with the pack leader and he’s called off her mating with Vance. If she wants Vance she’ll have to submit to pack law.

  Vance isn’t used to sharing, but when his Alpha makes it the deal breaker to his mating Ouida, he agrees to share her with his enforcer team members during the Fertility Festival.

  He saved her from human hunters, but there’s no saving her from his fellow werewolf enforcers, who plan to split his hare four ways. Seems Vance’s Christmas Bunny has become the Festival treat, and the least he can do is make sure she enjoys being their centerpiece.

  Ouida trusts Vance, and with him by her side, she’ll give all four werewolves a night they won’t forget. In the end, she’ll gain more than a mate, she’ll gain a family. Submission has never been so rewarding.

  Chapter One

  Her name was Ouida, pronounced Wee-da. And she’d quickly informed me I’d better not nick her name… whatever the hell that meant. We’d barely been mated twenty-four hours and already some of her human ways were pissing me off. For instance, she wasn’t even dressed yet and our appointment with my Alpha loomed in fifteen minutes.

  “Ouida! If you don’t hurry we’re going to be late!”

  “Hold your horses, wolfman. I’m coming!”

  If only she was. If only we were! I could have fucked her thrice in the time she’d spent primping in the bathroom. I took another impatient turn around the living room. “You’re not coming, woman. If you were, I’d be buried ten inches deep inside that delicious cunt of yours.”

  Her scent spiked, making me even more aroused and short tempered. I probably shouldn’t take it out on her. It was the height of our Winter Fertility Festival and I, a newly mated male, was nowhere near fucked out yet. My new mate, thank the Moon, was a full-figured black woman with large plushy breasts and a larger attitude. I liked that, liked that she’d quickly gotten over her fear of me and though human, seemed to be as hungry sexually as I was. I bit back a frustrated snarl, wanting her again, though I knew we didn’t have the time.

  That’s one of the differences between our peoples. Obedience is so engrained in us, we wouldn’t dream of insulting those in authority by lagging. If an Alpha gives orders for you to be here or there in such and such a time, you are there. Period. Humans seemed to be wired differently. It seemed Ouida couldn’t care less about how close we were to disobedience. “What’s taking you so long?”

  She stuck her head around the corner of our bedroom door and nailed me with a look I’d fast come to recognize as her exasperated one. Raking a hard glance up and down my body, she snorted. “Vance, you’re going to the meeting naked. I, on the other hand, had to dress before trying to do something with this mess.” She tugged at her wildly tangled curls. “I distinctly remember telling you not to wet my hair, that it would go frizzy. But noooooooo, you had to get jiggy in the shower. So unless you can produce some type of moisturizer, you’ll just have to wait while I figure out how to tame my do.”

  She waved her middle finger at me before disappearing back around the jamb. I’d been out among humans enough to know what that meant. I was tempted to suggest using my sperm to condition her hair… right after her sweet mouth had coaxed it out of my cock. Not that I’d risk saying anything like that to her right now. Even I knew enough about females to realize the fallout that would follow that suggestion. With a resigned sigh, I padded back into the bedroom, intent on searching out something that would serve as a damned moisturizer.

  “Oooowouch!”

  My instincts sped into overdrive when I heard that pained cry. Heart pounding, hackles rising, a primal anger swamped me -- the visceral reaction a newly mated wolf felt in the face of a possible threat to his female. I hit the bathroom doorway at mach speed. Seconds later, my hackles lowered and the hair at the ruff of my neck smoothed as I fought laughter. Ouida would not appreciate my humor.

  My poor darling stood in front of the mirror, growling at her reflection as she struggled to tug the bristles of my short boar’s hair brush through her dense curly hair.

  My mouth watered, taking in the way her borrowed silky cream blouse and matching tap pants barely covered her full figure. The skimpy outfit was the only one I’d been able to procure, compliments of my elderly Aunt Hoga, who’d been allowed to run to fat in her waning years. She hadn’t parted with them very willingly. Right now, the tap pants were riding the deep crease of Ouida’sfull ass, faithfully delineating those plump globes as she balanced her hips on the edge of the sink and leaned her torso over the scalloped shaped bowl.

  Both arms raised, she tugged the brush through her hair, the jerking motions setting her heavy breasts to swinging. My eyes locked, almost crossing on the mouth-watering sight, body hardening in quick response. If it weren’t for the meeting we had to attend, I’d take her right here, against the sink. Bending her over, I’d run my hands up the back of those chunky dark thighs while kissing my way up the soft middle of her spine. I’d kick her legs apart and notch my cock between her puffy cunt lips and sink in…

  “Oww! Damn it to hell!” Ouida dropped her arms and shook her hands, rotating her shoulders. “I’ve been holding my arms up so long, my hands have grown numb!” The brush, stiff tines still clinging to the kinky mess on top of her head, stuck out at a jaunty angle, like some insanely cute clown’s hat.

  Tears welled, causing her pretty brown eyes to appear to shimmer as she met my gaze in the glass. Catching her plush bottom lip between her teeth, she tried to control the sad wobble before turning to face me.

  I sympathized with her frustration, feeling a high degree of that emotion, myself. It was becoming clear she wasn’t going to be ready any time soon. Glancing at the clock, I groaned. My cousin would have a conniption. Obviously, I’d failed at impressing upon my new mate the importance of gaining the Alpha’s approbation. Westyn absolutely abhorred tardiness, hated it. Furthermore, he had the ability to derail all my careful planning. He’d been known to deny mating requests on that basis, alone. Was I worried? Hell, yeah.

  By ancient law, no outsiders were allowed on pack grounds during High Festivals, and our Winter Solace Fertility Festival was the highest of all. It was a sacred time when we strove to renew and replenish the pack. We teeter
on the verge of extinction, seeing fewer pups every year. We lost far more members to human encroachment than we could replace with infants. So during these two weeks, all mated pack members were sequestered in their quarters fucking almost hourly. And the unmated individuals -- forbidden by law to deny anyone wishing to copulate with them, in the hope that new life might be kindled -- fucked almost as frequently. Such offspring conceived during this holy time were called Moon-blessings and considered children of the pack, entitled to claim all the males as their father. Such pups brought luck to the pack.

  While the frenzy held sway, pack members lost control of their shifting abilities, often changing during the excitement of sexual arousal. Humans observing such matings had caused the horrors of the hunting debacles of the past, when the bipeds had practically wiped out the peaceful packs. Like our cousins the wolves, the People killed to eat and never in combat with the sole exception of an Alpha challenge when the fight was to the death. Even that was only if the challenger would not accept his or her defeat.

  I understood the reasoning behind the strict adherence to the protective laws. As enforcer, I was the one usually burdened with upholding the edicts, and I performed that duty with vigor and zeal. But when I looked into the brown eyes of the woman dying in the snow, I’d seen something more than meat. I’d seen my Other.

  The Moon shows each male his perfect Other -- the missing half of his soul separated at the Dark of Beginning -- at the most imperfect of times. He must recognize her and claim her. If he passes her by or passes her up, for the rest of his life he may fornicate. He may rut and enjoy a good fuck… but he will never love.

  If the Alpha, my cousin, didn’t uphold my claim to Ouida, she’d revert to being common meat, ripped from me and made available to any who wished to sample her. I couldn’t let that happen. We had only been together twenty-four hours, but my luscious black human bitch had grown dear to me. I was most definitely mated. Regardless what Wes decreed, I’d die before I let another wolf touch my Other.

  * * *

  I bit down hard on my bottom lip, determined not to cry. Anymore. God, could I get any lamer? It was bad enough my new lover had to see me with my hair all which way like this.

  All I’d wanted was a chance to make a good impression on Vance, to put my best foot forward. He’d already seen me at my worst, first, rescuing my half-frozen carcass from the three Hillbilly goats. Worse, he’d made love to me only to discover no one else had ever wanted me enough to take my cherry -- I did not count those nasty Smith brothers who’d kidnapped me and subsequently tried to rape me. In my mind, it said something to still be a virgin at the advanced age of thirty-nine, especially when I hadn’t been saving it intentionally.

  Now here I was, blubbering like a loon because my hair was a mess. Except… it wasn’t really about my hair, but about losing control. I’d had a problem with that since watching my mother die of lung cancer. She’d required so much in the way of time and energy that I’d had no time for romance. My youth had withered at the same slow pace as her illness progressed. I was as much a victim of her cancer as she, my life leeched away without benefit of chemo. I kept my hair but lost everything else.

  When she finally died, I couldn’t cry. I owed her the spilling of my tears, the passionate outpouring of my loss… but I simply couldn’t dredge up anything resembling those energetic emotions. Searching myself, I found I’d become an empty echoing vastness devoid of laughter or music… and was not at all surprised to see that, while I could not garner sorrow, neither could I harness joy. It was all gone and I was dry as dust, an empty lifeless husk.

  Perhaps my dry tear ducts were the result of guilt. To grieve when I’d felt such unmitigated relief at her passing seemed hypocritical. It had only been a quick, furtive burst of emotion, but when the beeping stopped and the hospice room resonated with the silence of death, the nurse turned her pitying gaze toward my numb body and murmured, “She’s gone.” I’d thought, Thank God! and I wanted to weep then, with joy, to shed copious tears because I was so tired, and the days and years of her dying had been so unconscionably long. To me, that two seconds of “weight-off-my-shoulders” peace revealed my treachery, branded me -- in my own eyes -- an unloving child.

  After Mom’s passing, the true irony of my life became clear. I’d spent so many years caring for her, I couldn’t stop. On the edge of sleep, I’d hear her call and rise, rushing down the hall to turn her or give her medicine. Halfway down, I’d falter, stop; remember there was no one in the room at the end. Only dust and the stale dry smell of mothballs occupied the room that had once been the hub of the house. Hurting, I’d return to bed… to dream, but not to cry.

  So I sold the house, leaving behind the home where dark memories of a life lived dying were etched into the fabric of the faded wallpaper. In its place, I purchased a small two bedroom -- a blank canvas, cured and porous -- ready to be painted with the splashed and vivid sweeps of new exciting experiences.

  I came to think my unloving reaction to my mother’s death had rendered me unlovable, for the new house waited in vain for those new experiences. It was devastating to be so alone, as deadly as my mother’s cancer. Like the pernicious disease, I learned to live with the loss of hope. I compensated for my emptiness by being in control.

  I went back to school and excelled, glorying in being head of the class and later, when I’d landed a job, of being the person on top of office events, staying abreast of the game at work. I wasn’t happy, but I was no longer mired in sadness.

  When I met Patrick Smith six months ago, it seemed the curse had been lifted. He saw me. We worked together for weeks before he made his move, connecting in a quiet, tender way that lured me from my usual wary reticence. My heart, like the first fragile snowflakes of winter, melted in the warmth of his gentle handling. He convinced me I was, for all my faults, worthy of love. I allowed myself to believe him… right up until the time I awoke, trussed like live game in the trunk of his car.

  Now, less than a week after that lie-affirming event, life continues to spin out of my control. Okay, I’d resigned myself to probably never being the mistress of my fate, but having my wayward do rise up in revolt proved to be my last damned straw.

  Staring into the mirror at my wild locks, I wanted to scream in frustration. So I did. Seconds after letting out the primal cry, I glanced up and met the reflection of ice blue eyes, so pale the pupils looked silver under the fluorescent lights. Again, it says something about my abysmal luck at having Vance witness my breakdown. A girl can’t win for losing.

  I turned to face him, my stomach doing a queasy flip as I took in the long rangy lines of the muscled body leaning nonchalantly in the open doorway. A wide forehead and slashing cheeks, tempered by a strong craggy jaw line, gave the masculine cast to his almost effeminate features. His broad chest, covered in a thick pelt of soft white fur, tapered down to a lean, ripped abdomen that made me salivate. Crossed arms bulged with ropy muscles and his corded thighs topped a runner’s legs, casually crossed at the ankles.

  He was aggressively aroused. His cock, thick and extended, reared from the thatch of wiry white hair at his groin, yet he stood motionless, watching me with the patient focused attention of a stalking predator. Like a punch in the gut, the realization struck me that though Vance had saved me and subsequently claimed me as his own, he was a wolf momentarily in human clothing, as untamed and unpredictable as any wild animal.

  I had every reason to fear him. I’d watched him kill and he was an expert at it, capable of great brutality, of unconscientiously shedding blood. I recalled the way those other wolves had backed down when he’d confronted them over me, how their voices had shook as they slunk away. Those wolves had scared me shitless, but the creature that awoke such trepidation in those predators had awakened within me another emotion entirely.

  Vance wasn’t human and couldn’t be judged by human standards. Take, for instance, his unabashed and unashamed hedonistic approach to lovemaking. He was untamed in
bed and we’d spent the majority of the night entwined together, him gorging on me. Several times I’d wakened to find he’d already started without me, once with his tongue lapping at my pussy. Another time, I’d looked up to find him staring down at me, ice blue eyes shining in the dark, shoulders blocking the moonlight while his body moved over and in mine, his thick cock blazing a brilliant path of lust through the constricting walls of my tight slit.

  Still, even during the height of his mating frenzy, Vance had never offered me violence, nor treated me as simply a sexual object. Yes, he’d used my body, but he’d also worshiped it… his every touch, each thrust designed to make me feel special though I knew there was nothing special about me. What was he seeing when he looked at me? Was I just a quick snack or, as he claimed, his only emotional nutrition?

  Looking at him now, at his strong body and hard cock, my pussy burned and I licked my lips, bathing their dry surfaces with moisture. God, he made me hungry. I couldn’t stop clenching my pussy. It actually pulsed and juiced, desperately wanting to be around him right now. My mouth watered.

  Vance had been so intense with me, he’d been open with his emotions. The expression in his eyes right now was screaming I could trust him. I wanted to do so, but it was difficult. I’d only trusted one man in my life and he’d delivered me to his brothers to rape and kill.

  An unexpected sob caught in my throat and I fought to stop it from breaking free. I stopped the tears but couldn’t stop the shakes shuddering through me hard enough to rattle my teeth.

  “Ouida.” I looked over to see Vance, totally at ease with his nakedness, straighten away from the door. Legs planted far apart, cock proudly waving, he opened his arms. “Come here.”

  Quick as thought, I raced into his waiting embrace, heart pounding as his arms closed around me. The world tilted as he dipped a bit, got his right arm under my thighs and hefted me up. Locking my arms about his neck, I nestled my face in his throat, still shaking. I could feel the fat head of his cock brushing my pussy, the trail of pre-cum turning cool against my flushed skin.