When A Lioness Growls (A Lion's Pride Book 7)

by Eve Langlais

  “If you’re a god, then prove it. Shift instead of wearing a dead fur hat.”

  “I don’t have to prove anything.”

  At that, she let out a disdainful snort. “Because you can’t. You’re wasting my time.”

  She went to move around him, but Maurice blocked her. She thought about shoving him flat onto his ass. It wouldn’t take much effort.

  “I command you to go into the temple and drink the sacred wine. All will become clear once you do.”

  Want to bet he’d laced it? “I am not drinking your wine.”

  “You’re being stubborn.”

  “It’s called being a woman. Which maybe you’d know if you didn’t have to drug all your dates to get some action.”

  “I didn’t drug all of them. Most came with me quite willingly.”

  “And returned remembering nothing. Why is that? Afraid they’d talk about your teeny tiny weenie?” Her pointed stare at his loincloth might have shrunk it further.

  “I am a great lover. And if it wasn’t for the project—”

  She interrupted. “What project?” Exactly what had she missed during her impromptu nap?

  “The one my sister started. The project to sell scents and shifter stem cells, and even ovum, to the black market.”

  “There’s a market for my eggs?” She stared down at her stomach with a frown. “So that’s what’s been going on? Dude, you are so dead. Stealing eggs and stuff without permission is not cool. My king is going to rip you a new one.” Right after Stacey slapped him around for a little while for being an asshat.

  “Your king won’t find me. Not without a scent.” Maurice pulled a vial from his loincloth—just more proof he didn’t hide any major junk under it—and spritzed himself. He went from obnoxious-smelling lion to…

  “Nothing. Holy poop on a cracker.” Stacey might have said more, but an explosion rocked the world hard enough to vibrate the ground underfoot. A faint smell of smoke came from the tunnel, but of more interest was the primal cry of rage that followed.

  Want to bet someone just discovered her missing? And boy did he sound upset.

  It brought a smile to her lips. “You’re in so much trouble now.” And then, it didn’t take much effort, none at all given she could just imagine all the hairy things crawling all around her, to let out a shriek to end all shrieks.

  “Stop that!” Maurice yelled. He lunged at her, but she danced out of reach.

  She could have taken care of him. Easily too. But she had a feeling someone might need a little stress relief.

  Maurice dove at her again, this time aiming a needle—one thing more pulled from his tiny loincloth.

  “Mickey me once, shame on me, mickey me again, and my boyfriend will tear your head off,” she sang.

  The stupid human, who styled himself as something more, paused as a shadow covered him.

  Alighting with a grace that belied his monstrous appearance, Francois joined the party, his big bat appearance now more on par with a gargoyle. The horns curling from his forehead were a nice touch. As for the smoke coming from his nostrils?

  Epic.

  “About time you saved me.” Stacey crossed her arms and tossed her hair.

  Francois, a cross between a gargoyle and a demon at this point, grunted.

  Maurice, on the other hand, squeaked like a mouse and ran.

  Never run in front of a predator.

  Ever.

  Might as well put a sign on that said, “Eat me.”

  Maurice disappeared into the tunnel, his hairy hat bobbing; whereas, Francois took to the sky.

  Tapping her foot, Stacey waited. It didn’t take long to hear the scream.

  A scream cut short.

  Moments later, the big-winged beast landed in front of her, smoke puffing from his nostrils, his eyes red.

  “Took you long enough.”

  A growl rolled out of him as he reached for her with big hands, the fingers tipped in claws. Yet he was gentle with her, drawing her close and sniffing her. The smoky aroma of his musk surrounded her, and his leather skin had an unexpected softness. He nuzzled her hair before pressing his mouth against her neck.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. “Isn’t this nice? You and me, alone in the jungle.”

  He snorted, a sound that turned into a laugh as he transformed. “You almost get killed and you call it romantic?”

  “Please. I could have handled Maurice. But, given I am a princess, it was only right that my hero come to my rescue.”

  “I’m no hero.”

  “And yet you’re here. Does that mean you don’t want the hero kiss?”

  “Shouldn’t we instead be calling for help? In case you didn’t notice, we broke up a criminal ring running out of the volcano that was using your resort as a store to harvest shifter genes.”

  “It’s been happening for months, and by the sound and smell of it, you handled it. So what’s another fifteen minutes going to do?”

  “Fifteen?”

  “You’re right.” She cupped his face to draw it down. “The way I’m feeling right now, I’ll only need ten, maybe even only five minutes to come.”

  “You can’t order me around, princess.” That was what he said, and yet he still fisted her hair. The sharp tug made her breath catch.

  “Would you prefer me to beg?”

  His free arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her buttocks back, nestling into the hollow of his groin. The hardness of his cock pressed. “I think you need to stop talking.”

  “Or else what?”

  His fingers found the flap in her suit, the one for her tail, which, if tugged just right, opened up the entire crotch area.

  “You wouldn’t want to distract me from what I plan to do.” He slid his fingers into her, and she sucked in sharply at the rapidness of his penetration.

  “And what do you want to do?” she asked, her query rather breathy.

  “You,” he whispered before grasping her earlobe in his teeth.

  She moaned and sagged in his grip. “There’s a bed in yonder hut,” she suggested.

  “Too far,” he growled against her skin. “Put your hands on the wall.”

  By wall he meant the rock, and she palmed it, the sharp edges biting but not enough to cool her ardor as he slid his fingers back and forth against her. Feeling her slickness. Using it to rub her clit.

  “Yes,” she hissed.

  “How is it I want you again?”

  How indeed? Did it even matter?

  The tip of his cock suddenly pressed at her slit, taking the place of his fingers, thick and ready to penetrate.

  He angled her farther back, presenting her ass, so that he could sheath himself.

  Oooh.

  Yes.

  Deeper.

  She must have spoken aloud because he murmured, “As deep as you need.” And he gave her more, the first thrusts penetrating her and hitting a sweet spot inside, the bumping friction triggering something inside her. Something powerful and all consuming.

  She screamed when she came. Screamed and clawed at the stone as he kept thrusting over and over, filling her up. Stretching her.

  Until he came too. The heat of his cream branding her, the touch of his mouth on her neck marking her. Her skin piercing easily at the pressure of his teeth.

  Their bodies joined.

  Their hearts raced as one.

  A sweet and sensual moment that could have been so much more if some cock blockers had better timing.

  “I told you that biatch was fine. And hot damn, who’s the hunk giving her the meat?”

  Stacey growled, “Mine.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It had been two weeks since JF had fled the jungle.

  Two long fucking weeks since he’d last touched or seen Stacey.

  An eternity.

  It wasn’t as if he didn’t know where she was. She’d returned from the island two days ago, having chosen to remain with the rest of her crew—who suddenly decided they needed to wor
k on their tans, or so they claimed during the chaos that followed—as they sifted the remains of the camp. Yes, he’d kept fucking tabs on the case. Not that there was much left to discover. The fire from the helicopter had spread and destroyed most of the evidence. With Jan gone, the main link to the smuggling and other products, one could only hope they’d eradicated the threat. And now at least the shifters were forewarned and could keep a watchful eye.

  Things could return to normal.

  JF had fled before all that, though. Run back home with his wings tucked. He couldn’t stay, and it wasn’t as if she needed him anymore.

  I do. He starved without her near. Not just because he craved her blood; it went deeper than that. His soul, his very essence, mourned her absence.

  He’d surely get over it. A little distance was all he needed. He managed to get away from her, and yet not one second went by that she didn’t fill his thoughts. That he didn’t crave her. It put him in a rather permanently shitty mood, shittier even than usual.

  His boss remarked on it from their control booth overlooking the club, a club they’d had to relocate after a fire had destroyed the last one.

  “You know, most people come back from a tropical paradise with a tan and a smile.”

  “I hate the sun.” Hated even more the fact that the world around him had lost all color. His life had returned to normal—dull, gray, and meaningless. The last time it happened, a woman had betrayed him. Left him for dead.

  This time…I’m the reason for my own misery. He’d left. Not Stacey.

  When those crazy lionesses had barged in on him and Stacey in the jungle, joking and eyeing him, some even taking pictures, he’d eyed the chaos that surrounded them with horror.

  What had he been thinking? Not only had he drunk from Stacey, slaked his thirst like a man in a desert, he’d allowed himself to become attached to her.

  Attached to a woman who would bring noise and more felines into his life.

  Was he insane?

  In that moment of clarity, he’d slipped away. With the pride on site, ready to take over the scene of the crime, and surround Stacey, he was no longer needed.

  So he fled. Fled and hid like a fucking coward from the one woman who made him feel truly alive. A woman who wanted to shake up his sterile world.

  It was for the best, and maybe eventually he’d believe it.

  “By the way, I will need you on the floor tonight,” Gaston remarked. “Reba’s throwing a bachelorette party for one of her friends.”

  “Which means cats.” He made a face.

  “I prefer to think of them as our friends and allies.”

  “Why couldn’t you be like other rich dudes and get a dog?” JF grumbled as he exited the office. For a moment, he stood at the top of the stairs, staring over at the sea of heads.

  Busy night tonight. Then again, every night rocked and rolled. Ever since Reba had started dating Gaston, the entire cryptid community now seemed to think the club was their spot for partying.

  The hard techno beat pulsing from the speakers washed over him, making it impossible to hear. But then again, he didn’t need to hear. He could feel. Awareness prickled his skin.

  She’s near. A connection he wanted to deny existed between them.

  His gaze scanned the room, but so much movement and color proved distracting, not enough, though, to prevent him from locating her.

  Standing poised at the top of the stairs, he stared. Stacey looked as ravishing as ever. She made her way through the crowd of patrons, dressed in peacock colors, the dress a bright turquoise trimmed with gold, blues, and green. Her fiery hair was swept upwards and bound with a ribbon, revealing her lithe neck—a fucking tease to someone like him. Coming out of the top of the bun, peacock feathers that bounced.

  I wouldn’t mind seeing her bounce atop me. Lust grabbed him, fast and furious.

  The tight bustier that cinched in at the waist flared over the hips, and peeking from beneath that, a tiny tutu skirt. At the back trailed a scarf of striated peacock colors.

  Only Stacey had the type of confidence to wear such a thing and look delectable.

  In one hand, she held a tray upon which sat glasses, several of them in various pastel shades. There were also a few fluted glasses holding red wine. Her other hand balanced another tray with smaller shot glasses filled with clear liquid. The sliced lemons gave away the tequila part.

  Lots of booze. She planned to get wild.

  I don’t care. Let her get wasted.

  And yet he kept peeking over at the room she’d disappeared into. The room Gaston would have a stashed a private party in.

  He was supposed to keep an eye. The boss said so.

  Don’t go in there.

  Was he afraid he couldn’t control himself?

  Yes.

  Two weeks had done nothing to curb his hunger; rather it had honed the craving. Made it burn inside.

  The beast within hungered.

  Before JF knew it, he stood outside the room. He could hear the raucous laughter of women, lots of women, but only one with the clear silver-bell laughter.

  He couldn’t stop himself from glancing through the large arch, pushing past the gauzy curtains shielding the room from casual observance.

  There lacked the bright flashing lights of the club proper, the lighting in here much dimmer and soft. Couches lined the walls, occupied by women, most of them golden-haired. Some sat on them, others perched on the backs. Their styles ranged from casual grunge to designer boutique with heels.

  The highest heels belonged to Stacey. And they were sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. As for their owner? She and several others had discovered the fabric hanging from the ceiling. They wound themselves in it that they might do an aerial dance, coiling and uncoiling within the length of the fabric, rolling upwards and then dropping down, looking as if she would fall.

  He reached forward, only to snatch his hand back.

  Don’t go in.

  He should leave. But he couldn’t. Her gaze caught his. Something electric sizzled between them.

  He could almost hear her whisper.

  There you are.

  Something pulled at him. He took a step inside before realizing he was losing control again.

  He had to be stronger.

  Unable to stay here, close enough that she muddled his thoughts, he turned away and pushed through the crowd in the main room, heading for the front doors where he could let some fresh air fill his lungs. It would do him some good to clear his head.

  As he exited, more patrons poured in, a gang of guys dressed to the nines in suits and dress shirts and smelling very panther-ish. Damned cats, multiplying everywhere.

  One of them, a tall fellow with slicked-back hair, stopped him. “I’m here for a bachelorette party.”

  “Inside, back room,” JF declared. He tried not to care that these men would be joining the ladies.

  I thought bachelorette parties were supposed to be guy-free.

  Except for the strippers.

  He straightened from his slouch against the wall. A man getting naked and shaking it in front of Stacey?

  He didn’t care.

  So why was he going back inside?

  And why were there people screaming?

  “Gun!”

  Bang. Bang.

  He heard the gunfire and went shoving back in, the flow of people escaping impeding his path.

  “Get out of my way.” He parted the sea of bodies, his heavy stomp separating the flow that he might cross the club.

  By the time he got to the back room, where of course trouble just had to occur, there were only a few women left, felines handcuffed to the stripper poles in each corner that Gaston had installed when he relocated the club.

  “What the fuck happened?” he asked, his gaze darting from face to face. All shocked. None harmed. And one missing.

  “It’s Stacey’s ex,” exclaimed Reba. “He just showed up with his crew and threatened us with guns.”
>
  “And managed to capture you all?” Seemed rather unlikely.

  “Your security sucks,” Luna declared.

  “Don’t get pissy at me because they got the drop on you,” he growled. “Where’s Stacey?” Because he didn’t see her bright red hair anywhere.

  “He took her!”

  “Threatened us all with a gun if she didn’t go with him.”

  “I think he might want to hurt her,” another woman added.

  What?

  He might have roared the word; he wasn’t too sure. He kind of lost his mind as he tore to the nearest exit door, following the scent of the panthers. Smashing into the alleyway, he noted the distant blink of red taillights. And a single feather on the ground.

  The monster broke free.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sliding glass door shattered as he slammed through it.

  Stacey smiled. “About time you showed up.” What she didn’t tell him was how relieved she was he’d come. When she’d hatched the plan with her biatches, she wasn’t too sure Francois would act. After all, the man had fled paradise without saying goodbye.

  She’d given him space. Long enough for him to recognize the error of his ways.

  He surveyed the scene and frowned. “Why is your ex-boyfriend passed out on the floor?”

  “I might have conked him on the head.” Stupid moron actually thought he and his crew had gotten the drop on her biatches. It was almost comical the way they’d had to restrain themselves when he burst into the party room waving his puny gun.

  “So, in other words, you didn’t need rescuing?”

  “Nope.” She shook her head. “But you do.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not the one constantly in trouble.”

  “Exactly. You’re mister play it safe and don’t take risks.” He’d run rather than see what happened next with Stacey.

  “I take plenty of risks, or did you not hear about what happened at the volcano?”

  “Would you like a medal? You know how to fight. Whoopee-de-doo. So do I and all my biatches. What about taking a risk on having a relationship with me?”

  “Is that what this is about? You want me to be your boyfriend?” He crossed his arms over his impressive chest. “That’s sad.”