Rescued & Ravished: An Alpha's Conquest (A Paranormal Ménage Romance)

by Sophie Chevalier

  “I’ll try.” She sighed.

  “Fine, Ginger. If you’re gonna be stubborn, then I’ll just have to sweeten the pot.” His fingers tightened on her jaw. “Catch a fish and I’ll eat you out.”

  His words shot like lightning down to her cunt. Her clit twitched greedily. “You’ll—eat me out?”

  “Sure, and I’ll eat that soft pussy like it’s never been eaten.” His eyes glowed; she believed him. “But first—bring me some trout. Go on, baby. Do it. All bears can fish, and you’re no exception. Get back in the ring.”

  She nodded, then turned to face the stream. Shifting into a bear, she lumbered out into the current, watching the water rush past. Settling herself in the middle of the course, she waited.

  The first two attempts were bust. Don’t use your claws, he said. She needed to stop trying to scoop up the trout—these weren’t hands, but big, blunt, clumsy claws. They had no thumbs, no grip. Use your mouth!

  The next fish got away, but she was starting to get a feel for how she should bite for them. The fish after that also wiggled past—but the fish after that—

  She caught it! There was a welter of water—a sun-dotted splash—and she yanked up her head, and—her mouth was full of flapping steelhead!

  “Yeah!” Hunter shouted from the bank. He pumped his fist, laughing. “That’s my girl! I told you you could do it!”

  She was so happy, she ran in a heavy, drenching circle in the middle of the stream—that only made Hunter laugh louder. When she clambered back up on the bank, she dropped the bloody, flopping fish on the ground, and shifted into a girl. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand; her tongue tingled with the taste and abrasion of raw, scaly fish.

  “I think you owe me something?”

  He rose a brow. “Now?”

  She arched a brow back. “I’m not gonna accept an IOU. I got us dinner.” She toed the fish. “Do the decent thing.”

  “I’m proud of you,” he said, surprisingly serious. She flushed. “I’ll go down on you, swear, and I’ll relish it. But wait until we’re back at the cave. It’ll be better.” He winked.

  “Okay. Fine,” she said slowly, charmed. “You said something about foraging the beach?”

  “For clams, yeah. But first”—he put a hand on her shoulder and turned her around—“get another fish.”

  ***

  They’d taken a long way back to their cave, Hunter showing her how to nose through the silt at low tide for razor clams. They had a deliciously salty, chalky crunch to them, with cold meaty centers—as a bear, she could eat them whole, and did.

  It was a cold purple evening, with clouds lowering over the islands across the strait. They gathered dry driftwood, and Hunter showed her how to build a fire in the cave—how to stack the wood, how to get it lit, how to blow on it just right. She watched and listened attentively, and asked him if she could skewer the fish on the roasting stick herself. He let her, and showed her how to position it.

  “Bet you’ve never had fish without butter or pepper or anything,” he said as the steelhead changed color from the heat. “It’s good. Kind of a pure taste.”

  She threaded her hands around her knees, which were drawn up against her chest. It was surprising how good and how natural it felt to be naked—with a man; My man?—in a beach cave on a remote, fir-forested island. It felt… right.

  But how could that be? Nothing about this was right. My life has totally changed. It’s in pieces. How can I feel right?

  “Tomorrow we’ll forage again,” Hunter was saying, “and fish. I want to make sure you get the hang of it, completely.”

  “Yeah,” she answered, a little vaguely. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.” She could feel him looking at her curiously. “You alright?”

  “Just… confused, I guess.” She glanced at him. “But thanks. Thanks for teaching me all of this.”

  He gazed at her; she saw the gold ring brighten. “You know you can trust me, Ginger. I won’t walk away from you.”

  “Do I know that?” she asked, frowning slightly. “I barely know anything about you, Hunter.”

  The surprise was obvious on his face. “About me?”

  She nodded. “Just that you’re a fisherman who spends his free time eating grass as a bear.”

  He laughed. “You make it sound so respectable.”

  “Seriously, though.” She wriggled closer to him insistently. “I want to know more.”

  His look sharpened, intensified. “Do you? Shit, Ginger, I guess I do keep that kind of stuff close.” He sighed. “What do you want to know?”

  “You’ll just tell me?”

  “Yeah.” He meant it, although there was a heaviness in his expression.

  She put a hand on his thigh, squeezed the hard, warm muscle. “I’m not trying to… force you, or—”

  “Ginger. It’s okay. Hell, I’m glad you want to know me better. I am. Maybe it means you’re softening on me.”

  She saw no point in lying. Not here, not now, not anymore. She’d never been this vulnerable, or at such a dramatic crossroads, and she needed him. Needed him and liked him, and they were alone together in the middle of the Gulf Islands’ wilderness.

  “I might be.” Her palm ran up his abs; she pressed the tip of her thumb, briefly, in the hard divot of his navel—and then she drew back. “Let’s start with basic stuff. How old are you, exactly?”

  He half-smiled. “Thirty.”

  “And where were you born?” The fish—and the fire—smelled good, sweet like sea charcoal.

  “Near Prince Rupert.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Northern BC.” He was looking over her face like he’d never get tired of it, like every feature was a priceless work of art. It intoxicated her.

  But she went on, refusing to be distracted. “So you’re Canadian. For real.”

  “Of course I’m Canadian for real. French Canadian. What did you think?”

  She shrugged. “You’ve got no accent. And you work on the sea, so… I don’t know. You could be from anywhere. I thought maybe you were American.”

  “Well, you’re right—seamen can be from anywhere. Sometimes I sail in American waters, but mostly I work above Queen Charlotte Sound and below the Alaskan Gulf.”

  “How’s that life?” He smelled good, too, even better than the fire.

  “It suits me.” He stroked the side of her face with his rough, thick fingers. She loved the faint scratch of them on her soft white skin. “Why? You wanna make a go of it yourself? I’d take another hand.”

  “You don’t want me as a hand, Hunter.”

  “No. I want you as my mate.”

  She had to flicker her eyes away. It was such a bold, naked statement of desire. Men had never spoken to her like this—so directly, so forcefully, so honestly—before she came to this place, met these people. Such undisguised longing still threw her… even though she loved it. Her chest had gotten hot. “Hunter…”

  “Where are you from, Ginger? Seattle?”

  “I was born in Boston.”

  He whistled. “Far from here.”

  “Farther than you know.” I never thought about bear shifters and seers and clanmeets when I was in Boston. Never. “What about your family, Hunter? I remember—what you said. About how they’re—gone. But I…”

  He brushed some hair behind her ear. “Let’s take a rain check on that, baby.”

  “Do you have anyone?” she persisted, loving the way his fingers traced the curve of her ear.

  “Not blood kin,” he said, slowly.

  “So you’re alone?”

  “All clans are family, so I’m not alone. I live near two packs, up by Kitimat. And I’ve got friends.”

  “Still. You must be lonely.”

  He hesitated. When he spoke, his voice had gotten quiet. “I guess I am.”

  “You think I could take that away?” she asked carefully.

/>   “I just want you close to me.” His hand slid around onto the back of her neck. “For a long time—or forever. That’s what I want and that’s all I think.”

  “Hunter…” It was a struggle to keep her eyes open: the pleasure of his touch, his nearness, his affection was so inebriating. “Where did you—”

  “You can ask me more questions,” he said huskily, “and I’ll answer them, I will. You deserve to know.” His hand gripped her neck tighter. “But what’s the point, Ginger? Do you really need to hear my address, or my boat number, or my license date? You know what kind of man I am.”

  “But how were you educated—growing up? Did you go to school with regular kids, or—what? Where did you live—with who? Where do you live now? What kind of home? What’s your life like?” she pressed. “I want to know. I want to understand you.”

  His eyes softened; she could see that he was touched. “You mean it, huh, Ginj?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “But you already understand me.” His hand slid across her shoulder, down onto her breastbone. “Our connection’s real, Ginger.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. The things she felt for him were undeniable, primal… genuine.

  “Hunter, I want… I want to…” I want to be in your arms.

  “What do you want, baby?”

  She squirmed over into his lap, and he accepted her, holding her close to his chest, one hand in her hair, one on the deep, soft curve of her waist. Her eyes closed, slowly, and she melted like butterscotch against him, against his hard, warm body. He hummed something lowly into her hair. The fish kept cooking.

  She’d never felt so good.

  The spitting and rustling of the fire half lulled her to sleep—but, at the last moment, she remembered something. Her treat.

  She spiderwalked a hand up his chest to get his attention. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.”

  The hand reached his mouth; she tapped his lips. “You promised me something.”

  “Don’t recall.”

  “Filthy liar.” She could feel her eyes brightening. “Eat me.”

  “Damn, girl, that’s bold. I like it.” His eyes brightened too, burning a hot, liquid gold. “But I need more convincing.”

  “Convincing.” She said the word dryly. “When you promised me.”

  “Indulge me, baby, come on.”

  She shifted so she was leaning on an elbow, then leaned close to kiss him. He growled into it, enjoying her mouth, her vanilla taste.

  It wasn’t long before their kisses grew hungrier, rawer, deeper. She bit his tongue and he made a sound of rough, primal pleasure.

  “Yeah, Ginger,” he hissed. “Use your teeth on me.”

  His hand roved from her hip up to her neck, and then into her hair, but she gripped his wrist and pulled it back down to her soft, flushed breast. He squeezed and she gasped.

  “Eat me, Hunter,” she whispered, her voice low and sweet. “Lick my pussy.”

  He exhaled, sharply. “I want nothing more, girl.”

  Gripping her middle—making her giggle—he rolled her onto her back so his full weight was on her. She loved the hot, muscular press of his body on hers: she couldn’t resist running her hands over his powerful shoulders, his strong arms, his cut, hair-shaded chest. Instinctively, surrenderingly, her thighs spread. He was an alpha male—rugged; built; pure man—and all she wanted to do was give him her body.

  He kissed her mouth, domineeringly—her body melted like hot pudding—and then her jawline and her neck. She felt him teething her throat, like an animal proving its authority—an animal holding back a kill bite—and her back arched.

  So good. So raw. Her arms went around his neck.

  But he slid away from her, kissing and nipping her collar bone, licking the skin between her breasts, sucking her peony-pink nipples to diamond hardness. Her hips raised desperately off the cave floor, working against him, but he was still a long way off from her wet, swollen pussy and he was taking his time.

  He kissed the soft, firm skin of her flat stomach, raising goose bumps—then lower: the curves of her hips, the tops of her thighs, a few inches underneath her belly button. Spreading her legs roughly, he was confronted with her sex, and his breath hitched; she bit her bottom lip. The sight of her pink, dewy lips, glistening with juices, made his eyes fill with golden hunger.

  One arm he wrapped around her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh for purchase; with the other hand, he ran his thumb over her flushed, swollen cunt. She hissed, arched her back, and angled her hips further toward him.

  “That’s right, Ginger,” he growled. “Offer yourself.”

  Reaching down, she parted her pussy lips with two fingers, revealing a deeper, clutching pink. His cock jerked; a bead of pre-come slid down from the head.

  He sucked on his middle finger, coating it in spit, and then pressed it slowly, carefully inside her. She groaned, tipping back her head; her pussy clenched tight as he pushed in to the knuckle.

  He started slow, easing it in and easing it out, but she growled and rocked her hips impatiently, so he pressed a second finger in—she sighed—and began pumping fast and rough. She liked that better, her breath shortening with each stroke.

  “More,” she whined after a minute, so he pushed a third finger in. The sound of pleasure that she made echoed wantonly in the sea cave.

  Rotating her hips, she pumped her pussy hard, then harder against his fingers. She didn’t want things gentle—she wanted them lusty, passionate, wild.

  Fingering her fast and rough, he crushed his calloused thumb against her pink, swollen clit. She cried out lewdly, then wriggled her hips wildly, dislodging his fingers.

  “Eat me,” she gasped, widening her legs. “Like you promised!”

  He pulled her thighs further apart and lowered his face to her cunt.

  She could see him inhale her scent. “Sweet, Ginj,” he rumbled. “Sweet like apples.”

  Once, twice, he kissed her lips—then he buried his face outright between her legs.

  She moaned, her mind seared blank by the pleasure of his mouth.

  His rough beard on her soft thighs was delicious; so was his hot, rough tongue working on her soaked, delicate folds. She knew he liked what he was doing—he was groaning against her pussy. She reached down to play with her clit as he pressed his tongue inside her and he bit, softly, at her labia—then he forced her fingers away and sucked her clit himself, with abandon.

  So good. So good. So good.

  He grabbed her waist and crushed her even nearer, her heels on his back spurring him on. She was moaning and thrusting her hips, forcing him to eat her out harder—his fingers were inside her, his teeth were on her clit—

  Her sizzling pussy clasped on his tongue—her clit pulsed, throbbing against his tongue—and she came. His hot, coarse style had been just what she needed, and the dam between her hips burst with a vengeance.

  “Come for me!” he rasped against her orgasming cunt. “Good girl! My Ginger!”

  His Ginger.

  Maybe I am.

  Chapter 32

  Her education continued. He kept her at digging and fishing until she could get her own food, and spent long hours teaching her all the bear-edible plants she should look for to eat. Skunk cabbage, sedge, sea milkwort, huckleberry and cranberry; sow thistle, and watercress, and, ironically, wild ginger.

  He also taught her how to defend herself, bear-style. “You’re a woman,” he said, “but you still need to know how to wrestle.” So he had them go through whole series of mock battles—first blowing and huffing, then charging, grappling, tussling, biting, and, finally, rolling together on the ground. She couldn’t beat him, obviously, but that wasn’t the point. He just wanted her to know how to fight.

  “You could take another woman, no problem,” he told her confidently. “You’re strong, Ginger. I can actually feel it when you close your jaws on me.”

 
“Sorry. I don’t mean to hurt—”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you’re strong.”

  He had her dig out squirrels and voles, but she always let them go from out under her big, flat paw once their dens were opened. It drove him insane—but he never forced her to eat them.

  One day he even made her climb a tree—a big, thick hemlock. “Grizzly bears don’t climb,” she’d tried to protest, but he’d waved that off as a myth.

  “I don’t climb. I’m too big. But kids and women can climb when it suits them, so get up there.”

  The view of the straight from that height was lovely, she had to admit. The water looked like a big purple plate in the dusky light.

  He showed her how to dig a den, how to navigate the woods at night—it was easy, it turned out, since her bear-eyes had a tapetum lucidum like a cat’s and she could see in the dark—and how to find and raid raptors’ nests, although, again, she refused to eat the eggs.

  They coupled all the time. Sometimes during the day, deep in the woods in the ferns, but mostly at night. Every night.

  Her needs were stronger, her appetites fiercer than they’d ever been—and her orgasms were deeper, too, more primal. There was no way she could deny her hunger for him, and so whenever the longing to be mated came over her she’d throw herself down on all fours and let him take her. His shaft sunk deep in her silky, needy pussy was feral bliss. She’d never had better sex in her life.

  Just like he’d warned, they were fucking. Often.

  And she loved it.

  It was always human sex; she had no interest in bear mating, and he told her that was normal and neither did he. She was glad to hear that.

  At night, after a session of animal passion, she’d curl up close to him with her arm around his neck and listen to him tell her those things that he couldn’t show her.

  “We’ve got a hierarchy. It’s mostly the same as wild bears’, but not completely.” The fire would be burning, flickering orange light over them and crackling. “Powerful men and elders are most dominant—usually—then powerful women and women with children. Single women who’ve never whelped and have no clout, teenagers, and little kids come last.”