The Wolfes of Kinfoyle 2
The Author’s Challenge
Jenissa Wolfe is in love with her best friend’s brother. A man who seems to live in the books he writes. Even if he was to notice her, how do you explain that you’re a Domme? Needing to be in charge is as important to Jenissa as breathing, not to mention the small fact that she is also a wolf shifter, and has mind-reading abilities, among other things.
Rob Mackintosh yearns to give up control to the right person. When Jenissa, the very woman inhabiting his erotic dreams, admits she is a Domme and interested in him, he cannot believe his luck.
As they explore their dynamics, Rob falls hard for his ma’am.
His love is put to the test however, when he learns of the secrets Jenissa has been keeping from him.
Can he forgive his ma’am and move on, or is that the true challenge?
NOTE: This book has a heroine who is a domme.
Genre: Contemporary, Paranormal, Shape-shifter
Length: 27,233 words
THE AUTHOR’S CHALLENGE
The Wolfes of Kinfoyle 2
Raven McAllan
EROTIC ROMANCE
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www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
THE AUTHOR’S CHALLENGE
Copyright © 2015 by Raven McAllan
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63259-039-8
First E-book Publication: March 2015
Cover design by Harris Channing
All art and logo copyright © 2015 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
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DEDICATION
To June, who is the best walking buddy ever.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About the Author
THE AUTHOR’S CHALLENGE
The Wolfes of Kinfoyle 2
RAVEN MCALLAN
Copyright © 2015
Prologue
The claw, blood-red nail varnish perfectly applied, inscribed a heart on his chest.
Every time the thin red scratch formed the outline, it stood out like someone had written on him in felt tip, paint—or even nail varnish—for one brief second and then faded, only to begin again as the next heart was formatted. Mesmerized, he couldn’t look away.
He thought it should hurt. After all, it was his flesh that was scored. But all it did was harden his cock and make it throb.
The claw and its come-hither polish flashed in the moonlight. Nothing else. He couldn’t see a body of any description—just the claw. It floated around a few inches from his skin, and disappeared into a haze. No matter how hard he tried, the haze was impenetrable. Why wasn’t he afraid? Screaming blue murder, or waving garlic around?
He blinked and watched as it touched his nipple and pinched. That tightened his balls and made his cock wet with pre-cum and his mouth dry with longing. Rob squinted to try and see who or what was playing with him. Why was the room so shadowy? All that showed was a paw.
With a manicured claw.
The words danced in his mind.
Shit, now I’m creating bad poetry. His way with words never had included rhyme.
“That you are. And all for me. Shall we make poetry together?”
The voice danced through his mind. Who was it?
“You’ll know. When you want to.”
The red nail flashed like a warning light and dug into his skin.
“Mine.”
Rob blinked as his mind cleared.
What?
A claw with nail varnish? What the fuck? Shit, I knew I shouldn’t eat cheese and pickle sandwiches before bed.
He jerked backward and tried to push the claw away. The pressure increased and he moaned. It might be wrong, but it was so very right.
Nevertheless, where was the body? More to the point, what was the body? He couldn’t come from a dismembered paw on him. So not acceptable.
The pressure lifted and, contrarily, he wanted it back.
Dammit, don’t stop. Start what you’ve finished.
He didn’t know if the laugh was real or in his mind. “Oh, I will. When the time is right.”
Rob felt himself bound, tied and unable to move.
He struggled, and the low laugh that echoed around the room reverberated within him.
“Mine.”
He began to fall, and he couldn’t break it.
The jarring rattled his teeth.
Somewhere, someone laughed.
“You should trust me.”
Fair enough, but who should he trust?
“You’ll know. When you really want to.”
He landed with a thump.
Rob opened his eyes and eyeballed the dust bunnies. He exhaled deeply and they skittered away across the wooden floorboards.
Dust b
unnies?
Very slowly Rob looked around, and swore.
Why on earth was he lying on the floor of his bedroom, staring under his bed? When was the last time he looked there? Rob honestly couldn’t remember. Judging by the layer of dust, it wasn’t very recently. Along with the dust bunnies, there was a lone red-striped sock—he’d hunted high and low for that a few weeks earlier—three pens and a box of condoms.
That’s pathetic. I didn’t even notice I’d lost the box of rubbers. Just shows what a sad life I have.
“Your fault. No one else’s.” The damned voice taunted him. Of course it was his own fault. But who on earth wanted him? A man who’d rather let a woman do the decision-making. Let her choose what when and how. Bow to her, cede authority to her. Not a likely scenario. Every woman he’d associated with expected him to take charge.
“I wouldn’t.”
“Argh.” He almost shouted the word. “Not helpful.” Shit, now I’m talking out loud to voices in my mind. He swore he heard a snigger. And I don’t even know if it’s me I’m chatting with, or someone else. Screwy.
“You know me, Rob. Open your mind and believe it.” He’d swear someone or something kissed his cheek.
Rob struggled to free his arms and wondered what strange force held him captive. He glanced downward. It figured. More and more, he’d had these unsettling dreams and thrashed round in bed, restless and reaching out for something. Last time he ended up butt-naked with his head at the foot of the bed and one foot on the bedside table. This time he was tangled up in his duvet, his cock beautifully outlined in linen where the cover and duvet didn’t quite meet. As he’d suspected, the material was damp. Every time he had these dreams his pre-cum was copious. He blanked his mind to the effects a little self-help achieved. He really needed to think.
Had he got to the stage where he could only get it up with erotic dreams?
I bloody hope not.
He still hankered after someone he was sure he’d never have.
Very carefully, Rob managed to extract himself and lift the bedding off his chest, then he gulped and his heart beat ever faster. Why was a perfect heart outlined on his chest?
What the hell was happening to him?
Chapter One
Rob typed as if there was no tomorrow. Why his dry-as-dust—according to his sister and her irritating friend—history of the army in the highlands had been discarded in favor of a history of his home village, heaven only knew. What he had discovered, however, was that once he started researching, he couldn’t stop. After all, who knew all the legends that abounded around their tiny hamlet?
He still couldn’t fathom out why he, who usually wrote gritty detective stores, had gotten so involved in nonfiction. What compulsion had drawn him to the library as well as online information, had made him open a new document on his lap top and write as one possessed? That word reminded him of his last unsettled night and lack of sleep. Instead of jerking off and getting relief, he’d gotten as far as taking hold of his cock when that bloody annoying voice in his head had demanded he stop. “Your climax is mine, your cum is mine. No coming unless I say so.” He’d moved his hand as if he’d been scalded. The mocking laugh made him scowl. Then he’d heard, “Good, pet.” Damn, if it didn’t make his prick even harder and wetter. Hell, he’d almost come just by hearing that compelling and erotic voice.
“I’m not a pet. Never, ever. Think of something else.” But even though he cringed at the name, the sentiment made him glow with pleasure. He’d done the right thing for whoever it was.
“If you become mine, you’ll be what I choose. Remember that.”
He had. He’d slept and not dreamed, never fucked himself, and waited somewhat impatiently to see what happened next. Although he had no idea what might occur, he was sure something would, and he was content—almost—to wait and see what it was. However, for weeks, there had been nothing at all. His sleep had been unbroken, his mind clear, and his cock? Well, his cock behaved itself, much to Rob’s disgust.
Like a deflated and unused condom.
Meanwhile, he wrote his nonfiction.
Or, he mused as he stretched to get the kinks out of his back, was it nonfiction? It all seemed somewhat far-fetched to him. Okay the history one he could understand. History fascinated him, and he’d set himself the challenge. But this? Wolves, and paranormal goings-on in the Trossachs? Hardly.
He’d mentioned this to Ari, who had stared at him until he was reminded of their mum when he’d done something wrong and didn’t want to admit it.
“You never used to be so closed-minded,” Ari said in such a tone that he squirmed. “You’re an author, you’re supposed to be enquiring and inquisitive, and not poo-poo anything that doesn’t fit into a neat little box.”
“I’m not,” Rob protested. Ari didn’t replied.
“I’m not,” he said again, but even he heard the defensive note in his voice. “Am I?”
A howl sounded and he grinned. His mind was damn good at conjuring up sound effects when needed. Seriously, wolves? The odd fox or two, deer, red squirrels and maybe a polecat, that was about it.
He knew all about the fairies and the Reverend Kirk they’d supposedly taken. On more than one occasion, he’d walked up the hill and looked at all the ribbons and offerings on the “Fairy Tree.” Almost everyone who lived in the area did, along with a good percentage of visitors. Witches? Yes, he could accept that. Hell, he had a friend at uni who was Wiccan. But wolves? That’d be right. As far as he was aware, wild wolves had died out in the country centuries before, and he hadn’t seen reports of animals escaping from the any safari park within walking—or loping—distance. So why did he dream of them, see glowing eyes peering at him from the bushes, feel claws scoring his flesh, hear the howls and let them fill him? And why didn’t it scare the pants off him?
As if on cue, the skin on his chest began to itch. The damned midges had arrived early this year. Rob scratched himself absently as he reread what he’d written. It was rubbish. A load of cobblers. His finger hovered over the delete button.
“Don’t you dare. It’s true.”
Argh, that sodding voice again. Why does it sound as if someone’s talking through a hanky?
“Because I am? Even we can catch a cold. And summer colds are the pits.”
Was that a sneeze?
“Duh.”
Rob shook his head even as he wondered just who the “we” referred to.
“When you’re ready to know, you will. But you’re not there yet, are you? You’re not ready to know me yet. Open your mind, Rob.”
What is it with people telling me to open my mind? His skin tingled again. I like me as I am. But, did he really? Even he noticed how he was becoming more of a loner. Friends who had once visited tended not to because he was so immersed in his writing.
“If it’s so important, why are you so skeptical, Rob?” Tiny stings began to hit his arms.
Bloody midges. Why couldn’t he see the hives, so he knew where to use the Tiger Balm? Where were those bloody red lumps and bumps he associated with summer? Rob had long accepted he was one of the unlucky people whom midges honed in on with a “whoopee, supper!” shout.
Summer in his part of Scotland. It either rained, or you got eaten alive. Did excess rain addle your brain?
Argh, stupid sodding rhyming sentences again.
“Love your poetic bent.” He ignored the voice. Maybe that was the way to deal with it? Ignore it, and it would go away?
“Not hardly. But try if you want.”
His skin did more than itch. Rob fought a battle with himself not to scratch hard.
Bloody midges. I must either put the anti-midge stuff on, or shut the door at night. It was the downside of living where he did. Long summer evenings where you either smothered yourself in repellant and accepted kamikaze midges in your wine, or sat indoors and looked at the view from behind glass. At least indoors you didn’t get extra vitamins in the shape of drowned pests as you sipped.
That was all well and good, but what exactly was he to think about? Ignoring that annoying voice was the way to go.
Resolutely, he put his decision into practice and ignored that voice in his head. If he didn’t, he’d be signing into the local psychiatric hospital before long. He hadn’t got time for it. He wanted, no, had to finish what he was writing. Pandering to his imagination was only acceptable if it resulted in the next chapter of his book, nothing else. After all, if that bloody voice said he couldn’t rub one out, what was the point of having wet dreams? Writing or nothing.
So why was he staring at his laptop half an hour later, having added precisely seventy-eight words to his manuscript, seventy-three of which he was about to delete?
Suddenly, it became clear to him why he wasn’t happy with what he’d written.
He might be saying it was nonfiction, and by hell he’d researched everything thoroughly, but it was glaringly obvious he wasn’t convinced by a word he’d written. If he didn’t have faith, and enjoy those words, and believe in what he’d stated was truth, how could he expect anyone else to?
“See? You’ve closed your mind.”
So not good.
Rob gave up for the day. He’d go for a swim in the river and forget about wolves, fairies, witches, bloody midges, and things that may or may not go bump in the night and speak to you.
Mind made up, Rob pushed his chair back from his desk and went upstairs to his bedroom. He tugged his T-shirt over his head and turned to throw it in the dirty clothes basket. As he did, he passed a mirror and something caught his eye.
The Author's Challenge Page 1