ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories)

by Hawke, Jessa

  “You’re always safe with me,” he says softly, grazing Jacky’s forehead with his lips. “But… is that all you felt that night? Safe with a friend?”

  Jack tilts his face up and Ian is caught off guard by the look of intensity there. He puts one hand to Ian’s chest and says, “I wanted you then.”

  Ian’s heart thumps painfully.

  “And I want you now.”

  Ian doesn’t even have time to blink before Jack’s lips are on his, and it’s all hurtling backwards through time again. Those lips, those soft lips tasting of alcohol and lust, and that tongue, thrusting into his mouth, teasing him, skipping along his teeth light as a girl, until it’s all Ian can do to keep from crushing him against his chest.

  They’re holding each other’s faces, stumbling around the kitchen, forgotten to the world around them. Ian bites Jack’s lip gently, and suddenly, they’re looking into each other’s eyes and gasping.

  “I want you, too,” says Ian, and closes his eyes to kiss him again.

  And it starts a new, that crazy dance around the kitchen, Ian pushing Jack down onto a chair and straddling him, running his fingers roughly through his hair, feeling the full breadth of his thighs, little sweet sexy Jacky, welcoming him in this new way.

  “I see you boys started without me,” drawls a female voice from over by the door.

  They break away from each other to find Amanda leaning against the doorframe, an amused smile playing around her lips. Jacky and Ian are frozen, unsure of where to proceed from here. Sensing this, Amanda saunters over to their chair and leans over until her face is in between their bodies. “Far be it from me to deny you boys your fun,” she says, and steps away to hop up on the kitchen counter.

  Ian looks at Jack, and Jack looks at Ian. Slowly, their lips meet again, except now, Jacky is running his hands down Ian’s bare back, feeling the smooth ripple of his muscle below his fingers. Ian tilts down until he’s got Jacky’s earlobe in his mouth, and, cloaking his teeth with his lips, he pulls.

  Jacky moans, eyes squeezed shut.

  Ian bites down.

  Jacky’s breath is coming rushed and fast, the sounds from his throat ragged and raw. Ian wrests off his tie, unbuttons that hedge fund boy’s shirt, and tosses both somewhere behind Jacky deep into the kitchen. He kisses Jacky on the neck, where he smells like clean sweat and cologne, tips down to his collarbone, and sinks to his knees to enclose one of Jacky’s nipples in his mouth. Jack is gripping the edges of the chair with his fingers as Ian worries the nub first with his lips, then with his teeth.

  “Easy, Jacky, baby,” Amanda’s voice comes from the countertop.

  Jacky glances up at her. She’s taken off that red dress, and her bra is some lacy black thing, through which he can see…everything. Those luscious pink nipples pointing up to the sky, the creamy rounds of her breasts. His eyes travel down south, where Amanda’s moved aside the sparse fabric of her black thong and is slowly touching herself as she watches them.

  Ian unbuckles his pants and they slide to the floor. He’s got nothing on underneath, and Jacky drinks him in—the beefy thighs, the damn rippling abs from all that MMA, leading down to a very, very prominent…

  Yes.

  And now Ian’s on his knees again, pulling down Jacky’s slacks and boxers, until he’s out there, springy and hard already, in his hand. Ian bends down and licks him, base to tip, rounding him off at the head, where he sucks on him. Je-sus, thinks Jacky, and it’s the last rational thought he has for the night.

  All he can focus on is Ian’s mouth on him, rubbing him against the base of his throat, tongue greedy and fat against the length of his cock, dipping down to tease his balls. In the background, he can hear Amanda panting a little as she rubs herself, harder and harder, and when he looks back, the picture she paints, one leg propped up on the counter to reveal the pink moistness of her, one hand working her clit furiously, bulging one of her breasts until her nipple is almost popping right out of her bra, strap slipping down, is enough to almost undo him altogether.

  The next thing he knows, Ian is moving him to the floor and propping his head up on his pants. Amanda is sliding her golden body onto him, crawling across the floor like the best wet dream in the world. Together, they lavish his body with kisses, and Amanda takes him into her mouth, honey hair spilling over her shoulders onto his torso, tickling him, adding this new sensation to the mix. She’s soft everywhere, and soon, he sits up to grab her behind the neck and press her to him, the easy give of her tits against his chest driving him crazy. He nips her neck and she gasps aloud, once, and then it’s Amanda on her back, like she has been in his mind for so long. Her long legs are spread wide open, and the path between her legs promises Jack something that he cannot name or wait to experience.

  Ian is at her other end, and gives Jack a look. Without words, they fall to her, Jacky licking at her clit and Ian rubbing her breasts, small circles at first, then pinching her nipples between his thumb and index finger. Amanda tastes musky and sweet, the pink flesh of her lips slick against Jacky’s mouth as his tongue parts her, probing her insides, almost dizzy with the realization that his fantasy is coming true.

  He lifts her hips to tilt her pelvis to him, and holds the head of his penis against her opening. He nudges her once, twice, waiting for that wanting whimper from her throat, and when it comes, he eases into her, inch by inch, savoring the sensation, watching her brown eyes widen in wanting, filling her little by little until Amanda is wrapped around him tighter than a bow on a Christmas gift.

  The feeling is better than anything he could have ever imagined. Here is this grown woman, bucking against him, and it’s him that’s making her writhe. He is sliding out of her until the tip of his cock is almost out, the fuller circumference of him there bumping against her best possible places. He reaches below her and lifts her up, Ian helping him, until she’s pressed against his chest and they’re moving together, matching each other, gasp for gasp. Amanda can’t control her breathing anymore, and is murmuring something almost indistinguishable against his ear. Almost, but not quite.

  “Fuck me, Jacky, fuck me.”

  Jack redoubles his efforts, jackknifing against her until Amanda comes, in great, wet spurts on top of him; he is sticky with her juices, they’re all over his cock, balls, and thighs, and she is shuddering against him, caught in the throes of her orgasm.

  Jack pulls out of her. There is one other person in the room who requires his attention, and that person is looking at him with big almond eyes whose pupils are so dilated that Jacky knows Ian must be close himself.

  The two men come together in another kiss and reach for each other. Ian is wider than Jack imagined, and he almost can’t contain the full length of his penis in his hand. He feels Ian grab him down below, and they work each other, gently at first, then with a fury that has them both hanging onto each other’s shoulders with their free hands, groaning aloud. Ian looks deep into Jacky’s green eyes; he wants to see him when he comes, and he wants to be seen. With a final groan and kiss, Ian spills himself out onto Jack, calling out his name over and over as he comes. Seconds later, Jacky squeezes his eyes shut and with a loud, wrenching moan, releases all the years of want that have built up inside of him.

  The trio does not move for a full ten minutes. Ian looks over at Jack, whose slicked-back hair has fallen over his eyes. Jacky looks back at him, and a wicked grin warms them all from their heads to their toes.

  It is only in the deep silence of the kitchen as a full, happy peace is replaced by a second carnal hunger that Amanda speaks.

  “So, boys. Who wants to go again?”

  THE END

  My Ex With Benefits

  Everyone tells you the honeymoon period ends. But you don’t listen to them and keep on trusting and loving, because why wouldn’t you? There are few things more terrible than imagining that your rush of happy hormones can come to a close, that you can end up strangers with someone who used to share your life—and your bed—so comp
letely. So you go on living the way that you did—you buy two straws for your drink, you wear his T-shirts like they’re your own, and you do laundry for the both of you because after all, isn’t that what a relationship is all about?

  I’ve never been that girl who dates according to the script. The script confuses the living bejesus out of me. After all, how can you know if you like somebody based on one date where the both of you are putting your best face on? It takes years to really get to know someone, and that’s only if you’re always honest all of the time; let’s face it, nobody is like that and still human. That, and I had nursing school to worry about—nowadays, most schools like to give you classes that make you feel as though you’re prepping to be the president of a small country rather than a nurse on one floor of one unit. I was at the top of my class; I was that nurse you don’t fuck with, ever. I knew how to draw blood on the first try, and I wore my scrubs with pride. Those little cartoon characters on my uniform may have looked sweet, but the way I wore them, they said, “You don’t screw with us, mister.”

  That’s why my relationship with Eric embarrassed me at first. It’s no secret that doctors and nurses have a special communication that’s built on a dog-eat-dog hierarchy that leaves nurses bitching in the lounge about Dr. Dumbass who forgot that Patient A has an allergy to penicillin and would have killed him if we hadn’t stepped in with a reminder. And medical students are the worst, ugh. They don’t know their ass from their elbow, but lord their pitiful little med school degrees over our heads as if God himself pulled out a wand, descended unto Earth, and tapped them on the head with it, proclaiming them forever geniuses.

  Forever idiots, more like.

  Anyway, at first I thought that Eric was like the rest of them at first. He couldn’t find a patient’s veins, so I was called in—like I said, I was the best—and then he didn’t even thank me, just pushed me aside and proceeded to interrogate the patient. I was just venting to my friend Brenda in the lounge when there was a knock and he poked his head in through the door.

  “Nurse? Uh, Caroline?” he asked. With a smirk, I stood up, smoothing out my scrubs.

  “How kind of you to remember my name, doctor,” I told him, walking over to the keurig machine to pour myself a cup.

  He had the good grace to blush, which threw me. “I, uh, wanted to apologize for before,” he told me, not daring to step foot inside the nurses’ lounge. “Thank you so much for helping me with that patient. I couldn’t have done it without you.” From the look on Brenda’s face, you would have thought she just witnessed an exorcism. In fact, such monologues are pretty much unheard of in hospitals.

  Three months was all it took. Three months of driving up to hike in the mountains, of dinner dates by candlelight underneath sweeping canopies of silk, and three months of having the most amazing talks. It never takes me three months to fall in love. Not that I was ever in love before, but I felt like I had betrayed my own set of morals. My friends all told me I had my head in the clouds and mocked my former claims of, “You have to be friends, first!” and I had no idea what to tell them. It was true, you know? I told them that later, when it was all over, that I should have been wiser, that I should have known.

  I cannot pinpoint the exact time that Eric and I stopped having sex. I thought at first that we had just grown comfortable with each other, that the smell of his head on my pillowcase at night was enough. But after I had to buy my first real vibrator, I realized that he was more than just not having sex with me. He was vastly missing from the life we had made together.

  We did all the last-ditch things you do when you know your relationship is on the rocks, but can’t say it out loud just yet. We yelled and fought and checked each other’s phones for suspicious text messages, and even made an appointment with a relationship counselor. But of course, even though we went, we each said that nothing was wrong. There was nothing tangible wrong to talk about—neither one of us was cheating, neither one of us was doing anything particularly far left of center—there was just something missing. That spark, I suppose. So we decided to move in together.

  Some couples have babies, you know, so at least we didn’t do that. They say that when couples do something new together, like that or buying a house, the oxytocin rises again and they feel bonded together. But it’s a bandaid, a non-permanent solution that gushes out beneath the protective covering. At first, we were like peas and carrots again, one disgusting vegetable mix in a bowl, and then, after a few more months, it was apparent that our problem was back. We were absent, our desks sitting in the middle of a busy classroom where the relationship we were both masquerading in was being lived out, but we were not there.

  And then, one day, he was gone.

  It was almost like straight out of Sex and the City, where Carrie’s boyfriend Berger leaves her a Post-it that says, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t, don’t hate me.” Except Eric’s note was even vaguer than that. I still remember clearly what it said, and I wish that I didn’t. “You mean a lot to me, it’s me, but I need time to think.”

  Well, then. It’s been two years, so I guess he’s still out there, thinking his little doctor brains out.

  After that amount of time, I had had enough. I needed a new job, which is where I’m going now. It sucks that my subconscious picked this particular drive over to rehash all the sordid details of that little relationship, but the fact of the matter is, is that that was the whole reason I left that hospital where I was number one. Eric had been moved to a different unit, and I never saw him on the floor anymore, but the whole place held too many memories for me. All those empty hospital beds we had made love in, and that nurse’s lounge—ooof. I needed a change, so I made one. Now I’m on my way to an urgent care center where my nursing services are truly needed. Yes, sure, I’m overqualified, but who cares? At least where I’m going now I’ll be able to serve the underserved and lose myself in my work again. And I know better now—I can show the doctors who’s boss, but I will not date them again.

  The red sign and cross come into view up ahead, so I turn the wheel to head over into their parking lot. I got my own designated space about a week ago, which I’m pleased about. I clip my hair back and grab my bag. I look at myself in the mirror and tell myself that it’s time to be a fish again, to take that deep swim I know I need. The day is hot around me as I step out of the car, and the automated glass double doors open as I near the building. I step inside and greet Marcy, the front-of-office staff, who shows me to my new room. There’s no time to think or breathe, because my services are required immediately in the next room, so I drop my things, drop a few clean, packaged syringes into my pocket, and push open Exam Room 3.

  To find Eric examining a patient.

  * * *

  It’s like I’ve been thrown back into the 90s and my heart is doing what that ATC song says. You know the one, my heart beats like a drum like a drum, dum dum dum. Dum dum dum. Except the beat of it is my ex-boyfriend’s name, over and over again.

  “Can I get a syringe and then a vial of cortisone, please?” he asks, not looking at me from unwrapping bandages from his patient’s knee. I am stunned speechless for a good five seconds before I recover myself and head to the supply closet for the necessary drugs. When I am in there, I slump down onto the floor, rattling the shelves behind me. Jesus. It’s him. It’s really him. Why can’t I escape from him no matter where I go? What do I do now?

  There’s only one answer to that, so I take the cortisone from the upper shelf and then head back into Exam Room 3. The knee looks inflamed, and Eric does not take his eyes off of it as he reaches a hand out. Ugh. It looks like he’s morphed into one of those doctors that doesn’t give nurses the time of day, even in a center so small. But then he looks up at me to thank me for bringing the materials, and I can see it in his face. He is as shocked as I am.

  “Is that all, doctor?’ I ask him, and for a few moments, he says nothing, his jaw slightly agape. If you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t have seen it, but I know
that face well enough. Finally, he manages to speak.

  “Tha-that’s all. Thank you.”

  I leave. The center is set up so that all the medical professionals have one lounge, all together, and it’s broken up into tiny cubicles and cubbies for some order. I head over to find mine, marked with a clean new label from someone who clearly has some OCD label maker issues going on. Unfortunately, it’s right next to Eric’s, both the cubby and the cubicle. Eric is going to be in the exam room at least a few minutes more, I hope, because I head over into the cubicle to take a better look. I can’t help myself. So sue me.

  It’s typical stuff. His med school diploma, a specialization in emergency medicine, some kind of sports trophy, and a photo in a gilded frame. I’m about to pick it up and jealously examine the contents when I realize that it’s just him and another guy with sandy hair standing in front of what looks like a very steep hiking trail. It’s a great picture—they look sweaty but healthy, and they’re both smiling from ear to ear. I can see why he chose it. Other than that, there is nothing unremarkable about the space, so I sit down in my own cubicle and try to still my rapidly beating heart.

  I mean, God, what do I do now? Do I quit? No, I can’t give him the satisfaction, if there was any to gain. I had been hoping for a fresh start, but it looks like that is damned to all hell. Do I make small talk? I mean, this is an urgent care center, there can’t be that much down time. Maybe I can avoid him forever. Ask for a new cubicle. Run like the dickens until I simply don’t think about him anymore.

  “So we meet again, Nurse Caroline,” a light, teasing voice behind me says. I turn around, and I know that I am going to need horse tranquilizers at this rate, because who should be standing behind me than Eric, Dr. Ex himself. I gather myself together.

  “I didn’t know you were working here now, Eric.”

  The tiny black beeper at his belt goes off, and he checks it; old habit, I suppose, and I can’t even take offense at it. While he was on rotations, I remember, that thing was his life. If your beeper went off, it meant you had to run. Sometimes it even meant running a code; a patient’s life always hung somewhere in the balance. Ah. Those were the sexy days.