by Nikki Sex
The place seems to be the local hangout. The parking lot is packed with pickup trucks, sedans, and motorcycles. I get out and scan the area, testing for any sense of the evil in my dream last night. As I do, my skin tingles. Small hairs on my arms stand on end.
Jesus.
Nothing unwholesome, no stench of foul corruption—but there’s a crap load of power northeast of here. Lots and lots of energy. A large group of shapeshifters reside nearby, no doubt about it. I’ve tasted that delicious, deep-well of shifter magic before.
I know why it’s there.
Eavesdropping is an invaluable pastime. With my excellent hearing, I’ve overheard whispers about the leaders of the northern werewolf pack.
The alpha is said to be scary as all get out. Cold, arrogant, and undefeated, he mercilessly shreds all rivals with brutal efficiency. Consequently, it’s said he hasn’t been challenged in decades.
Rumor has it the pack alpha has killed vampires and he took on a maddened bear causing trouble in his territory. I wouldn’t have bet on a wolf winning a fight against a grizzly, but it seems he’s a determined fighter—a killing machine.
Mental reminder: Don’t travel north.
Band music blasts from inside the building. It doesn’t sound too bad. The bar is attached to a hotel, so first I walk into reception and book a room. I check the place out, lower the lighting, and pull the covers off the bed.
Yeah, tacky for sure, but I know exactly where my night is going.
With the key in my purse, I’m assaulted by warm air as I walk into the bar. The scent of food, alcohol, and sex saturates the place.
There are tables for four on the left, maybe ten of them, and a row of tables for two along the back wall. Every chair is taken. The sound of silverware on plates and glasses thumping on tabletops rings in my ears.
The area has low, intimate lighting, food and fries, with rowdy groups of half-drunk people laughing and singing. Empty beer mugs adorn counters, while two busy bartenders dispense drinks, collect money, and give change.
Music blasts from what appears to be the dancing area through a large open archway to the right. Boots thump on scarred wooden floors, while customers hoot and holler.
Whew. Friday night, the place is hopping.
A handsome blond-haired man, maybe twenty-five, sits at a table beside a young human woman with an impressive rack. I draw in a deep breath as an electric jolt of heart-pounding lust slams into me.
Power—raw and primal. Yum.
The sexy blond has been a werewolf for over half a century. His energy rolls over my tongue, enticing me with wild, animal magic. I feel his pulse thumping like a heart in my throat. Taking a deep breath, I swallow.
My inner demon heats with the thought of feeding on a potent shifter. Honestly? We both have a major thing for the rough, earthy magic of weres—particularly werewolves.
A surge of desire pulls me under like a wave, electrifying every nerve ending. My legs almost buckle, I feel faint with need. I’m not sure which I want more—to be bent over and fucked like an animal by this powerful wolf or to feed on his raw, otherworldly energy.
I crave both.
Unconsciously drawn to him, I take a step toward the wolf-man, stop, then force myself to turn away. Disapproving, my inner monster snarls with unsatisfied hunger.
“Do you want a table?” a passing waitress asks.
Averting my gaze, I say nothing.
“Hon, are you alright?”
I blink rapidly as a rush of dread hits me. Can the waitress see my demon? This is what I fear most of all, being found out.
Humans under demonic possession experience glowing crimson eyes when they feel strong emotions. Thanks to that deliciously powerful lycanthrope, my demon is pissed off at being denied, horny as hell, and ready to go.
My eyes must be glowing like a beacon.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! I know I’d been distracted tonight, but how could I forget to wear contact lenses? Such a rookie mistake. I have no excuse.
Did my eyes flash red? Did the waitress see them?
There’s no point in worrying about water under the bridge. Truthfully, this is less of a threat nowadays because people wear cosmetic contact lenses precisely to create such effects, especially in clubs.
Demon contacts would be the perfect fashion accessory, but I haven’t the nerve to try them. Red irises would go great with my outfit, yet all it would take would be one supernatural who’s not up to date with fashion or technology. After seeing my blood-red gaze, they’d kill me before I even knew there was a problem.
Gathering my courage, I peer up at the waitress, making every effort to look normal. “Had a long day is all. Thanks for asking.”
Her expression is kind. “Do you want a table? You want me to get you something?”
I muster up a tight smile. “No, I think I’ll go check out the band, but thank you.”
Nodding, she leaves.
My stomach cramps as my demon reminds me of his displeasure. He really wants that sexy shifter.
Shit.
I seriously need to feed more often. I worry my inner friend will someday take control of my body and my mind, possessing me completely. It’s what demons do, after all. Then where will I be?
“No,” I mutter under my breath after the waitress walks away. “Supernaturals are out. You know it’s not safe for us to scratch that itch.”
Trying to blend in and not look as though I’m fleeing for my life—which would be the case, if my demon were discovered—I quickly stride into the dance area. A country music band is playing “Old Alabama.”
This is what I’m looking for—all normals in here. Excellent.
My aim, as always, is to keep my demon out of trouble. On the whole, we’re pretty good at it. I haven’t stepped, fallen, or dived into a dangerous situation for years, I reflect smugly.
I can’t help but feel a justifiable sense of pride.
My breath catches with unexpected nerves. I’ll have to watch out. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins. It’s known to go before a fall.
Chapter 10. Ride ‘em, Cowboy
A tingle runs down my spine.
Wait.
I zero in on the source. Across the crowded room I sense the seductive intensity of a vampire. The energy he holds is hot as hell, but there’s an ugly, bitter taint to his power. Three ghosts closely follow him—they look pissed.
Murderer.
Vampires don’t have to kill to survive, but it appears this one enjoys it. I cringe as I suddenly notice that two of the ghosts are children, maybe ten or twelve years old. Ugh.
Children are forbidden. If this asshole is caught, he’ll be chopped into pieces by the vampire court. But how will they catch him?
Once I tried to do something about these psychos, but mostly I’m past that kind of idealism. With my circumstances, I’ve never found a way to make it work.
Alrighty, then. Now there are two paranormals to avoid, but that’s it.
I scan the area for likely candidates. I’ve relaxed every cultural, moral, or social barrier I once had—either that or perish. Thus, I search for a man, a woman, or even a couple of any gender, race, or creed.
They say two is company, three’s a crowd—but not to my mind. I’m a “more the merrier” and “equal opportunity” kind of girl.
I’m guided by an imperative need for power. Just as a plant will sicken and die without sunlight, I can’t live without regular energy fixes. Or worse, my inner friend might go on a rampage, reverting to instinct and becoming a real demon.
Did I mention demons feed on blood, sex, flesh, and strong emotions? They can also feed on a person’s body, mind, and soul. I try to satisfy my live-in friend with a simple diet, such as rapturous sex and assisting ghosts to cross over.
I see a man drinking by himself in a corner, far across the room from the vampire. I push through the crowd, walking toward him. He looks about thirty, an “older” guy compared to my “early twenties” appear
ance. His aura shines with untapped energy. No wedding ring. Perfect.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask.
He gives me a slow smile as his eyes take me in. “No, ma’am.”
Thick red hair and freckles—broad shoulders and a large chest. His face is striking with his angular jaw and full, sensual lips. He has pale blue eyes tinged with sadness, and big, callused hands. He wears faded jeans, a button down, long sleeved shirt, and well-worn cowboy boots.
Intensely masculine, I like the look of him. I wonder why he’s feeling low? There’s maturity in his expression. This guy’s been through tough times. I can tell he’s working hard not to take whatever shitty cards he’s been dealt too seriously.
I sit beside him. “I’m Marilyn. Buy me a drink, cowboy?”
“Yes, ma’am. My name’s Webb. What’ll you have?”
“What are you drinking?”
“Beer.”
“Hmm. Good. I’ll have a beer, too. Thank you.”
Webb stands, strides to the bar, returns with a couple bottles of Labatt’s Blue and one mug. He arches a brow, silently asking if I prefer to drink from a glass.
When I nod, he pours my drink. Head tilted, a wry smile tugging his lips, Webb raises his beer bottle—a sardonic salute. I raise my glass. We clink them in a spontaneous toast.
I nod. “Cheers.”
“You, too.”
We sit, watch the band, and surreptitiously watch each other. From time to time, I catch him in a blatant stare. The band is loud, but that’s not why we’re not talking. Webb is clearly a man of few words. I like that about him.
Webb’s strong interest is deliciously exciting. His admiring glances caress me, as alluring as a rabbit-fur glove stroking naked skin. Warm, sensual fire trails down my spine, heating between my legs.
Such simple, human, carnal magic—but it’s hot as hell. We’ve got chemistry going, alright. His power is marred by darkness, but there’s no bitter or malevolent taste. Whatever’s tangled him up inside, he isn’t a bad person. He’s a delicious feast and all that’s best about a normal.
“No girlfriend, Webb?”
“Not anymore.” Ah. This is why his life force is muddled, disturbed.
“What happened?”
“She liked my brother better.”
“Ouch.”
“I hear ya.” He takes another swig. Averts his gaze for a quiet minute. His bruised expression eventually returns to mine. “You?”
“Me? No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Pleased, his full lips curve as he nods approval.
I smile back. “Want a woman’s advice?”
His eyes narrow. “You gonna tell me I’m better off without her?”
I laugh, shake my head. Arms on the table, I lean forward in my chair. I’m relaxed now. With Webb, I’ve found the perfect meal. Besides, this way he can get a good look at my cleavage. It might help cheer him up.
“Have your friends been telling you that? That you’re better off without her?”
He nods.
I chuckle with sympathy, not with humor. “I bet they also say time helps heal a broken heart?”
A deep frown mars his face. Again, he nods.
“To hell with that.” I smirk. “For a woman, they say the best way to get over a guy is to get under another one. Maybe it works for men, too. You know—to get over a woman, try getting under another one.”
His eyes widen slightly, while his gaze sharpens with a flare of keen interest. There’s a long pause while he studies me. A minute or two later, he decides I’m serious.
His mouth twitches in a hesitant smile. “You offering, Red?” he bluntly asks.
I laugh, envisioning how he sees my bright red hair and matching t-shirt. “Red, eh? Nice.” Does he know I’m wearing a wig? I scan his own thick, healthy red locks. “Yeah, I’m offering. I like you just fine, cowboy.”
I stand, pull my hotel key out of my bag, swing it in front of him. “I have a room next door. You coming?” Eyes locked on his, I take a step toward the exit.
His brows raise as he stands, long, lean, and tall. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. Tucking his hands in his jeans pockets, he follows close behind me.
Chapter 11. Demon Dinnertime
The thing about cowboys is, they really are gentlemen.
Webb is still tentative and uncertain. Does he think I’m too young?
He’s the kind of guy who, without consent, would be utterly unable to get it up. He’d protect a woman as virtually an inborn necessity. A rapist beater—never the rapist.
Perhaps he’s finding it difficult to believe his good fortune. Luckily, that means I get to take charge. Being in control works for me.
When you have an inner demon, bad things can happen if you let go.
Eager and turned on, we barely make it to my dimly lit room before I push him against a wall, shove my hands through his thick hair, and kiss him hard. Troubled mind, smoking hot body, and shiny bright soul—Webb needs this as much as I do.
He’s going to get his wish.
God, I love kissing. The moment our lips press together, I lightly caress his delicious human aura. He’s so needy. He has so much!
It’s a good kiss, a great kiss—sweet and slow as honey. He has one hand in my hair, while another grips me possessively at the small of my back. Locked together, we can’t get close enough.
My eyes are open—but his are closed as though he’s savoring every sensation. He’s strong, but gentle. Passionate, but not aggressive. I feel him holding back, holding himself in.
I intend to make sure his hard-won restraint won’t last long.
Moaning, I writhe and grind myself against him. He tastes of beer and smells of fresh, clean male. His pulse beats briskly, thudding with life. It echoes inside of me, heavy and hot.
We keep our first kiss going for a number of minutes—one, two, maybe ten. Our mouths open and pressed together, tongues licking and dancing, teeth nipping. It’s a kiss as raw and erotic as I’ve ever known.
Blood. Flesh. Life force. Energy!
All this from a kiss! My inner monster thrums with desire. He wants more, and he wants it now. I draw away from Webb. “Not yet,” I mutter quietly to my demon. “Wait.”
“Sorry?” His expression is confused and concerned as he pulls back to study my face. “Everything OK?”
“Don’t mind me. Everything’s great,” I reassure him, then I throw myself back into that erotic kiss.
Getting naked with someone is an intimate act. Even quick, anonymous sex can’t help but create a connection. Consequently, I know much about him already. Webb feels empty, he’s lost. He’s confused, betrayed, unwanted. Man, that woman really did a number on him.
Bitch.
Never mind. He’ll feel wanted after tonight. I intend to blow his mind.
Webb sucks on my tongue. I make odd noises in the back of my throat. I rock my hips against his hard length, unbutton his shirt and run my hands over his firm chest. My hands slide down his back, his arms. He’s all warm smooth skin and solid muscle. This is a hardworking man, strong and capable.
“You’ve got a great body,” I tell him.
“Not as nice as yours,” he growls.
Careful of my wig, I help him pull off my red t-shirt. Divesting me of my bra, he becomes motionless, staring at me. His face shines with awe.
“You’re damned nearperfect.” He swallows hard, his excitement growing larger than the extremely promising bulge in his jeans.
I grin and reward him by falling into him once more. As we kiss, our hands travel frantically—stripping, caressing, touching skin-to-skin. His warm chest presses against my swollen, tender breasts.
God, he smells fantastic. I bet he tastes even better.
I pull my hips away enough to fit my hands between us, rip open his zipper, and palm his shaft. His breath hisses out of him in a rush of pleasure. I caress his balls with my other hand, and gently squeeze him. He’s so warm, so hard and ready. When I stroke his
length, his large frame shudders.
Suddenly urgent, his big palms slide under my jeans inside my panties. He grips my buttocks with both hands and pulls me against him. My breath catches when the apex of my throbbing sex meets his hard shaft.
A strangled moan rips from my throat.
Encouraged, he bends toward my hardened nipples. Drawing one into his heated mouth, he sucks in long, hard pulls. Breasts aching, I throw my head back to allow him easy access. I feel every draw as though it tugs lower, directly between my legs.
“Oh,” I whimper, absorbing the glorious sensation.
An electric tingle of energy caresses my flesh—driving me higher. His hand travels over my stomach, down lower, delving between my legs, parting my folds. Dripping with arousal, I arch toward him. His fingers slide eagerly through my slickness.
“God, Red.” His voice is husky, his breath ragged. “You feel so damned good. I want this to be good for you.”
“Good, yes,” I gasp breathlessly.
Dazed and high, my vocabulary seems to have left me. I revel in Webb’s generous nature, his wish to please me. His energy flows over my skin, scorching my flesh. Oh, he’s pleasing me, alright, but I need to have him inside.
His voice is a husky growl. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want to taste you.”
I drop to my knees, grab his length, and guide him into my mouth. Webb shudders with pleasure. Mmm. His scent is oh-so male. The pure magic of his passion literally rolls over my tongue. As I lick and kiss, he inhales sharply.
I feel the weight of his lustful gaze, as his hands drop down to cradle my head.
With one hand, I lightly rake my nails across his sack. Wrapping my tongue around his shaft, I pump him with my fist as I suck with my mouth.
“God, woman!”
Power and energy spurts into my mouth, along with his precum. A tremor of arousal runs though me, making my inner muscles tighten.
Using the flat of my tongue, I bathe every inch of him. His cock is gorgeous. I rub him over my lips, reveling in his iron-hard length, wrapped in hot velvet. I kiss, lick, nibble, and suck as desire surges. I adore the needy sounds he makes.