by Opal Carew
Which meant that the shifter residents weren’t being careful enough. And that the two remaining sisters needed to agree not to spill the beans.
A job for Tom, the Alpha had said. Tom wasn’t so sure. He might be a lawyer, but he wasn’t necessarily a smooth talker. He did his best work on a computer, in an office. He wasn’t the kind of attorney who schmoozed clients over three martini lunches.
But Big John had asked him to try, so there he was, approaching the bakery he had never stepped foot in before. It wasn’t that he was shy. It was more that he hadn’t really wanted to interact with the new humans in town, until the experiment had been proven a success. The bakery was the first of many applications Tom had received from business people who wanted to open stores in their town.
The decision had been made to allow the bakery—and the three sisters—as a trial run. Their food was excellent, from all accounts, and most of the shifters in town liked the women, and were glad one of their comrades had found a mate.
Humans made decent mates and bears couldn’t be picky. There weren’t a lot of bear shifters in the first place, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to find mates outside their species. A lot of bear shifters took human mates.
It didn’t diminish the magic. Bears had more than most shifters, and Tom often thought, that’s why they were kind of rare. But what did he know? Only the Mother of All—the Goddess who watched over all shifters—knew for certain.
The bell over the door tinkled as Tom pushed into the bakery. Immediately, he was surrounded by the most scrumptious scents of baking bread, honey, and some kind of cheese. He took stock of the place and realized he was the only customer this early in the day. Only one of the sisters was there, working in the back.
That would be the middle sister, he’d been told. She worked the morning shift and her name was Ashley Baker. The irony of the Baker sisters owning a bakery had struck Tom as suspicious when he’d first seen their application, but he’d done thorough background checks on all three women and they really were named Baker, and had been since their birth.
The blonde woman came out from behind one of the ovens, wiping her hands on her apron as she greeted him. She took up her position behind the counter with a brisk sort of efficiency and Tom was struck momentarily dumb when she smiled.
“Good morning,” she said brightly. “What can I get for you?”
Sonuva… Tom’s bear sat up and wanted to roar. It liked the woman.
Hell, it more than liked her. It was thinking mate.
No. Way.
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To read more, get your copy of Mating Dance by Bianca D’Arc.
About Bianca D’Arc
Bianca D’Arc has run a laboratory, climbed the corporate ladder in the shark-infested streets of lower Manhattan, studied and taught martial arts, and earned the right to put a whole bunch of letters after her name, but she’s always enjoyed writing more than any of her other pursuits. She grew up and still lives on Long Island, where she keeps busy with an extensive garden, several aquariums full of very demanding fish, and writing her favorite genres of paranormal, fantasy and sci-fi romance.
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Bianca loves to hear from readers and can be reached through Twitter (@BiancaDArc), Facebook (BiancaDArcAuthor) or through the various links on her website.
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Welcome to The D’Arc Side…
WWW.BIANCADARC.COM
Naughty Wishes
Sarah Castille
Naughty Wishes
Sarah Castille
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Copyright © 2017 by Sarah Castille
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www.sarahcastille.com
Naughty Wishes
I pull my pink satin bathrobe snugly around me and knot the belt tight. So much for another birthday. Except for a card from my youngest son, Justin, and a kiss from my oldest, Peter, the day has been largely uneventful. And that’s the way I like it. Nothing can stop the slow creep of age, so why the big reminder?
Still, it would have been nice if Dan had at least remembered my birthday. Although why should this year be different from any other?
“You coming to bed, babe?” Dan calls out. “Don’t forget to turn off the lights. And make sure that faucet isn’t dripping again.”
I look up into the mirror and catch a glimpse of Dan climbing into bed. He’s wearing the skull print PJ bottoms I bought him for Christmas and the AC/DC T-shirt from the last concert we saw together, just before Peter was born. Except for a slight greying of his hair, and slightly less definition in his broad, muscular chest, he looks just as handsome as he did when he swept me off my feet at the bar where I was celebrating my twentieth birthday.
Me on the other hand . . . same shoulder length auburn hair, same green eyes, but my curves are more curvy, and I’ve added an extra plus to my usual plus size.
I check the tap, turn out the light, then join Dan in bed, carefully leaving a pillow-size space between us. I always leave my robe on until Dan has turned out the bedside light. After fifteen years of marriage, we seldom touch anymore. We sleep on opposite sides of the bed. Rarely have sex. And only hold hands at church on Sunday.
“Goodnight.” I fiddle with the belt on my robe, waiting for Dan to roll onto his side and plunge the room into blissful darkness.
“I have a birthday present for you,” he says. “It’s under your pillow.”
“You remembered my birthday?” I rip the pillow away and snatch up the pink envelope beneath, making no effort to hide my excitement. I can’t remember the last time Dan bought me a birthday present, and I stopped reminding him five years ago because it hurt more to see the guilt on his face than it did to just pretend it was any other day.
“I always remember, Kylie. I just . . . never know what to do anymore. I don’t know what you like.”
“You’ve lived with me for fifteen years.” I tear open the pretty pink envelope—was it chance or did he remember my favorite color? “How can you not know what I like?”
“You’ve changed,” he says. “I’ve changed. We’re like strangers sharing a bed.”
His words send a chill through my veins and I freeze mid-tear. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying open the envelope.”
With much less enthusiasm I pull out the card and stare at the gold “Happy Birthday” written in script across the front. No age, although I suspect they don’t make cards for thirty-five year olds. No “wife” or “lover” or even “friend” below. No pictures of flowers or balloons. As far as cards go, it is about as generic as they get.
“Thank you.” I muster a smile and fall back on the good manners my mother taught me when I was young and naïve and full of dreams about love lasting a lifetime.
“Open it.”
“Maybe I’ll save some of the fun for tomorrow.” I place the card carefully on my lap. If he’s just scrawled his name inside, I might burst out crying and Dan has never handled strong emotion very well.
“Please,” he says. “Just look inside.”
Dan isn’t the begging type. Or the asking type. At least he wasn’t when we first met. He was dominant, possessive, the epitome of an alpha male. And he totally rocked my world. Now, he’s a good provider, a good father, but as emotionally closed off as he used to be open. As a result, his plea moves me to reconsider.
“Okay.” I open the card, and plaster a smile on face that should see me through whatever I find inside. “It was very thoughtful . . .” My words trail off as I read the coupon taped inside the card.
THIS LOVE COUPON ENTITLES THE BEARER TO ONE MÉNAGE
My heat stutters in my chest and my stomach sinks. Would he be this cruel? Who would want to have a ménage with me? “Is this a joke?”
“No joke,” he says. “Although it’s just for one night.”
“Does this say . . . ménage? As in ménage a trois? As in three people in a bed? Together?”
Dan shifts in the bed, turning toward me. “You said you wante
d to spice things up in the bedroom.”
“By ‘spice things up’, I meant actually having sex, or taking off our clothes with the lights on, or kissing before bed,” I say. “I wasn’t really thinking of inviting someone else to join us.”
“Things haven’t been good between us for a long time.” He rubs his palms over the blanket covering his thighs, a tell tale sign that he’s agitated. Although right now, he’s got nothing on me.
“I couldn’t possibly let a stranger see me naked.” I close the birthday card and try to tuck it back into the destroyed envelope. Maybe he had too many drinks after work. Maybe one of the other attorneys in his office put him up to this.
“Not a stranger.” He takes the card from my hand and carefully removes the coupon. “Aidan Steadman.”
“Aidan Steadman?” My voice rises to a shriek, and not just because I know Aidan, but because he is about the hottest thing to hit our town in forever, and the least likely person I could ever imagine with a thirty-five year old, married mother of two like me. “The kids’ new dentist? He’s coming to our house to have a ménage? Are you crazy?” I put my hand on Dan’s forehead. “You are a little warm. Maybe you have a fever. Peter had that terrible cold last week . . .”
“I’m not crazy.” He opens the card and pulls out the coupon. “I’ve already talked to him about it and he’s really excited.”
“I’ll bet he is,” I mutter. “How old is he? Twenty-five? Thirty? And he has nothing better to do with his time than hang out in bed with us?”
“Kylie.” His voice takes on an admonishing tone. “Don’t be so negative.”
“And just how did that conversation go?” I take a stab at mocking Dan’s deep voice. “Hey Aidan. Thanks for doing that emergency filling for Peter. And hey, do you want to come over on Saturday for dinner and a ménage with my wife?”
“No dinner,” Dan says. “He’s got plans.”
“Plans for another ménage? He’s a dentist, Dan. Dentists aren’t kinky.”
Dan’s lips quiver in a smile. “Apparently he is. That’s why he got divorced back in Ohio. His wife wasn’t into that stuff.”
“And we are?” I push myself off the bed, and tighten the belt on my robe. “Come on, Dan. What’s gotten into you? Last year, when I wanted to buy a vibrator, you told me they were unnatural. You can’t deal with toys in bed, but you can deal with another man?”
“Aidan.” He follows me across the bed and sits on the edge, his gaze on me.
“Aidan,” I repeat. “The ménage king of our lovely Tolmie, Indiana.”
“He likes you, babe.” Dan tugs on my belt and draws me over to him. “He thinks you have nice teeth.”
“Well thank God for that. It might ruin the mood if I had cavities.” I pull to a stop between his spread legs and a thrill of arousal shoots through me. Before our sex life succumbed to the rigors of babies, work and exhaustion, Dan always had to be in control in the bedroom. I hadn’t slept with many men before him, but his dominance aroused me, and although our play never went beyond soft restraints and the occasional slap on the bottom, he opened me up to possibilities I would have been more than happy to pursue if I hadn’t gotten pregnant so damn fast and he shut it all down.
Over the years, the play times became fewer and sex became mechanical, with the sole purpose of getting us both off as quickly as possible so we didn’t lose any precious sleep. By the time the boys hit their teens, we had drifted apart so far, I figured there was no going back. And why rock the boat? We were comfortable together. Wasn’t that all that mattered?
“Kylie.” He tugs on my belt and my robe falls open to reveal the cheap satin nightgown that does little to hide the evidence of my post-baby spread. “I feel like I’m losing you and I don’t know what else to do. I picked up one of your romance books last month and saw the three people on the cover . . . we talked about having someone else join us when we first got together . . . you said it was one of your fantasies . . . I figured if you were still interested enough to read about it . . .
“It’s not real.” I snatch the ends of my belt from his hands and tie my robe tight. Fifteen years ago, I loved my curves, but now I wonder if my curves have driven Dan away. Maybe he doesn’t find me attractive anymore and he needs to go to this kind of extreme to get off.
“Neither are we.”
“It was a nice thought,” I say. “But it’s just not going to happen. I know you—”
“Tomorrow night.” His low, commanding tone startles me and I shiver, remembering the days when I thought I could come just from the sound of his voice. “The boys are having a Saturday sleepover at the Richardson’s house. Aidan will be here at eight. Make sure you have something nice to wear.” His lips quiver at the corners. “Or not.”
My mouth drops open in a most unbecoming way. Who is this man and where did he dredge up the sex god he used to be fifteen years ago?
“What if I say no?”
He rounds the bed and flips back the covers, then settles back on his pillow as if it were any other night and not the night he gave me a ménage for my birthday. “What if you say yes?”
The next day on my drive to work, I try to convince myself that last night’s conversation with Dan was a dream, that he didn’t give me a ménage coupon for my birthday, that Saturday night is going to be like every Saturday night for the last few years where we order pizza, watch a movie with the kids, and are in bed with the lights off by ten.
My self-delusion works until I am seated at my desk, trying to concentrate on a new contract for the hospital workers’ union, and Mimi, the irritatingly cheerful hospital admin secretary, pops her head in the door.
“Morning, Kylie. Your husband called. He said he sent you a text this morning from the airport changing your Saturday meeting to seven p.m, but you didn’t respond. He needs confirmation by noon.”
“I’ll text him, thanks.”
“Also, the state health inspectors called to confirm that they’ll be here on Monday.” Mimi brushes back her sleek, red bob with her perfectly manicured nails. “Will you need me to work over the weekend? I’m looking for overtime hours so if you need someone to help make sure everything is in shape for their visit . . . or did you and Dan have plans?”
Just a little ménage-a-trois with the kids’ dentist. Or not, since I now have an easy way out of a difficult situation.
I force myself to smile, although I suspect the effect is more of a grimace. “Actually, I was just thinking I should be here on the weekend to run a final check on the hospital systems and operations and I could definitely use the help.”
“Great!” Her face brightens and she tugs down her tight, red dress as she leaves my office. Slim and pretty, with bright green eyes, a perfect figure, and a way too cheerful disposition, Mimi is highly sought after by the male doctors and staff at the hospital. If Aidan Steadman is looking for something to do with his Saturday night, he would be better off posting his picture on Tinder and hooking up with someone like Mimi, who spends more time flipping through pictures of eligible men on her phone than she does actual work.
Now that I’ve made a decision about Saturday, I pull out my phone. Dan left early this morning for a business meeting in Denver and won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon, which I’m sure factored into his surprise attack plan. But now that I’ve got a way out, his absence works to my benefit because I can put an end to the whole crazy idea by text without having to deal with a face-to-face confrontation.
State inspection on Mon. Have to cancel Sat night
Irritatingly, Dan answers right away. Like he had his phone in his hand and was just waiting for me to text him.
U said you were ready for that inspection last week
Just want to double check
U said you were double-checking this week
Can’t be too careful.
You’re afraid
Things aren’t so bad. Why shake them up? Let’s just do pizza & movie when I get home
Let
’s do something different
Chinese food and board games? Visit my mom?
He’s bringing toys
What kind of toys?
Seven o’clock tomorrow night. Come and find out
I manage to get through the rest of the day without typing “ménage”, or “kinky dentists” into the search engine of my hospital computer. After work, I pick up the boys for hockey practice.
“I’m starving,” Peter says as he climbs into the vehicle. Despite Dan’s protests, we had to buy a mini van to fit all the hockey equipment and the vast quantity of food needed to sustain two teenage boys on hockey road trips. “You didn’t give me anything for lunch.”
“Cooler is in the back.” I glance up at him in the rearview mirror. Our oldest boy is a spitting image of Dan, from the thick brown hair, to the dark eyes, and from his height—already six feet tall—to his athletic build. “And I gave you three sandwiches for lunch, a thermos full of soup, four pieces of fruit, two bags of carrots and a bag of chips.”
“I ate it for my morning snack,” he says reaching for the cooler. “Then I had to borrow money from Justin to buy something for lunch.”
“I ate my lunch for lunch.” Justin, who inherited my light brown hair and hazel eyes, beams at me in the mirror while at the same time punching his brother in the ribs to divest him of the cooler. “But it wasn’t enough. Maybe we should stop for a pizza.”
“I’ll give you money for pizza at the Richardson’s tomorrow night,” I tell him. “And don’t hit your brother.”
“What are you going to do without us?” At thirteen, Justin is caught between wanting to go out with Peter, and still enjoying spending time at home with Dan and me.