The Wolf Fount

by Gayla Drummond

  “For future reference, a dick is six inches or less. I have a cock.”

  Morgan laughed, and the soft, husky sound tickled through him. “Fine, Mr. Touchy. Nice cock.”

  “Thank you. I’d make a return compliment, but ah,” he gestured at the black lace panties she still wore. “I can’t see my current first choice to heap compliments on just yet.”

  She hooked her thumbs under each side and tugged the dark, silky material down. Cal sighed in relief. “I’m so glad you prune instead of scalp.”

  Letting the thong slip down to her feet, she smiled while stepping free–and closer to him. He reached for her, but she caught hold of his wrists. “I have a rule.”

  “No problem.”

  “Me first. I don’t get off, you don’t get any.”

  He grinned. “I love it when you get bossy. Bed, couch, or floor?”

  Head turning, she surveyed the couch and then the king-sized bed against the far wall behind it. It was a surprise when she said, “Floor.”

  “Works for me.” He’d paid a fortune for the black carpeting. It had a soft, thick pile that he knew from previous experience was easy on skin.

  Still gripping his wrists, she walked backward, leading him around the coffee table and into the space between it and the center window. Catching a sudden flicker of expression from her that he took to be uncertainty, Cal went to his knees. He leaned forward and planted a kiss right above the top line of her neatly trimmed triangle.

  Morgan’s knees buckled and she let go of his wrists. Quickly sliding his right arm around her, he lowered her to the floor while sneaking a look at her face. She was chewing on her bottom lip, her eyes vague. Second thoughts? If so, they needed to be headed off.

  He scooted backward, nudged her legs apart with his right knee, and quickly situated himself. A look made it clear she was pretty all over, while a quiet sniff proved she had excellent hygiene. Smiling, he began with a slow, bottom to top lick.

  Morgan sucked in a deep breath. Pleased by her reaction, he settled into the task with a will. Her hands found his head and gathered handfuls of hair. Her thighs quivered, slowly drawing together. Cal wrapped his hands around them to hold them apart.

  She moaned, her hips making tiny jerks as he traced his tongue over each small petal of flesh, her opening, and then her clit. If her wiggling and soft moans of “yes” were any indication, he was doing a superb job.

  His cock throbbed, trapped between the carpet and his belly. Cal did his best to ignore it, determined to play by her rules–at least this time. Next time, she’d be playing by his rules.

  Though come to think of it, his weren’t actually different from hers: please the woman, then please himself. After all, it wasn’t much fun if both parties didn’t end up satisfied when all was said and done.

  He’d been licking while thinking, and decided it was time for a change, moving to gently suckle her clit. That didn’t take long to do the trick; Morgan stopped breathing, her fingers pulling his hair, and then she came with a violent shudder and explosive sigh.

  Edging his shoulders out from under her legs, Cal rose on all fours and eased up her body, depositing kisses as he went. He was sidetracked by her breasts for a couple minutes. Though a tad small for her height, they were nicely shaped and tipped with those perky, responsive nipples he’d admired earlier.

  Morgan’s eyes, when he was finally high enough to see them, were dark. Her pupils had expanded, pushing green and gold to thin rings. He kissed her–no protest or cries of “Ew, gross” resulting, which he’d heard more than a few times the past couple decades–and asked, “How was that?”

  “Yes.” She blinked. “What was the question?”

  He fought a smile. “It was ‘do I get to pick the position?’”

  “Oh, uh... yeah?”

  “Thank you. Mind if we move to the bed?” She rolled her head from side to side. “Great. Up we go, darlin’.”

  Things weren’t going exactly as planned. Calhoun was doing an excellent job of ringing all her bells, and it had been a while since she’d gone this far with someone who rang any, customer or not.

  As a result, Morgan was having difficulty thinking, but she was trying. Was Calhoun one of “them” that Bully Boy had seemed afraid of? Or had he thought she was a vampire?

  They were on the bed.

  When did we reach the bed? Egyptian cotton sheets, single-ply and high thread count–she knew quality linen when she felt it–were like cool silk under her. She was not beyond all rational thought. “You better have a condom handy.”

  “Right.” He nodded and sat on the bed’s edge, opening the drawer of the nightstand. She heard the crinkle and rip of plastic before he moved to roll on the condom ... and looked to make certain that’s what he was doing.

  Some men pretended to, or even removed them during position changes because they “couldn’t feel anything.” You’d think they wouldn’t because of STDs, but hell, most men were dumbasses when it came to sex.

  Calhoun wasn’t pretending, and didn’t look miffed when he turned to her. He leaned down for a kiss, and just before her mind shut down again Morgan thought, I’m making a huge mistake.

  Her body disagreed, quivering while he kissed and caressed it before sliding on top of her. Her legs were already spread, practically laying out the welcome mat. He accepted the invitation, shuddering as his cock slid in. “Ow.”

  “Ow?” Not something she was used to hearing, at least not for plain old missionary.

  “Foot cramp.” He smiled, his eyes showing streaks of orange, and began to move. It felt too good to be worrying about anything, so Morgan decided not to.

  She hooked her legs over his, meeting each thrust, and burying one hand in his hair, pulled his head down for a kiss. Fire flared and flashed, pooling low in her body. Sex for fun was always better than sex for pay. Why was that?

  Calhoun jerked as she dragged the nails of her left hand across his back. He nipped her tongue, shoving his left arm under her shoulders and curling his hand over one. His right hand caught hold of her thigh, pulling until he could fit his forearm in the bend of her knee to hold it up.

  Another point of wonderful friction was the result, adding to what was already happening internally. Morgan hummed in appreciation at the sensations.

  He broke the kiss. “Like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can do something different.”

  “No.”

  “Are you su-mmph.” She pulled his head back down. He was talking too much. She’d once read a scientific study that claimed women were noisier during sex than men were. Not in her experience. Men grunted, groaned, and generally yapped their fool heads off during and after. Wouldn’t shut up unless you shoved something into their mouth.

  Being that this was recreational and not business, she wasn’t interested in spouting off practiced phrases to boost his ego. She just wanted him to keep going, as long as possible. The rest of the damn night, if he had it in him.

  For the first time in weeks, the need wasn’t grumbling in the back of her mind. Her body was getting exactly what it wanted, after the string of aborted pick-ups. She felt strangely safe, under the growing pleasure.

  Calhoun felt wonderful. He smelled and tasted good. His skin was smooth and hot against hers, except in one spot on his chest that rubbed against her left breast. Muscles, hard and powerful, moved under her hand.

  A flutter, tensing, and then she came with a loud, gusty sigh as her body shivered in approval. He groaned, pressing his cheek against hers, but didn’t say anything. Good, he’d gotten that she wanted him to shut up.

  And he didn’t stop. If he weren’t such an irritating dickhead with his clothes on, he’d make a great boyfriend.

  I did not just think that.

  Except she had.

  He began thrusting a little faster, his lips descending on hers again. Their tongues dueled, and she heard a faint tearing noise.

  Calhoun suddenly growled. The deep r
everberation of it startled her into opening her eyes. His were open, dark orange spiked with gold. He pulled away just enough for her to see that his canines were long, and then he froze, his cock jerking heavily as he came.

  She half-expected him to bite her. Instead, he blinked, grinned, and smacked a noisy kiss on her lips. “Up for another round?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Chapter Five

  Damn. Cal glanced down at his cock, searching for worn spots. And possibly burns, from the weird shocks. Morgan lay sprawled on her stomach beside him, sound asleep.

  Satisfied it wasn’t a bloody nub or fried, he checked the time. Five thirty-eight in the morning. His body protested when he rolled onto his side and sat up.

  I’m out of shape. Looking down at the floor, he counted seven wrappers. Okay, maybe not that out of shape.

  His lips quirked as he looked over his shoulder at her. It had been a long time since he’d felt such a massive hunger for sex, or for that matter, been with a woman with such an appetite for it. She was voracious, willing to continue for hours–until she’d finally conked out twenty minutes or so ago, during a rest break.

  Cal stood up, barely repressing a groan, and limped to the bathroom. A hot shower would take care of his aches, and then he could make the necessary calls so her stay was as comfortable as possible.

  The shower did help, and he was feeling damn good by the time he wiped steam off the mirror over the sink. He took his time shaving, brushing his teeth and hair. After a splash of aftershave, he stepped out and checked on her.

  Or would have, if she were still there.

  A quick search proved she’d only left her ripped shirt behind, and that she’d taken one of his Chanteloup polo shirts from the closet.

  Swearing under his breath, Cal yanked on some clothes and left the suite. The entrance doors were unlocked, and her car wasn’t in the parking lot. A whistle brought one of the guards on duty trotting out of the trees. “Did you see her leave?”

  “No, sir. Heard it, about 15 minutes ago.”

  With a sigh, Cal waved him away and went back inside. It looked like he’d have to hunt her down.

  For her own sake, of course.

  Roughly eight hours later, he sat at the bar, grimly reading everything his sources had dug up on one Morgan Shelby, which included her sealed juvenile records.

  Jake was right: she was trouble with a capital T.

  Arrests for prostitution, petty theft, and assault in nineteen different states. Most of the charges had been dropped, though she’d done seven months on one prostitution charge three years before. A string of cheap motel addresses were listed as prior residences. Surrendered by her mother to child protective services at age six, she’d spent ten years in the system before running away from her final foster home. There was a litany of reasons behind her removal from one foster home after another during that ten years. “Disruptive influence” seemed to be a favorite.

  She was only twenty-six. “You’ve been a busy girl.”

  No drug- or alcohol-related arrests. Apparently, Morgan liked a clear head during her crime sprees. Cal snorted, flipping to the final page, which informed him there was a hit out on her. She’d pissed off a drug dealer while working for an escort service less than two months ago. No info on what she’d done to piss off the dealer, but he’d be the second to know once it was discovered.

  Around him, employees, all Weres, were busy readying the club for the night. He sighed, wondering where she was holed up, since the newest information was her purchase of the car, for cash, six weeks prior in Nevada. “Jake.”

  “Yeah, Boss?” The other set down the case he was carrying.

  “I want a tail on her the minute she leaves here.” That was assuming Morgan returned tonight, and managed to sneak away again.

  “I’ll put Dougie on her.”

  Cal nodded, gathering up the papers. Dougie was a twenty-year-old Were leopard with a knack for blending in. He had a forgettable, though good-natured, face. “Thanks. I’m going to get the clean-up on her started.”

  “Might want to hold off until she’s Awakened. Two or three days is plenty of time for her to rack up a few more arrests.”

  “She’s tried to be good for the past couple of years.” If good included just a few trips downtown for suspicion of prostitution. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You’re the boss.” Jake shrugged and returned to his stocking.

  Cal went to the office behind the bar to make the necessary calls. Everything but her birth records, social security, and driver’s license would be erased before two weeks passed. He emailed her name and one of her mug shots to the Were geek team at headquarters. They’d do a scrub: scour the Internet and erase anything they found on her. He stared at the shot for a minute. Her hair had been quite a bit longer in it.

  If necessary, he’d provide her with a completely new identity. Because of their near immortality, Weres “died” and were reborn on a regular basis, thanks to the network he’d spent centuries building.

  Morgan Shelby would appear twenty-six for the rest of her life, though it was possible her height and weight might change as humans continued to evolve.

  He looked early-to-mid-thirties, though he’d been twenty when changed. People had lived shorter, harder lives back then, so had tended to age faster. He’d been shorter and less muscular as well.

  Cal wondered what she’d think of that, but his mind lost interest, switching track to a thought he’d been trying to ignore: How much of last night was honest?

  She’d been hooking for a living for years. From what he’d picked up over his long life, prostitutes didn’t make money if they didn’t have any acting ability.

  A chuckle escaped him. It had been an extremely long time since he’d worried whether or not he’d pleased a woman. Thousands of years of learning and practice gave him some big bragging rights in the bedroom.

  His long-dead wife was the cause behind those efforts. Married at fourteen–back then, people married at ages now considered not even legal for sexual consent in most civilized countries–he’d known nothing but what he’d seen around campfires, or of his parents. Homes back then hadn’t had private bedrooms either.

  Sarah had been thirteen, and their wedding night a complete disaster. Cal winced, remembering it. He’d hurt her, though she’d borne it with gritted teeth and silence, because that’s what she’d been taught to do.

  He much preferred now, when most women were neither afraid nor ashamed to speak up and tell a guy what did or didn’t work for them.

  I don’t get off, you don’t get any. With a laugh, he left the desk and locked her history in the wall safe.

  Career prostitute or not, Morgan wasn’t shy about her expectations.

  She’d gotten some answers, but Morgan couldn’t help but feel she’d made a huge mistake. But damn, the sex had been incredible.

  Needing a distraction, she pulled out the little safe and counted the money. The car had taken the biggest bite out of her unexpected windfall, but she knew how to make money stretch, and had plenty for a while yet. After putting the safe back under the sink, Morgan checked the time. Chanteloup’s doors wouldn’t open for nearly three hours.

  Go back, or no?

  She sat down to think about it. Calhoun had a scar on his chest that damn sure looked as though someone had tried to stab him in the heart. The faint ripping noises she’d heard had been his claws digging into the sheets. Both were reasons enough not to return, except...

  I’m one too, or will be. My eyes do the same freaky shit. She really needed to learn more about what she was becoming, how much it would change her, and Calhoun was her only source of information.

  There were probably rules. Morgan would need to know what they were, and she hadn’t asked him about the correct way to kill a vampire. That was important, if vampires were going to be trying to kill her on a regular basis.

  Even above all that, she’d left California wanting to begin a new life. One
that didn’t involve whoring, stealing, or always having to watch her back. This Awakening thing, it seemed to be a real chance to do just that.

  Doesn’t it? Morgan stared at the floor for several minutes before making a decision. Calhoun knew all the answers. If she wanted more of them, she’d have to go back to the club.

  Decision made, she rose and went to select clothing for the night.

  By six o’clock, she was sliding behind the wheel of her car, excitement fluttering through her veins at the thought of seeing Calhoun again. Dressed in sleek, black leather pants, low-heeled black boots, and a sleeveless red lace top, Morgan knew she looked good, and started the car with a smile.

  Halfway to the club, worry began to set in. She’d let habit send her out the door that morning, while he showered. Maybe Calhoun wouldn’t be in the mood to see her, since she’d left without a word. With a shake of her head, Morgan kept driving. She needed to learn all she could, about him, about the Awakening, about everything.

  Having never arrived at the club early before, she wasn’t expecting the crowd that filled the parking lot. Chanteloup was a popular place. Finding a spot in the far corner of the lot, Morgan exited her car and wondered how many of the people there were Weres.

  A few steps had her behind a trio of young women, all babbling about what they expected from the evening. One of them mentioned Calhoun. “I heard that he’s been here all week.”

  “He was all over some woman two nights ago,” another one responded. “I do mean all over, on the dancefloor. I think you’re out of luck.”

  The first, a blonde, sniffed while adjusting her bright blue, second-skin mini-dress. “Don’t count me out so fast.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Morgan increased her pace and pushed right through them. “Excuse me.”

  Once clear, she heard the second woman whisper, “That’s her.”

  “Now I’m really not worried,” the blonde said.

  We’ll see about that. Morgan went straight to the head of the line, and found Jerome on duty. The black man grinned. “Didn’t see you leave last night.”