Crookshollow foxes box set: The complete fox shapeshifter romance series

by Steffanie Holmes

  I sighed with pleasure as he pulled back and slammed into me again, his length filling me completely. From this angle, his strokes caressed me in a new way, bringing my depths to life. I pushed back with my hips, meeting his thrusts with my own momentum, slamming his full length deep within me. His fingers dug into my hips as he pumped away, his muscles tightening as he rode me with all his might. I gripped the edge of the seat, bucking against Ryan’s thrusts, creating that tension that made us both hiss and moan with pleasure.

  With one hand holding my hip firmly in place, Ryan reached around and touched his fingers to my clit, swirling again over that engorged spot and driving me close to the edge once more. He leaned against me; sweat rolling down off his shoulders and falling against me, the salty smell of it mingling with his woody scent, driving me wild with desire.

  His fingers worked me expertly, and the pressure built up within me once more, like a pot ready to boil over. The threads danced around my body, making my skin shiver with delight every time they touched me. The white lights whirled in front of my eyes, growing together as my body tensed and the orgasm neared. Soon I was blinded, seeing only an ocean of ethereal white.

  And then, my body exploded with ecstasy. The threads coiled around me, holding me in place with their shimmering magic as wave after wave of pleasure rocked my body. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out, the power of the magic had taken my breath away.

  I heard a bellow, in the distance, and felt Ryan’s cock inside me stiffen. With a final, heaving thrust, he pumped his seed deep within me, his stiff cock pushing right up inside of me, filling me like no one else had before.

  After a few moments, the white lights dimmed once more, and the room came in to a hazy focus. It was then and only then, that I noticed something strange. Something amazing.

  Around us, the world swirled. The threads reached out further, crossing the expanse of the room and piercing the surface of Ryan’s paintings. Shapes bubbled up from within the canvases as the threads burrowed deep. For a moment I froze with panic, thinking something was happening to his paintings – some chemical in the air bubbling the paint, destroying the most beautiful artworks I’d ever seen. Ryan collapsed against me, pinning me to the seat as the warmth of his body enveloped me.

  “What’s happening?” I cried out, pointing at the wall. The weeping houses appeared to be melting, their bright blue tears dribbling off the edge of the canvas and running down the wall. The cobbled street wobbled and contorted, creating a new, winding path across the polished floor. The shapes grew larger, moving outside of the frames. Branches curled out from the walls, vines circled the pillars holding the ceiling, stretching across the steel beams in the roof, creating a lush, green canopy above.

  Roots curled across the floor, groaning as they stretched out toward me, circling the plinth where we would clip tickets and check bags. Leaves covered the white desk, forming a cascading waterfall of green. All around us, birds twittered. I saw butterflies moving between patches of wildflowers. And in the corners, shadows dwelt – the dark edges of Ryan’s psyche. They did not detract from the beauty of the place at all, but strangely, only seemed to enhance it.

  “Is this a dream?” I breathed, reaching out to touch a flower that poked its head over the edge of the leather seat. Its petals felt like soft satin beneath my fingers, delicate and translucent, as if they might fade to dust in an instant.

  “No.” Ryan kissed me. “It’s not a dream. This is you and me. This is what we create together.”

  “Ryan, are we … last time we … we didn’t use anything–”

  He rolled off me, leaning on his side and pulling me into his embrace, so that my back was cradled against his hard, strong chest. He wrapped his arms around me, his hands caressing my breasts. “No, we didn’t use any protection. Is that OK? We’re mates, Alex. I assume you know what that means.”

  At the time, I hadn’t even thought about it. But now it was nagging in my mind. I was always beyond careful. I’d never been so caught up in the moment that I’d forgotten birth control. Never. What if I became pregnant? That was huge. Life-changing. Yet it didn’t scare me like I thought it would. Was there a reason why I was suddenly so lax about these things? Was it because I was so overcome with this incredible, tangible magic that was created every time we had sex? Or was it simply because … on a subconscious level, I wanted to have Ryan’s child?

  I snuggled closer, resting my head in the crook of his elbow. “No. It doesn’t scare me.” I whispered.

  “Good.” He kissed a line across my neck, his hands working their way under my blouse.

  “What are you doing?” My nipples were already growing hard again under his touch.

  “Let’s just say that this kind of magic can do remarkable things to a man,” he murmured, kissing a line down the nape of my neck. Around us, a field of bright flowers blossomed into full bloom. I rolled over kissed him, wrapping my arms around his powerful shoulders. No sense in wasting some perfectly good magic.

  6

  The exhibition opened to the public on Friday, but the opening event for art critics, literati and press would be on Wednesday evening. During the day I was so busy with prep that I barely had a chance to breathe, although Ryan always managed to steal a kiss or slip his hand under my blouse whenever he thought no one was looking. Of course, people were looking, and judging by the sour looks Belinda gave me at the coffee machine, they weren’t impressed. But I found I didn’t care. As Kylie often liked to joke, I had, "zero fucks to give."

  At night, Ryan and I would hack the alarm system and sneak in to the exhibition hall, waiting and watching for Isengrim to make his move. While we waited, we entertained ourselves in wildly imaginative ways.

  Ryan snuck in a canvas – the same canvas he’d been working on back at Raynard Hall – and we stole a display easel from the gallery’s supply closet and dragged that into the exhibition hall. At night, after we had made love, he painted for hours, the threads of our connection dancing around him. He refused to allow me to look at the painting, barring it with his frame whenever I tried to sneak a peek. Instead, I curled up in a stack of duvets and pillows we’d used to cover the leather seat, my body still humming with the energy of our magic.

  On the third night, I had just closed my eyes when I heard something in the roof. A scratching sound, like claws searching for purchase against metal. It stopped after a moment. Thinking I’d been hearing the remnant of a dream, I turned over and closed my eyes again, but a few moments later I heard it again. This time the scratching was even louder, more persistent.

  I sat up, and stared up at the ceiling. I couldn’t see a thing. We’d turned the lights off – Ryan was working by the light of a camping torch, and the shimmering threads provided their own dim illumination. I stared up into the gloom of the high ceiling, noting the sound was coming from the air duct that stretched across the space. In fact, it was coming from the vent directly above my head.

  It almost sounded like an animal scratching at a door – desperate to get in. An animal ...

  “Ryan?” I called out, pulling the blankets around my naked body. I suddenly felt cold. “Ryan, something is in the roof.”

  He didn’t look up from his canvas. His face was hard, his brow furrowed in concentration. I watched him for a moment, saw his fox-form flicker across his features, his ears flicking up to the top of his head and becoming furry and pointed, before flicking back to normal human lobes a second later.

  “Oh, Ryan …” I called, dropping the blankets and revealing my fully naked body. If this doesn’t get his attention–

  He didn’t even look up. Feeling mildly annoying that my naked form – the form of his mate, his one great love – didn’t even rouse him from his creative stupor, I reached forward and grabbed the little frying pan from that night’s dinner. I raised the pan and slammed it against the edge of the steel pillar that held up the roof. A loud clang rang out through the entire room.

  Ryan jumped at the sou
nd, dropping his palette into his lap, smearing the front of his black jeans with strips of pigment. The threads leapt away, flicking back into Ryan’s chest.

  “What are you doing?” He snapped. “You’ve broken the spell. I’ve only got one night left to get this piece finished–”

  I pointed up to the ceiling. The scratching was frantic. Ryan leapt out of his chair. “What this fuck is that?” he snarled.

  I shrugged. “Whatever it is, it’s desperate to get in. I thought you’d like to know.”

  Our eyes met. The same thought entered both of our minds at once. Isengrim.

  He doesn’t know we’re in here, Ryan’s thought pushed against my head. We can take him by surprise.

  And what will we use to take him out? I asked. As I thought it, I remembered the bottle of iridium pigment Simon had sourced for us, resting inside the chiller, between a bottle of champagne and the cream cheese for our breakfast bagels.

  Ryan reached for the bottle of iridium pigment. I darted across the room and grabbed it before he could. I’ll handle that. I said. I don’t want you to risk getting any on your skin.

  I noticed as I palmed the tiny jar that the lid was slightly askew. Had I not fitted it back on properly? I was certain I had screwed it tight, but I was so distracted by the exhibit and Ryan’s continued presence, I probably wasn’t too careful. My chest swelled with fear. If Ryan had picked that up, he could have got a piece of the pigment on his skin. You have to be more careful, Alex.

  Ryan looked like he was going to argue, but then he changed his mind. Stand over there, he thought as he pulled the seat underneath the grating and stood on top. In a few seconds, his body had shifted into his fox form, his red fur glowing under the dim candlelight. If it’s Isengrim, I’ll pull him down, get him on the ground. You hit him in the face with the pigment. Then stand back. It could be messy.

  What if– I started to think, but there was no time. Ryan had already leapt up, holding on to the duct, his hind legs swinging in the air. He pulled on the grating, using his strong paws to yank out the pins attaching it to the ceiling. He reached inside with his snout, and I heard a hiss and a yowl.

  What’s happening? I cried out.

  Almost got her! He thought back. I heard another howl, and Ryan yelped. He toppled off the edge of the seat, landing on all fours on the floor. In the dim light I could see he had something in his mouth. Something small and white.

  “It’s Miss Havisham!” I cried.

  She was howling as she clawed the air, trying to flip her body over so she could fight off her captor. I could already see a nasty cut over Ryan’s eye. Ryan spat her out, leaning back and changing into his human form, his beautiful naked chest now marred with a shallow cut from her claws.

  She flung her body onto the seat and leapt back into the grating. I raced after her, certain she was making a run for it. But she pulled out a yellow sundress from the duct, and gathered it in her mouth. Miss Havisham leapt down, dragging her dress across the floor. I chased after her, desperate to find out what she was doing there, but she darted behind a pillar in the corner, hiding in the shadows as she changed back into her human form.

  “Don’t you dare come over here,” she snapped. “I’m changing my dress.”

  When she emerged, she was back in her human form, the long yellow dress hugging her voluptuous curves. She perched demurely on the edge of the leather seats, her long, shapely legs crossed at the ankles.

  “I have an urgent matter to discuss with you,” she said.

  “If you’ve got something important to tell us, why do you waste time putting on your clothes?” I asked.

  “Maybe you like to lie around in your birthday suit like a common harlot,” she smirked, “but I am a proper lady.” She crossed her legs elegantly and stared at me with a self-satisfied smile.

  “I like you much better as a cat,” I mumbled, suddenly embarrassed to be standing naked in the middle of the empty gallery.

  “I’ve come to warn you,” she said. “I’ve got the glaring gang on patrol outside. Chairman Meow has just informed me that Isengrim is hanging around again.”

  “Where exactly? Has he hurt anyone?”

  “Right now he’s up on the roof. He hasn’t attacked any other guards. He did chase me across the roof as I was trying to get to you, though. I’m lucky he isn’t large enough to fit through the vent. But he’s up there all right. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “How does he expect to get in from the roof, then?” Ryan asked.

  Just then we heard something shatter in the main gallery. “The skylight!” I cried.

  I raced to the locked door, pressing my ear against the thick metal. Through it I heard glass shattering, the shards skidding across the polished wood floor. Someone growled, low and long, and then another smash as one of the glass display cases was upturned. That set off the alarm, and the whole gallery erupted with a sound like an air-raid siren. I gritted my teeth against the screech, and pressed my body even harder against the door, straining to hear what was happening. My heart sank when I thought of all the work in that gallery that Isengrim might destroy, including the Picasso – the gallery’s pride and joy.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” A security guard cried over the screech of the alarm. I heard Isengrim growl, and his paws tearing across the hardwood floor. Another growl, and a crash and a thump. I heard more heavy crashes, lots of running, and the two guards grunting and swearing. “It’s over there. Get it!” and finally, the alarm was switched off.

  My ears rung, but I managed to make out the sound of the guards crossing back through the room, their heavy boots crunching against broken glass. “Where did it go?”

  “It broke that window in the lobby and ran outside,” puffed the other guard. “What was it, anyway?”

  “My guess is a rabid dog,” said the first guard. “It looked a little like a wolf, but that’s impossible. Are you okay? Did it bite or scratch you?”

  “No, I’m fine. You?”

  “Not a scratch. But this gallery is a mess. We’re gonna have to call that fat fuck, Matthew Callahan. He’s gonna be pissed.”

  “We’d better check all the other rooms, just to make sure it didn’t wreck anything else.”

  I heard one of them jiggling the door handle. I scooted away from the door and clung to Ryan, our naked bodies feeling suddenly completely exposed in that wide, empty gallery. My breath caught in my throat. If they opened the door now, we’d be discovered. And, even with Matthew’s newfound, grudging respect for me, there is no way I could explain camping out in the gallery naked to him. We’d be thrown in jail.

  “I’d have to get the code for that room from Callahan,” the first guard said, his voice much louder now that he was right outside. My heart pounded against my chest.

  “Nah, don’t worry about this one. It’s locked up tight,” said the second guard. “No way that mangy dog got in there. C’mon, the east hall is fine, and we need to call this in.”

  I left my breath out in an audible hiss. Ryan’s grip on my arm loosened. Miss Havisham leapt down from her hiding place in the air duct and curled herself around my legs. I bent down and scratched her around the ears.

  “That was close,” said Ryan.

  “Yeah. It’s a good thing the opening is tomorrow night. I don’t think I can handle much more of this. Do you think he’ll be back?”

  “He’d be an idiot to come back tonight.” Miss Havisham said. “I’m not even sure if he came to destroy the paintings. He might’ve been scoping out the inside of the gallery, looking for a place to hide or a weak spot he could exploit at the opening.”

  “Oh, he’ll be there,” Ryan growled. “He would love to use my show as his platform for revealing the existence of shifters to the world. He won’t miss it. Now, you two are going to have to calm down, before those guards hear us talking."

  He leaned forward, holding my shoulders with his strong hands. His mouth searched for mine. Our lips just touched when I felt s
omething small and furry trying to climb up my leg. We broke away, and looked down. Miss Havisham was standing between us in a puddle of yellow fabric, waving a calico paw at us and managing to look both offended and desperate.

  “Yeooow!”

  Ryan picked her up by the scruff of her neck, climbed on to the seat, and pushed her back into the air duct. “Thanks for all the help!” he called after her, ignoring her pitiful cries of abandonment as they echoed along the duct.

  “Now,” Ryan scooped me up into his arms, and laid me across our makeshift bed. “Where were we?”

  Ryan had just packed the last of our camping equipment into the car when Matthew pulled into the car park. “Alex?” he came rushing over. “Have you been inside? What’s been damaged? Did that wretched dog get to the Raynard paintings?”

  Despite the fact that it was 6:24 am, I hadn’t had any coffee yet, and I had a horrible crick on my neck from sleeping on that leather cushion, I couldn’t help but smile. I’d never seen Matthew this frazzled before. His tie was crooked and it looked as if he’d forgotten to brush his hair. He wrung his hands on his tie and I could see sticky fingerprints left behind from his tuck-shop breakfast.

  “Don’t worry, Matthew. Benny from security has taken me around the gallery. It looks as if a dog was climbing across the roof and fell through the skylight. It broke the display cabinet at the front – one of the illuminated manuscripts is in tatters.” He cringed, but I pressed on. “I wouldn’t worry about it. This is England, illuminated manuscripts are a dime a dozen. Most importantly, the Picasso is fine, and the Matisse, and the Dali drawings. The Raynard hall was locked up tight. Everything in there is undamaged. I’ve even checked them over myself.”

  Matthew’s whole body sagged with relief. He leaned against the side of the car and mopped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sticky hand. “Thank you, Alex,” he said, weakly.