by Tamsin Baker
She knew he could do it. He’d proved his fearlessness in the battle for their city, and their continent, when he had followed the phoenix singing in his blood and shifted, coming to her aid against the Tiger Queen right at the crucial moment.
He was the perfect person to head up her new initiative. The Phoenix Task Force. His division would seek out all the lost and frightened Clan members, ensuring they got the help they needed, keeping an eye on how the re-emerging Clan was faring in their interactions with the other Clans.
Jyll and Alessio would keep up the dens like Quan’s as a place youngsters could go to blow off some steam.
“He’ll ruffle some Dragon scales down there, but he’ll be good at it.”
There would be hard days to come, that she knew. But she had good people around her.
She pushed off her Dragon’s lap.
“Will you do something with me?”
She’d been to both her loft at Mama Singh’s—had some fried noodles with the old lady and set in place a recurring order to be sent up the penthouse—and the safe house beneath Quan’s den today.
She returned from their room with the three urns. One for Lylah, one for Quan and one for her grandmother.
“It’s time my family flew free.”
The Dragon’s eyes softened, lining with silver.
“Where?” he asked.
They both shed their Fae skins, becoming the phoenix and dragon as they plunged off the penthouse balcony, Hana holding two flasks in her claws, and Logan one in his talons.
They flew low over Phoenix Quarter and Hana sang a mournful song, but one edged with joy and hope, gilt in gold and scarlet.
She released her family, who had sacrificed so much for this moment, into the cool midnight air above the Quarter that would be Hana and Logan’s, and a new generation of Phoenix’s home.
And then she flew into the velvety, star-flecked night with her mate, fast and glorious and free.
Her Biker's Bite
ML Winters
Chapter 1
Tiffany
You should slide into an orgasm like hot fudge sauce slides over chocolate cake.
I tried to imagine that same fudge sauce sliding down my body as a lithe, talented mouth feasted on the dessert, on me. My head slammed the headboard and my eyes shot open.
An earnest, try-too-hard expression filled my vision, the accompanying puppy dog eyes and short-cropped, black curls not nearly as sexy as they were before the onset of our horizontal mambo.
Getting off shouldn’t be this hard—pun one-hundred percent intended.
I scrunched my eyes as the heavens opened up outside and raindrops rattled the windows. I tried to lose myself in the moment. In Peter—or was it Paul’s—fumbling. His spasmodic oh, God and awwwesome interjections. The careful groping, the measured, timed-perfect pump and grind, and grunts of him losing himself while nothing came to me. No stars or universe exploding. No thoughts of England. And definitely no orgasm, earth-shattering or otherwise.
Did I put the wash in before I left?
A vision of my full-to-overflowing laundry basket overtook the image of Peter/Paul’s blood-infused face.
Damn, I don’t think I did. My work shirt would never dry before morning. That means a complete change of wardrobe for our strategy meeting scheduled first thing.
“Oweee!” Peter/Paul’s heavy mass stiffened, shuddered, then slumped against my still wanting body.
My ears rang. My skin pricked sticky with his sweat. His heavy breath prickled my throat.
“Awesome.” His hand brushed my breast in practiced, circular strokes. “Hey, you didn’t come. Want me to go down and finish you off?”
I shuddered. God, no.
He slid down my body, misreading my reaction, which had nothing to do with anticipation. The last guy who endeavored to “finish me off” bit me so badly I couldn’t pee without pain for weeks.
I pulled him back up. “Next time.”
I tried to smile. Failed abysmally, from the look on his face. That hopeful, eager to please puppy-dog expression vanished, a look that had seen me relent and follow him to his place for a “night cap.”
Should there even be a next time? Why did I keep trying, keep hoping that “this time” things would be different? Casual sex, hot office sex, sex with a stranger, sex with a friend. I’d tried it all, with high hopes, only to be left with low—or like now—no result.
No one got me going like Sammy. Always charged, always ready, and as sexy as my imagination. All I had to do was keep him forever supplied with batteries. He did the rest.
In all my experience—not as much vast as varied—men just didn’t have the wherewithal—or technique—to get me off. Sammy was reliable and hit the spot. Always.
Did men even know there was a spot? A mere seven letters into the alphabet. Not so far that you’d get lost on the way.
If only I could meet a real-life Sammy, my life would be complete.
“I can’t leave you hanging. Let me finish you off.”
Hell, back to Peter. Paul? Or maybe Patrick. He hadn’t even started. I was already finished. I had laundry to do. And a real bad headache, starting in my temple and finishing smack between my thighs.
I pulled back and glanced at the time.
“Damn, is it midnight already?” I wriggled and rolled till I’d freed myself from his weight. “I have an early morning meeting and a heap of prep I haven’t even started yet.”
I eyed my silk blouse, folded meticulously on a large chair, along with my meticulously folded A-line skirt. Even my underwear was symmetrically folded in a pile of its own. Foreplay had been as exciting as a wet blanket. No mad rush to get my clothes off and get dirty.
Everything meticulously in its place.
That should have been my warning right there.
I slipped into my shirt and shimmied into my skirt. My undies and bra, I stuffed into my bag.
“Thanks so much for—” What could I say? Fun? A good time? It wasn’t even mediocre. “Thanks.”
I bolted through the door, hoping the rain outside had cleared. I ducked my head as drops the size of gooseberries began the process of frizzing my hair before drizzling down my back.
Another hope dashed.
Forever the optimist. Forever disappointed. That was me.
*
The meeting dragged. It seemed to be the flavor of my life at the moment. Time dragging. Dissatisfaction slumping like uncast clay in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe it was lower.
It didn’t help that the new scientist in the newly launched Biological Standards wing of our little pharmaceutical company was late. It made me pissy. Even more so that Graeme—our normally “lateness is tardiness is disrespectfulness” boss—seemed quite blasé about the totally blatant display of tardiness and lack of respect. Welcome to a century when only the semblance of equality existed. The whole bro-code, sexist bullshit still ran rampant in New Orleans, and in particular, in our offices.
The conference room door swung open, and our frazzled-looking—or was that dazzled-looking—admin assistant, Jane, hobbled into the room. Normally she would have stumbled, but hard to do that—or maybe not in the case of Jane—when your leg’s still in a knee-high cast. Distraction and the wrong kind of guy could do that to you.
I shoved at the thought, and the telltale pain it brought with it.
Distraction wasn’t all bad. Kinda like the guy who followed her into the room.
Jane stuttered, her face so pink she resembled a grapefruit. The pink kind. “Gideon Fang.”
Lady parts that hadn’t been properly fed in a while suddenly perked up and took notice.
Shit-hot.
No other way to describe the black-leather and denim covered, muscle-clad hunk who strode into the room like he owned it, and every one of us with it.
Nu-uh.
An alpha male with an over-developed sense of importance was the last thing our company needed. My temper prickled. That explained the
flow of lava straight through my center—not the motorcycle helmet in his hand or the vision of his thick, muscle-bound thighs wrapped tight round his vibrating machine. Heat burned my face, no doubt to the shade of overripe raspberries.
They’d go down a treat with that hot fudge sauce.
Stop it!
I licked my lips, and green-almost-golden eyes latched onto them. I felt their caress, as if his tongue joined mine in its quest.
Fuck.
That word dragged rampant images to my mind. Inappropriate images for strategy meetings with a room full of stuffy scientists. All stuffy but one.
“Ahh, Gideon.” Graeme stood and pumped the man’s hand like they were long lost friends.
I hated that I noticed how large and strong that hand looked clasped in Graeme’s pudgy one. Hated that my mind flew to the promises a large hand suggested.
“Take a seat. We’ve only just started.”
No indication the meeting had droned for the past half hour, waiting for Lord Gideon to arrive.
I was pissy. Unusually so. I should have ridden Sammy last night, instead of tossing my clothes into the wash before falling exhausted into bed. That would have taken the edge off whatever reaction was taking place right now.
Gideon, our newest testosterone-rich addition to the team, made his way round the table.
Crap.
How did I not notice the only vacant spot sat to my right?
He sprawled into the chair, but not before dropping his helmet onto the table and shaking hands with Mannie—our communicable diseases, or CDC, head scientist—before turning to me to do the same.
I blame my impeccable manners and pitiful lack of balls for letting him take my hand in a firm, pussy-drenching shake. His gaze drilled into mine. Drilled deep, where gazes shouldn’t delve.
I snatched my hand free and nodded my greeting. Hard to speak when your tongue’s lodged halfway down your throat.
“Now that Gideon’s here, let’s get started.” As if we hadn’t started already. Again, my mercury shot skyward. I was over this whole male domination thing. Had been over it since I’d applied for the new role only to be told the company was bringing someone in.
Call me shallow, but my instant dislike—yeah, that explained my reaction—had reason. Gideon had not only usurped the promotion I’d worked my butt off to earn, but he’d also upped the male to female ratio, and it wasn’t in double-X chromosome’s favor.
“So, as I was saying, work on the Influenza A H3N2v4 antidote has been ramped up, with the new, earlier release date now set for . . . blah blah blah.” It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard it all before. I zoned. Tried not to notice the heat emanating from the body beside me. Or the fact his knee bumped mine every time he moved. Which seemed like an awful lot, if you were counting. Which I wasn’t.
An hour later, the meeting was over. Just as frigging well. My thighs had aced a better workout than they ever did in yoga. If I’d clenched them any tighter, my butt cheeks would have shattered.
I jumped out of my seat and was at the door before anyone else had risen. Sanctuary, at last. And an opportunity to strategy-plan my avoidance of Gideon in the future.
“Ahh, Tiffany, one moment please.” Pudgy finger raised in a “wait right there” gesture, my boss had spoken. And one never ignored the boss. Even when one was so horny, even a look—not Graeme’s—would turn my already melting body to sauce.
Why did my thoughts always come back to sauce?
And there was another unfortunate word. Come. Something I hadn’t done in the last twenty-four hours. And curse the fact that if I had, this whole sordid day would have gone a lot differently.
Men didn’t spark this kind—or strength—of reaction in me. Never had. No doubt, they never would. Sure, the knowledge never stopped me from trying—hence, my non-event last night—but nothing ever changed. For my sanity, if nothing else, I needed to accept my fate, marry Sammy and move on.
Because whatever reaction Gideon triggered, he was off limits. Regardless of my no work-fucking policy, I didn’t do alphas. Been there, done that, and the bruises had healed, just not the scars.
I pushed the memory aside, along with the lump it brought to my throat. “Yes, Graeme.”
“I’ve got an appointment with the Pax Group in the city, so would you mind showing Gideon around?” He turned to the hulk in question. “Tiffany’s been acting in your role for the past three months, so if you have any questions, I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to help you out.”
Then my devoid-of-a-clue boss hand-pumped Gideon once again, before promising to catch up first thing in the morning.
And there sealed my fate.
No escape. No time to take the edge off my craving—even without Sammy. No nothing but eyes that sent me fifty shades of randy and a palm at my back that made me want it to scooch lower.
If this day’s end saw me still sane, it’d be one fucking great miracle.
Chapter 2
Gideon
Fuck me.
When Damon sent me into Hagen Pharmaceuticals to carry out the coven’s plan, I’d never imagined I would be awarded fringe benefits galore, deliciously wrapped in a skittish, tight package with blonde curls and bright, opal blue-green eyes. I could feel her heat. Fuck, I could smell it. And it made me want to taste her like I’d never wanted to taste a woman before. Or, almost never, bar once.
I’d almost lost hope. Surely, she couldn’t be . . .
Shock ricocheted through my body, followed closely by a rush that saw every muscle tighten. I’d been wrong before, and the cost was far too great for me to make the same mistake again. That said, the past didn’t preclude me from enjoying the feast before me.
Her prim, curve-hugging ankle-length skirt didn’t fool me. She was sex on legs, and I couldn’t wait to be wrapped in both, hot and tight.
“First, let’s check out your office.” She gave me, then the helmet under my arm, such a stern, disapproving look, I was almost fooled into thinking she didn’t feel it too. Almost, but for the tiny shiver beneath my palm as I guided her out through the door.
She jerked forward, breaking the connection. “The new Biological Standards wing is down the main corridor and through the double doors at the end.” The sharp click-clack of her heels dragged my gaze lower to find slim ankles and firm calves disappearing beneath the slit of her skirt. “If ever you get lost, just follow the olive green tiles. The other corridors have blue.”
“I never get lost.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” Her expression said she doubted my confidence, but she didn’t bite.
That thought had me hard in less than a nanosecond. I wanted her bite. Wanted to return the favor. My mouth watered, wanting to taste her skin, to pierce it, to savor the delights throbbing just beneath it.
She pushed through the double doors, and even though her retort was stilted and controlled, she left the door to slam in my face. If she expected anything other than a grin as reaction, she’d be disappointed. I pushed on through and followed the sway of her ass.
“So, Tiffany, is it? Or do you prefer Tiff?”
“Only friends call me Tiff.”
“Then, Tiff it is.”
She glanced back, icicles in her expression. “Tiffany will do just fine.” A white building with black trim loomed up before us. “Here we are.” Another set of double doors that didn’t slam in my face this time. I was fast, just one of my many talents.
A stout, weasel-faced woman looked up from a desk to the left of the entrance.
“Brenda.” Tiff’s relief was tangible. “The new BS scientist.” She turned back to me, focusing somewhere in the vicinity of my right ear. “Brenda, meet Gideon. Gideon, meet Brenda.”
She side-stepped when I reached past to shake Brenda’s hand, leaving a trail of vanilla and spice and all things wicked. My taste buds sprung to life with the accelerated pulse of her blood and I steeled my jaw against my reaction.
Her smile was tight, lips she’d
licked earlier once again receiving attention from her tongue. “I’ll leave you in Brenda’s capable hands.”
She was almost at the door when I intercepted her. “If I’m not mistaken, Graeme entrusted you to show me around.”
I was close now. Closer than she’d let me venture before, and her scent was beguiling. Not just the spicy vanilla that made me think of rich, cinnamon-laced cream, but it was her. A slight turn of my head and her throat was within reach—that live, pulsing point where neck meets shoulder stamped with a rosy, half-heart birthmark.
The breath caught in my throat, the world spinning wildly for just one moment. I was all too familiar with broken hearts.
My initial reaction hadn’t lied. She’s the one.
She shuffled back, removing her scent from my nostrils, but not the memory.
“Brenda knows as much as I do about the role, maybe even more. And for anything she can’t help with, call me or email.” She gave me a once-over and my dick twitched, her only acknowledgement of my very obvious reaction a slight widening of her eyes. And a dusky pink sweeping her cheeks.
I cupped her elbow and was rewarded with a shudder—hers and mine. “I have a question.”
She dropped her arm, breaking contact and a connection surely she could feel. Her gaze met mine. Almost. She was avoiding eye-contact, and that was fine. Soon that would change, along with her prickly, porcupine demeanor.
It was written, after all.
She quirked a slim, blonde brow.
I didn’t make her wait. “Why didn’t you apply for the job if you were already doing it?”
Her expression turned to vinegar. “I did.”
“Then why didn’t you get it?”
“That’s a question you’ll have to ask Graeme.” Her palm flattened against the glass and she pushed, making way for a gust of cool winter air to enter. “Welcome to Hagen Pharmaceuticals, Gideon.”
She stalked out through the door, leaving it to slam in my face once again. I let it, enjoying the wriggle of her ass in that tight, sexy skirt. A skirt perfect for pulling up over her hips before pounding into her, watching her derision transform into desire.