Kamikaze (Last Call #1)

by Rogers, Moira

  Copyright Information

  Kamikaze

  Copyright © 2008 Moira Rogers

  http://www.moirarogers.com

  Smashwords edition.

  Originally published by Changeling Press in 2008. Reissued by the author in 2012.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Information

  Kamikaze

  Sneak Peek

  The Last Call Series

  About the Author

  KAMIKAZE

  Werewolf in heat, looking for a temporary mate.

  Zoe Bennett needed to fuck someone.

  It was a rather shocking reality, one that alarmed her as she slipped through Last Call’s crowded dance floor. Being alarmed by it didn’t make it easier to ignore, however. Goosebumps rose on her skin every time a stranger brushed against her. If that stranger happened to be a fellow werewolf -- a male werewolf -- her nipples tightened and she had to fight off a shudder of pure need.

  She needed it tonight. Her fingers clenched around the menu she’d picked up from next to the door, creasing it as she finally broke free of the writhing mass of bodies clogging the dance floor. She needed it, and nothing -- not shyness, not her natural inhibitions, nothing -- could stop that need. Not now.

  Three wide steps from the floor led up to the low platform that held the main attraction of Last Call: a long, slightly curved bar with fifteen stools and a wide corridor behind it. Three more bars crowded against the other walls of the large room, but this was the bar. The bar where the drinks were incidental.

  The seats never stayed filled for long. Now they were empty except for the left-most stool, which held a young man with pale skin and sharp looking fangs that he flashed whenever he laughed. His companion, a duskily tanned young woman, leaned closer and ran her tongue along his ear as Zoe watched.

  Zoe shivered and set her foot on the lowest step. Nervousness rose, but the need burning in her pushed her up to the second one.

  By the third step she could feel the curious stares on her back. She ignored them and closed the distance between herself and the smooth mahogany of the bar. Her hands shook a little as she slapped the menu down and sought the bartender’s eyes. “I -- I have an order.”

  His skin was the same color as the bar, and his smooth, shaved head gleamed under the low light. A small, high-tech looking headset curved over his head, something that looked like it might serve as a microphone as well. He smiled at her and nodded to the crumpled menu in front of her. “On or off the menu?”

  “On.” She smoothed the menu out and turned it over, her gaze sliding down the list of specials. Last Call house drinks, each with its own meaning. Its own message. And there was only one message she had for the men of the bar tonight. Take me if you can. “Kamikaze, please.”

  He nodded and reached up to tap the side of the headset he wore. His strong, deep voice cut in over the music, filling the bar and attracting the attention of most of its patrons. “Last call for the lady in black. Kamikaze, coming up.” He released the button and winked at her as the music resumed its previous volume.

  Zoe slid onto the stool at the far right of the bar and struggled not to look at the dance floor as the bartender made a show of mixing her drink, a process so impressive it bordered on performance art. It made a good distraction, one which gave her an excuse not to turn around and watch the crowd behind her. She could feel the male werewolves approaching, and their sudden, intense interest made her skin tingle.

  Tradition declared that no one approach her before she had her drink. Zoe ignored the appraising stares and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of her menu again. The back was a neat list, divided into sections. Vampire, werewolf, witch, fae… Plain black type delineated the various clientele of Last Call, along with the “specials” peculiar to each kind. She slid her finger down the page, past the bold Werewolf heading until she found kamikaze.

  Werewolf in heat, looking for a temporary mate.

  Connor stared at the woman on the dais and frowned. He wasn’t exactly a Last Call regular, but he’d been in often enough to know she wasn’t the type of woman who usually patronized the bar’s more exotic services.

  She was wearing blue jeans, for one thing. Not a low-riding pair of designer ones, either. Serviceable jeans, faded by wear and not fashion. Her T-shirt was similarly styled -- understated and solid black except for the letters "PEBKAC" across the front. He grinned. Problem exists between keyboard and chair.

  He rubbed his thumb over his beer bottle as his eyes followed the curves of her body. She wasn’t rail thin. Instead, she had the kind of body a man could wrap his hands around. The kind he had no trouble picturing bent over in front of him. And she needs a mate.

  No, he told himself. You’re here to update the security software. Do it and get out.

  Men were already gathering near the base of the steps, drawn by the lure of a female in the clutches of her mating instinct. They looked tense, hungry; ready to compete for the pleasure of a woman who needed sex, whose scent would be an aphrodisiac to any male werewolf.

  She shifted nervously on the stool, her eyes drawn to the small knot of men who were poised, waiting for the bartender to deliver her drink. She knew she’d be pounced, he could see it in her eyes as they darted around the room. She’d be chased.

  He wondered, perhaps with a bit of jealousy, who would catch her.

  Her gaze clashed with his, and Connor raised his drink in salute.

  She blushed. She actually blushed as she turned away and stared at the counter again. The bartender returned, her drink in hand, and Connor could see the tense set of her shoulders as she watched him place the glass in front of her. Her hands shook a little as she slid her credit card across the counter and accepted a small, magnetic key to one of the upstairs rooms in return.

  More than just the werewolves were watching her now. A kamikaze almost always guaranteed a good show, no matter how shy or plain the woman. She seemed to feel the pressure as she wrapped her fingers around her drink. She lifted it to her lips and hesitated for a heartbeat.

  Then she drank the entire thing in one gulp. Someone in the crowd cheered loudly enough to be heard over the music, and someone else let loose a piercing catcall.

  Connor watched as she hastily shoved the key in her back pocket and shot off the dais and away from the men gathered around it, disappearing into the crowd. She was either very nervous… or she wanted the chase.

  He found himself moving toward her, cursing himself with every step.

  Whoever was in charge of the music had a sense of humor. He was still five feet away from her when the upbeat pop song changed, bled into a savage industrial song with a primal bass rhythm.

  She was watching him when another man stepped up behind her and slid an arm around her waist. She stiffened and whipped her head to the side, her snarl just loud enough to be heard over the music.

  The man backed off but another slid in beside her. She ignored him, her gaze still locked with Connor’s. Her new suitor took her lack of response as encouragement and hooked a hand over her hip.

  That earned a reaction. She spun around and snarled again, taking a step back when she realized three men had gathered behind her. She might be nervous, but Connor had no doubts now that the competit
ion excited her.

  The voice in his head protested. He ignored it and reached into her pocket, plucking out her key. He held it in front of her as he bent close to her ear. “Do you want to go upstairs with one of them, or with someone who knows what the geeky slogan on your T-shirt means?”

  She stepped back against him, molding her body to his. Her ass rubbed against his cock as she shimmied a little in time with the music. “Dance with me.” Her hand came up and snatched the key away, and she shoved it into her front pocket this time as she ground back against him.

  He set his beer bottle on a table at the edge of the dance floor, not caring that it was occupied, and wrapped his hands around her hips. “What’s your name, Kamikaze?”

  “Zoe.” She hitched in a breath and slid her hands over his, and he could feel the barely leashed need in her, already threatening to boil over. She gasped as she rubbed back against him again, and when she spoke, it was a low and breathless. “What’s your name?”

  “Connor.” He thrust against her ass and she drew a sharp breath. “Do you really want to dance?” He trailed his lips over her neck and nibbled at the soft skin.

  One of the men to the left growled a soft challenge. Zoe twisted in his arms and pressed against him, and he felt those gorgeous breasts rub against his chest. “Three days,” she panted in a hoarse voice. “It started three days ago. Can you make it stop?”

  “Jesus, sweetheart.” Three days of the kind of clawing desire that would accompany her heat cycle? He shook his head and squeezed her ass with both hands. “Might take a miracle, but I will do my level best.”

  She whimpered and stretched up, trying to rub her hips against his. “Take me upstairs. Take me.”

  He kissed her, hard, for just a second, ignoring the whoops and whistles from the crowd. “Give me the key.”

  Huge, glazed blue eyes stared up at him as she fumbled at her pocket. She pressed the key into his hand with another soft noise, half-plea and half-command and not the least bit human.

  He tried not to breathe through his nose as he dragged her off toward the elevator. Her scent, especially now that she was fully aroused, scrambled his brain, making rutting sex on the floor of the hallway seem like a good idea. “Hold on until we get up to the room,” he muttered, but he wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself.

  She was on him before the dull metal doors of the elevator slid shut. Small, surprisingly strong hands dragged at his shirt as she pressed him back against the wall and rose up on her toes. She was short, too short to really reach his mouth, but her lips landed on his chin and she licked it with a low moan.

  He snatched her up and turned at the same time, pinning her against the wall. “I said to wait.” He bit her chin and growled a warning.

  Her body melted against him, all soft submission that was a thousand times harder to resist. Her head tilted to the side, revealing the smooth, vulnerable line of her neck, and she moaned. “The only way you’ll get me to sit still is to tie me the fuck down.”

  Connor bit her neck. “Our room should be well-stocked for that.”

  She moaned again, the noise nearly drowning out the sound of the doors sliding open. “Just make me come. God, God I need to come… I tried by myself, I tried and I tried and it just made it worse…”

  Which showed how little she knew about things. He fought down a surge of conscience as he walked out of the elevator and headed down the hall with her still wrapped around his body. “Are you new at this or something?”

  He had to repeat the question before she looked on him, obviously struggling to focus. “I -- It’s the second time, but last time I had -- had a boyfriend who knew how to help…”

  Connor nodded absently as he shifted her weight to one hand and slid the electronic key into its slot. “I know how to help, too.” He shouldered open the door, then kicked it closed behind them.

  The room was one of their most basic, not much more than a luxurious bed and a heavy cabinet in the corner. Not many of the werewolves in Zoe’s position really gave a damn about the bells and whistles that came with some of the other suites.

  Shit. Neither do I right now. Her scent filled his nostrils, wet and musky, and he nearly stumbled as he crossed to the bed and dropped her on it.

  She twisted as soon as her back hit the bed, wiggling onto her stomach and then pushing up to her hands and knees. “Now, now -- God please --”

  Connor clenched his jaw and reached around her to yank at the button on her jeans. Her desperation fed his, and his hands trembled. He could get her off and ease some of her need, but he knew that only having him deep inside her would really satisfy her. “Everything? Now?”

  Zoe rocked backwards with another desperate noise. Her ass rubbed against his cock and she dropped her head. “Talk later. God just… just fuck me so I can think --”

  He dragged her pants and underwear down at the same time. Slow down -- Once she was bare to his view, most of his brain shut down, leaving only instinct to guide him. He tore at his own clothes, finally grasping her waist and thrusting inside her in one rough snap of his hips.

  Zoe was burning alive, but it didn’t bother her. Not anymore. The raging need that had proved such a torment only seconds ago had shifted, turning into satisfaction and pleasure. She had a man, behind her, above her, inside her -- and fuck it felt good.

  She tried to speak, to encourage him to thrust into her again, but her tongue wouldn’t work. Instead she made noises, low snarls of satisfaction when he pulled back and drove into her again, hard and a little rough and everything she needed to calm the wolf inside her.

  His fingers dug into her skin for a moment, then pushed under her shirt and fumbled with the clasp of her bra. “You should have let me get you naked first.”

  “Plenty -- plenty of time --” She groaned again and pressed her forehead against the mattress. Then a horrible thought occurred to her, bad enough to make her whimper in distress. “You’re not leaving after one time are you?”

  He slowed his movements, pulling back inch after slow inch. “Fuck, no. The whole night, if you want.”

  It had taken almost three days to wear her out last time, and she hadn’t even tried to fight it. Her body burned with such need that she thought a week with him inside of her might not be enough. But a night was something. A start. “Yes,” she gasped, then whimpered when she tried to rock back and his hands stopped her. “Need you -- I need you --”

  He plunged in with another groan, his cock filling her, then drew back, again with excruciating slowness. “Do you even remember my name?”

  “C-Connor --” She snarled and fought against his grip, trying to chase him back as he moved away. She felt empty every time he pulled out, aching and desperate. “Harder, damn it, I need -- I need --” She didn’t know what she needed, just that it involved him fucking her. Please know. Please know what to do --

  “Yeah, I know.” He reached around her hip, his hand sliding down until his fingers slipped over her clit. His deft fingers stroked it as he started pumping his hips faster, fucking her, nothing slow or hesitant about it.

  The tension that had built inside her over three torturous days snapped, and she clutched her fingers around the comforter and screamed.

  She came. She came hard and out of control, her body shaking and her cunt clenching around Connor’s cock. Nothing had ever felt so good -- so perfect -- as the release of all of that desperate, twisting need.

  He didn’t stop, just leaned over her, resting his head against her back as he continued to drive into her. She was vaguely aware of his harsh, panting groans. Then he swore. “Don’t stop. Do it again.”

  As if she had any control over what her body did. She came again and again, until she was light-headed from the rolling waves of bliss that carried her up until she could barely draw breath before crashing over her. A reward for the torment of the past days, measured out in the pleasure wrung from her body by a man strong enough to claim her.

  Connor’s hip
s jerked. His teeth sank into the back of her shoulder, through the cotton of her T-shirt, muffling his shout of release. His cock throbbed inside her, and his hands fell away from her, bracing on the bed.

  The heat of his body pressing against her was almost perfect. Almost. She arched up and rubbed her back against his chest. “Skin. We can be naked now.”

  “Really?” He didn’t move. She could feel his hot breath even through her shirt. “Give me a minute, okay?”

  “Okay…” The fire still burned inside her, but release had given her a respite from the painful, twisting need. She shifted a little and relaxed against the bed, letting herself enjoy the press of a strong body against her back. Maybe this wasn’t a terrible idea after all…

  Finally, he straightened and pulled free of her body with a sigh. “Christ, that was crazy.” He sat on the edge of the bed and started unlacing his boots. “You don’t do this a lot, do you?”

  “Do what? Sex? Or sex with strangers?” She watched the muscles of his shoulders flex under his shirt as he bent down to tug off one boot.

  “Come to Last Call,” he clarified. His other boot hit the floor, and he pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. A complicated design of black ink snaked across the back of one shoulder, and she watched it as he pulled off his socks.

  Belatedly she realized that her shoes were still on. She pushed one off and let it fall to the floor as she answered his question. “No. Never been here before.”

  “I hardly ever get up here.” He stood and pushed his pants down his legs.

  Her gaze skated away from the tattoo and down his back. Strong, but not overly muscular, which was far more to her taste than some of the chiseled gym bodies downstairs. She pried off her other shoe and tried to wiggle out of the jeans and panties tangled around her legs. “You like to hang out downstairs?”

  He turned and looked down at her, then tugged at the denim, freeing her legs. “The owner is a client.”