by Sam Crescent
“Logan will never admit it,” Ian had said to Thea, “but he was made for leadership. He leads unconsciously and most just follow.”
“He’s easy to look up to,” she had said. “And he adores you, you know.”
“I know. I won’t let him down again,” Ian had promised.
Snapping her out of her memory, Logan said, “I do play it.” He gave Thea a swat on her ass, and rolled her over before getting out of bed and heading to the display case.
Thea couldn’t help but admire his firm, glorious ass and his well-defined sculpted back as he moved.
He took out the guitar. “I play this one when I’m jamming with Slash.”
She sat up. “You actually play with Slash?” she squeaked. “Oh, my God.”
“You gotta hear this when this baby is plugged in,” he said, fiddling around with some chords. “I’ll take you with me next time.”
“Yes,” she squealed, pumping both hands in the air. “Although, as excited as I am about the prospect of that, it won’t compare to the private concerts you give me or the VIP treatment I get afterward.”
“Oh, yeah?” Logan asked, giving her a wink. He settled on “Paradise City,” playing and singing to her, his voice drowning out the sounds of the non-amped electric guitar, and like the dutiful concert goer she was, Thea got up on the bed and began to jump around and dance.
He made it about half way through the song before returning his guitar to its display case and rejoining her on the bed. He tackled her and pinned her beneath him. “Do you have any idea what your little dance just did to me?”
She shook her head and was still out of breath when she answered, “Show me.”
With a growl, he attacked her mouth, his tongue swiftly invading hers. He then ripped open her shirt, sending some of the buttons flying and pinging off the walls. She thought about how fortunate they both were that they made a good living with the amount of shirts, both his and hers, that had been ruined in the past six months. She’d never get enough of him.
“I’ll never get enough of you,” he echoed her sentiment right before getting back to devouring her mouth. He cupped a breast and massaged, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
Thea locked her ankles around his hips and grabbed his ass. “I can’t wait.”
“Me, either,” he said against her lips, and then he impaled her. They both stilled briefly, much like they always did when they first connected. She always wanted him so badly and usually in the moments leading up to their joining, her desire became even more heightened, so much so that when he would first enter her, she had to revel in that relief of finally having him inside of her.
She held on to him as he set a fast pace, thrusting in and out of her with long hard strokes. “Oh, God, Logan. I love you and I love how you fuck me.”
“I fucking love you,” he ground out. “I love you so much. You feel like my heaven.” He kissed her again and moaned into her mouth. “Harder, baby?”
“Yeah.”
“Mmm. I love your tight, sweet little pussy. It tastes like honey.”
Thea moaned loudly at his words and the sexy huskiness of his voice. He knew how much she loved his complimentary dirty talk. She dug her nails into his back and elevated her hips slightly to give him room to go even deeper, and when his cock began to hit a particularly sweet spot inside of her repeatedly, her orgasm crashed over her, the build-up to it intense. A few more thrusts from Logan had him coming as well, calling out her name as he spilled inside of her.
They kissed again, passionately, not pulling apart until both of them had stopped shaking. Logan cupped her cheek. “How’s that for a VIP treatment?”
Thea giggled. “I’d say I’m one lucky girl. Oh, and there’s actually a present waiting for you downstairs.”
“Really?” he asked, his eyes lighting up. She found it so endearing how he got all excited whenever she bought him something, like a kid on Christmas morning. “What did you get me?”
“You’ll just have to wait until you go downstairs.” She and Hannah had finally decided to get him a new chair for his office. Despite his constant grumblings over his squeaky chair, he never buckled down to get one. He did, however, manage to finally get a new phone to replace the one he had smashed when his brother ran off.
“I’m the lucky one, Thea,” he said as he stared down at her adoringly. “I know for certain that with you in it, my days will never be boring again.”
And neither would hers. She set out to rescue her sister, unaware that her future would forever change that day. She had spent so long holed up in a lab developing a weapon, living a passionless existence, until Logan came along and sparked new life into her heart and she let herself be willingly caught by her hunter.
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RETURNING TO THE COYOTE
Roberta Winchester
Shifter Brethren, 1
Copyright © 2017
Chapter One
Rafe
She’s coming home.
The girl who never smiles.
At least, she rarely smiled, back when we were kids. She did sometimes.
But only for me.
I haven’t seen her since she went away after college. It’s been years.
Three years, four months, and sixteen days.
Not that I’m counting.
I loved her.
I love her still.
I thought she loved me, too. She never said it, though, hell—I never said it. Maybe if I had told her, she might’ve stayed. I don’t blame her for leaving, not really. The house where she grew up, the one next to mine, well … it wasn’t a happy place back then, thanks to her asshole father. I wouldn’t have come back home all this time either.
He’s gone now, and the house sits, dark and empty.
Waiting for her.
Rumor around town has it that she’ll be back soon, to take over her father’s farm.
Next to me. With nothing to separate us but an empty field and a stretch of woods.
Every day I head into town to work, put in my day at the shop, and then hurry home to watch for her. My cabin is on a hill, and from my front porch I can see the gravel driveway leading up to her father’s—to her house. I don’t mean to stalk her, that creepy shit isn’t me.
But God, I miss her.
It’s quiet here. Too quiet.
It’s my own fucking fault. I drove her away. It wasn’t just because I was too chicken shit to tell her I love her. It wasn’t just because of her father that she left, either.
No, the reason she left and didn’t come back was because I told her the truth about what I am.
That I’m not entirely human.
****
Corina
I would’ve given anything to avoid returning to this house. I refuse to call it home. It was my father’s home. Not mine. I cannot believe he left it to me in his will. I suppose there was simply no one else for him to leave it to. No other family. Certainly no friends.
I plan to clean the place out. Give away or sell anything I don’t absolutely need. I’ll keep anything I find that belonged to my mother. That is, if there’s anything left my father didn’t destroy when he was still alive. I’m surprised a heart attack killed him. I expected it would be liver failure, long before now.
I lift the latch on the battered aluminum screen door, hold it open with my elbow as I fumble with the key while trying not to drop my luggage. When I attempt to shove open the old wooden inner door, it sticks. The house is humid this time of year. I remember that. No air conditioning. Between the stifling temps, my father’s ranting rages, long, sweltering days working in the fields, and the kitchen overheated from Mom’s constant cooking, summers here were absolute hell.
I brace myself as the door eventually swings open.
“Holy God.” I gasp. I can’t help it.
There are beer cans and liquor bottles everywhere.
The kitchen table is coated in dust an
d spills, dark mildew spread across the peeling, laminate surface. Empty prescription pill bottles lay upended and scattered amid dozens of plates mounded with mold.
The floor—God, I can remember when it used to shine. Either Mom or I used to mop it every day. But now—now I have to choke back the bile rising in my throat at the sight of the impenetrable layer of filth covering the once beautiful hardwood.
A flash of movement passes through my peripheral vision and I look up just in time to see a mouse running across the cluttered countertops underneath the cupboards.
And this is just the kitchen. What does the rest of the house look like? A sharp stab of pain lances through my chest.
I expected a mess, but this. This. This is beyond the pale. Where do I even start?
How, how do I do this alone?
“Hey, Ina.”
I freeze. Only one person in the world calls me by that nickname. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about him the second I’d found out I had to come back here. And for much of the twelve-hour drive. But I can’t—not now—I’m not ready for him. Not yet. Not when I am reeling from what I’ve just walked into.
If I don’t turn around, maybe he will go away. Damn it, why did I leave the stupid door open?
“Corina. It’s me, sweetheart.”
I still don’t turn around. It’s weird, I know, but the last time we saw each other—well, we had a pretty epic fight and I haven’t even tried to contact him in more than three years. And the way I feel right now, exhausted and drained and kind of like I’m cracked and bleeding underneath my skin—I’m afraid seeing his face at this moment will break me. Hearing his voice is bad enough. I forgot how much I loved the sound of it, so smooth and deep and soothing, it’s like sinking into a warm bath on a cold night.
“Ina.” That smooth voice cracks a little, and I turn, unable to stop myself.
Rafe is standing in the doorway, the evening sun shining against him, illuminating him in gold. He’s wearing well-fitting blue jeans and a thin white t-shirt that clings to his very healthy-looking torso. His hair is shorter than I remember, but still the same jet-black shot through with natural gray peppering. He has a beard now, closely trimmed, and his eyes, so familiar and exactly as I remember, a fascinating shade of hazel—gold, green, and warm brown, all at the same time. I cannot help but stare as my heart kicks within my chest.
“Ina,” he repeats. “It’s good to see you.”
But, damn.
I open my mouth to speak, but I suddenly cannot breathe. The muscles contract in my throat and my eyes begin to burn, and I realize, with utter mortification, that I am going to start crying.
Damn it, I knew it. I knew seeing him would be a bad idea.
He steps closer to me, his eyes locked onto mine, like he’s searching for something. The muscles around his eyes are pulled tight and his gaze is intense, all-consuming, as he stares at me, and I have to look away.
You left me, those piercing eyes say.
Well, yes. He was the only thing keeping me here, and when he dropped a bomb on me, I fled. Anyone would have. Even now, after three years, looking at him fills me with an apprehension I never had before he told me … before he told me…
That he’s a shapeshifter.
I shudder at the memory, so near the surface as we stare each other down, yet again, as if the last three years haven’t happened.
I decided, after leaving and some time passed, that Rafe, my Rafe, was either losing his mind or inventing a ridiculous story to chase me away. It made more sense to me to think he was suffering from mental illness or commitment issues than to believe my boyfriend was a magical, mythical creature.
My mom, she would have swallowed Rafe’s story, hook and line, without question. She raised me on folklore and fairytales, and she used to tell me such stories were often rooted in reality. She was the most accepting, open-minded person I had ever known.
But she’s dead, has been for ten years. There is no such thing as magic. There is no room in this world for such a fantastical, beautiful delusion.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he says, and I realize I still have not acknowledged him, not with a single word.
Shame heats my face. Regardless of the weird way we parted, this is Rafe. This is the man who made life worth something for me, the only person in the universe I cared about after Mom died. But then he had to go and tell me that stupid story about being a coyote shapeshifter. How am I supposed to live here now, with him so near?
Think of something, for God’s sake. Anything.
“Um, yeah. Thanks.”
Great job, Corina.
He narrows his eyes a little and then tears his gaze away from mine. I’ve hurt him again, with just a few words. Too few words, that’s the problem. If he is still the same man I thought I knew before, he wants to have ‘the big talk’. The one that broke us. But I simply cannot bring myself to mention the elephant in the room—or should I say, coyote? The very thought makes my stomach twist.
He steps inside the kitchen and lets out a low whistle as he takes in the disastrous interior.
“Holy shit, Corina.”
I blink, his change in tone pulling me back, out of my head and into this hellhole that is my new reality.
“I knew your dad had it bad, but damn. I had no idea it was this bad.”
I clear my throat. For some reason, that pesky lump in there refuses to go away. I need to get him out of here so I can deal with my shit head on, without any witnesses—even if I have to be rude, even if I have to make him think I want nothing to do with him.
“R-right.” I choke a little, but keep going. It’s got to be the stench in here that’s affecting me so much. It smells like dead mice, mold, and booze. “Thanks for stopping by, Rafe. But you should go home. I need to get to work. We’ll catch up later.”
His gaze snaps back to mine, his eyes a flash of gold and green. “You’re not staying here. Not when this place is like this.”
“Of course I am.” What the hell is he about?
“No.”
He closes the distance between us, standing so close, his chest almost touching mine. He’s still using the same soap. Mint and sandalwood. I resist the urge to lean into him, to fall against his chest. He’s an oasis of clean relief in this catastrophe of a house, an island of good in the deluge of all the terrible memories this place is to me.
“Come back with me. Stay at my place.” His voice is soft and hypnotic, and he brushes his fingertips against my cheek and then my forehead, sweeping aside a strand of my hair. I close my eyes, helpless to resist relishing his touch, his calming voice. “I’ll help you with this, Ina. Let me help you with this.”
God, I wish I could. He has no idea. I open my mouth to tell him to yes, yes, please get me the hell out of here.
But then, the voice of reason steps up and cuts through the fog of emotions clouding my better judgment. She’s a bitch, my voice of reason, but she’s kept me alive for all these years. Stop. Remember. Remember what happened three years ago, she says. The man thinks he can turn into a coyote. And you cannot be in love with a crazy person. You’ve had enough crazy in your life to last an eternity.
I force myself to pull away. “No.” I find my voice, and it’s a little stronger now. “I’m staying here.”
“The hell you are,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “No one deserves this, Corina. Least of all you.”
Ah. My heart gives a little skip. God, how I wish things had turned out differently between us. But I’m not going to let my feelings for him stand in the way of doing what I came here to do. “Rafe, I’ve got to take care of this place. This is what I came back for.”
He takes a step backward, his jaw going rigid. Pain flares in his eyes. Then just as quickly as it comes, it goes, replaced by something else I’m not sure how to name.
Shit. “I’m sorry, Rafe. I didn’t mean—”
“You’re coming with me to my cabin.” His gentle voice has har
dened in a way I’ve never heard before. I’m not really sure what to do with it. Stubborn Rafe is something new.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s picking up my luggage and walking out the door.
What the hell? “Rafe!” I follow him, slamming the kitchen door behind me. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t stop. He keeps walking, fast, his long legs taking him and my luggage further away. This tall, broad-shouldered, hulking man is toting my pink suitcase in one hand and my rose-embroidered makeup bag over his shoulder, and if I wasn’t so pissed and confused, I would laugh. As it is, a bubble of bizarre, irrational giddiness is unfurling in me, threatening to take over, making me want to blindly follow him for the sake of not having to make any more decisions right now with my overemotional, overtired, overtaxed mind. The idea of choosing—I can return to my father’s house—or follow Rafe to his cabin—what kind of a choice is it, really?
“When did you get so bossy?” I shout after him, trying to catch up.
I don’t think he hears me. But when we’re halfway across the field, he abruptly stops and turns, his face ravaged with grief. Any more words I might’ve said die on my tongue. A gust of warm summer wind kicks up, tugging at my cotton skirt. Stalks of wheat whip against my bare legs.
“I got so bossy.” His voice is rough and clipped and he pauses, inhaling a rasping breath. I blink, trying to clear my eyes, trying to see if this impassioned man is truly my sweet, soft-spoken Rafe. “I got so bossy,” he repeats, “when I realized I let you go because I wasn’t strong enough to chase after you and drag you back home. And now that you’ve come home, I’m not letting you go, not ever again.”
His possessiveness takes my breath away. His stance is stiff, defensive, bracing for a fight. Even standing there with my girly luggage, he’s looking kind of raw and edgy. Well, if a fight is what he wants, a fight is what he’s getting. I’m not in the mood for this. I close the distance between us until I’m standing within reach of him.