Big Game (The V V Inn, Book 3) Page 6

  My pointed tongue dips to her center and trails up from the dripping opening to her hard nub peeking from its hood. “Yes! More like that,” she calls out while thrashing back and forth on the pillows.

  I know exactly what she wants and don’t intend to give it to her yet. At the top, I change my tactic and caress the inner folds with my tongue, skimming the sides of the clit where the nerve endings extend. “No, no, no…” she pleads, “back to the middle, you tease.”

  Spreading her legs even wider, I take one hand from holding her lips and tease her opening by pushing a finger in up to the first knuckle. I’m worried she might not feel it with all the wetness, but she immediately bears down and tries to force it deeper.

  “Oh, yes. That’s it. Get that finger in me.”

  Steadily I pump back and forth, working in the entire digit and curving it up as I pull out the stroke. I keep my licking focused to the right and left of her sensitive clit, not wanting her to peak. Soon, I’m able to double finger and this time apply pressure with both to the spongy spot at the top of her vaginal wall, curving up toward her clit from the inside.

  I stroke in a circle as her moans become louder and her squirming on the bed, more intense.

  “Please, Drew! Lick my clit, dammit! I want to come.”

  A smile forms on my face as I pull away from her succulent flesh. “As the lady wishes.”

  Without further direction, I amp up the pressure and speed of my fingers inside her, while zeroing in on the hard button above her pussy with my mouth. I rotate between sucking the heated flesh between my lips and flicking fast with my tongue.

  Her body bows off the bed and quivers beneath my hand and mouth. “Oh God, this feels different. Oh, God. I’m coming. Drew!”

  The ripple of her pleasure wraps around my fingers, squeezing them tight and pulling them in. The pulses through her body vibrate out from her spasming clit as her cries of pleasure bounce off the bedroom walls.

  I ease the pressure as her orgasm continues, not wanting to over rub the sensitized flesh. After a moment she relaxes on the bed, to stare down at me winded and flushed. “Holy crap. What did you do with your fingers?”

  A satisfied grin curves my mouth as I rise and lay down next to her, my own throbbing cock bobbing with each movement. “That, my dear, was your G-spot.”

  “Wow,” she says, wrapping her hand around my long cock and stroking. “Is there an equivalent for a guy? ‘Cause man, I’d like to return the favor. It was mind blowing.”

  I settle back on the pillows while my lover pumps my shaft up and down, exactly as I like. “Yes, there is.” My hips rise off the bed as my need to come tingles at the base of my prick. “But I don’t think I can handle it, right now.”

  Chapter Six

  Jonathan

  The scents of mud, dead grasses, and woods fill my lupine nose. I slow to a trot, making sure I don’t come up behind Romeo’s pack too closely. While there is no worry the wolves will get lost, I want to know how this scouting expedition turns out.

  The single females from the pack rallied around me and gave me more attention than I was prepared for. I’m not complaining, but getting a woody in wolf form isn’t like human form. Everyone can see, and when the bitches nuzzled the area, the wolf urge to mount was almost overwhelming. Damn, I knew I was horny, but I have no desire to hump like a mongrel my first time with a woman.

  Flashes of taking Ruby doggie-style whisper through my brain—thankfully, in my vision we’re both in human form or I’d be in real trouble. This is what happens when you hold back your desires too long, you wind up getting a boner like a teenager the moment a woman pays you any attention.

  A black body zips across my peripheral vision and turns mid-leap to plow into me. The weight of another werewolf slams my shoulder and Spike’s confusing scent wafts through my brain. We tumble to the ground and spring up to face one another. His dark fur has a glossy sheen and his muzzle hangs open in a playful manner with a long pink tongue dangling.

  What the hell does he want? I snap my jaws at his shoulder when he approaches, telling him to keep his distance. He bounds away, pulling his tongue in before closing his mouth. His head lowers, dipping slightly onto his extended front paws.

  In a split second, he charges and I rear up to meet his advance. We clash together, our front legs tangling—his mouth an open maw, angling for my throat. No tense growl of tension comes off him, and he playfully nips my lower jaw to show me the clash is all in fun. We bound apart and I lower my head, ears down, but in no way pinned back in a submissive show.

  What the hell? Since when do werewolves play like a bunch of puppies? A low rumble vibrates my chest—my way of letting him know his playful antics are not welcome right now. The flesh pulls back from my teeth and the snarl has the desired effect.

  Spike lowers his head, curves his back, and tucks his tail, pinning back his ears back while looking away to show he understands I’m not game to play. I ignore his show, looking into the brush, to let him know his apology is accepted, and he can stop the self-deprecating display.

  Apparently, I came across a little strong. The black wolf leaps forward, eagerness pouring from his exaggerated wiggle, and licks my jaw. To say I’m confused is putting it mildly. Weres don’t normally mimic our counter parts so closely while in animal form, but sometimes it’s the only way to convey intent.

  I walk away from the unwanted submissive show only to receive a wet, sniffing nose in my ass and balls. My furry form quickly whips around, and I snap a warning at Spike’s face to tell him to cut this shit out.

  His tongue once again lolls out in laughter, and he bounds away. What is it with that guy? If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was flirting with me. Is he a gay werewolf and thinks I am, too?

  With a snap at my flank and a playful yip, Spike darts into the sparse woods, to be swallowed up quickly by the low-growing underbrush. I continue along the scent trail left by the pack and focus my ears forward to catch any hint of when I might be getting too close. Eric and Pat were supposed to stay behind, but I hear them crashing through the woods behind me about half a mile back.

  In a few hundred yards, the scent of fresh blood carries on a breeze. The animal desire to rend with my teeth and feast on the flesh of prey clouds my mind. Steady. Don’t want to approach the others when their own feeding instincts will be running high, as well.

  As I pick up my pace, the aroma strengthens, and I hear the unmistakable growls of a feeding pack. Keeping my distance, I edge through bushes until I see Romeo and Elsa off to one side licking blood from their paws and muzzles. Further off, there’s a mass of other wolf bodies surrounding a carcass. From the underlying odor I’d wager they downed a caribou. Way luckier than I would’ve guessed.

  The ten wolves who attended this first hunt aren’t eating from hunger. They’re allowing their inner instincts to come to the surface and enjoy a few moments as true animals, acting and savoring their place in the pack.

  In a little while, I hear the unsubtle movements of Eric and Pat approaching. The three of us haven’t hunted much due to the lack of winter game. This early spring kill has to be strongly tempting their inner beasts. They follow my trail, approaching my spot in the bushes. At a glance from me, they settle down, lowering to the ground and putting their heads on their paws, ears perked and staring toward the feasting wolves.

  The pack moves away, having its fill, with no sign of Spike joining. In fact, he’s been absent since I last saw him streak off. Romeo walks to our location twenty yards away from their kill, head high and ears forward. He looks to the carcass then away, letting me know his pack no longer has an interest in it. In a final show, he turns his back on our group of three and trots into the woods, toward the inn.

  I have no desire to feed from the caribou. I plan to keep my wolf tightly leashed during this week to ensure no conflicts between Romeo and me. A small whine issues from Pat, as he holds his tightly coiled body, ready to pounce on the bloody remains. I wait
until the others have trailed after their alphas before giving the two young pups their freedom.

  With a soft snort from me, the two leap from the bushes and race to check out the hull of the carcass. I pad over to the fleeting pack’s exit route and settle down to ensure no one backtracks to harass the young ones.

  Eric gnaws on a rib while Pat drags a leg bone to the edge of the clearing. A loud pop echoes in the distance, northeast. Recognition whips my head around. Gunshot. I raise my nose to the breeze, scenting for a precise location. Two more pops echo and a yip of pain sounds nearby.

  I burst forward, the instinct to protect my pack overriding common sense to run away from gunfire. Pat limps toward me, head down, ears back, favoring his back right leg. Eric circles the kill, lost as to what to do. I race, past Pat, toward the dark gray wolf and nip at Eric’s haunches. On my way to the hobbling, silver form of Patrick, I look over my shoulder to make sure Eric follows us.

  The urge to race toward the shooter, discover our assailant–and rip them limb from limb—pushes against my will like a living beast. My current job is not to hunt, but to protect the wounded in our small pack and find safety. Protect! Protect! I scream into my mind, trying to override the hard wiring within to search and attack.

  Eric follows me as we trot in a weaving pattern away from the kill site. Ahead, Romeo’s pack barrels through the woods toward us. A few try to approach Pat, scenting his bloodied wound, but a show of teeth from Eric and me keeps them back. I don’t think they’d do him any harm, but I’m not willing to risk his safety further.

  Romeo sees I have the situation under control and takes off in the direction of the gunfire, Elsa and the others on his heels. I’m betting they plan to fan out and catch the shooter in a wide net.

  Eric and I flank our weakened packmate, setting a fair pace to the inn and medical attention. At a mile into our trek, I angle toward one of the outermost cameras, still quite a distance from the inn’s developed area. We pause for a moment and I circle around to sniff Pat’s wound, hoping Asa is monitoring the cameras and can see the torn skin and blood on the black and white image.

  Time moves slowly, but we arrive at the hot tub grotto with no further incident. Pat’s lost a lot of blood, often needing a nudge to keep going when he wanted to lie down and instinctually make the shift to human form. After the first step onto the paved walkway, he collapses and the change slams him.

  Screams rip from his throat as his body convulses and thrashes, trying to reshape. The transformation is more painful if injured and have fought the inner need to change, which will normally heal mild damage. The good news is he’ll soon pass out and won’t feel it anymore. Calling my will, the change flows over me, ‘til I’m human once more, and scooping up the still-transforming Pat.

  He’s blacked out and doesn’t feel the crack and snap of his bones melding forcefully back into place. I’ve coached them to change more frequently because it becomes easier with practice—but practice doesn’t help when he’s unconscious from pain.

  I carry the semi-furry, semi-naked form to the outside shower set up for the Weres. After wrestling Pat’s weight to free a hand, I adjust the water and soon the worst of the past hour is washed away. Eric walks nude to the kitchen door leading to Viv and Rafe’s suite, as the unflappable Dr. Cook opens it, coming out to assist us.

  “What happened?” she calls out, hustling over with clean towels.

  “Pat was shot.” I step from the shower stall and the doctor drapes a towel over Pat’s middle and dries his limbs with another.

  “Let’s get him inside and see the wound,” the older woman says. “Take him to the basement.”

  Eric emerges wearing a pair of sweatpants to take Pat from me. “I’ll carry him in so you can dry off.”

  Dr. Cook tosses me the last towel, and I follow their retreating forms into the building.

  “No, no, you fool. Not their couch.” The doctor calls out to change Eric’s direction. “The basement. He’s not going to die for crying out loud and blood is really hard to get out of furniture fabric.”

  I push aside the angry retort clouding my mind. No need to fight when she’s right. He won’t die from a leg wound. Asa stands in the hallway going down to the basement stairs, carefully avoiding the fading sunlight from the kitchen windows. “Can I help?”

  “Just move,” Eric says. “The doctor wants him downstairs.”

  “I set up the medical table and laid out supplies.”

  “Good boy,” the auburn-haired doctor pats Asa on the arm as she goes by. “That’s a big help to me. I’ll be able to start right away.”

  Eric makes his way down and through the halls, then carefully sets his injured friend on the examining table. The towels come away and it’s clear the wound is deep, but there are entrance and exit wounds, two rounded holes.

  “Holy shit,” Asa barks, trying to hold in a laugh. “I don’t know which is funnier, the fact that Pat got shot in the ass or that he has a fat chick tattooed on a butt cheek.”

  Eric gives him a shove, but the comment is just what we needed to diffuse the tension.

  Dr. Cook shakes her head while examining the injuries. “You young people today. Thinking you invented sex and anything interesting. Tattoos last for life, you idiots! I have no idea why this handsome young man would want an unattractive woman on his butt for all eternity.”

  “Well, now it’s a torn-up fat lady, to boot,” Asa remarks. “That’s one grisly-looking bullet hole.”

  The doctor motions to a cart nearby. “Hand me that bottle, Eric.”

  He steps into the room to fulfill her request, smiling when he turns back to his brother. “You’re not going to get all vampy on us and lock your mouth on his ass, are you?”

  “Hell, no!” A look of true revulsion crosses Asa’s face. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that hungry.”

  Dr. Cook dabs at the wound with a cleansing agent and Pat comes screaming back to consciousness.

  “Fuck! That burns!” He glances at the doctor. “Hey, could you go a little easier? It really hurts.”

  The doctor harrumphs under her breath while readying sutures. “Almost as much as that tattoo?”

  “What?” Pat looks confused. “Oh, that.” His old smartass expression races across his features. “Keep your comments to yourself, thank you very much. How about you focus on the bloody holes giving me horrible pain?”

  Asa laughs. “Man, all you do is bitch and moan. Do you have anything positive to say, ever?”

  “Yeah, okay. How about ‘aint it nice I got shot in the ass and not that stupid vampire’? Is that better?” Pat lets out a howl of protest when the threaded needle punctures his skin. “Damn it woman, don’t you have drugs? This isn’t how a real hospital treats a patient.”

  “Drugs will slow down your werewolf ability to heal faster,” she replies in a soft voice. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  Another yowl erupts from the enraged Pat. “You’ve got to be lying. That sounds like bullshit to me. I want drugs, woman!”

  I shake my head and wander toward the command center. The kill zone was off the camera grid, but I wonder if Asa saw anyone on the property who shouldn’t have been.

  Pat’s cries of pain and complaints continue until Eric offers him a leather belt to bite. Asa makes his way to my location, still cracking up over Pat.

  “Shot in the ass. Damn, that’s funny.” He looks up and meets my stoic gaze.

  “Yes, except you’re forgetting this wasn’t friendly fire. Someone is on our land. I want to see all feeds from the last few hours, right now. We need to figure out what the fuck happened.”

  Chapter Seven

  Paul

  Muted gray light seeps past my eyelids. I stretch in the king-sized bed and wonder what everyone is up to. It’s late afternoon, and I’m always the last one in the seethe to rise from my forced undead sleep. In Alaska, Vivian stays up almost non-stop, but I bet even here she’d succumb to the pull of rest whether she wanted to or
not. If I asked, would she tell me or give me one of her usual enigmatic smiles?

  The heavy drapes and tinted glass of the enclosed balcony ensured I wasn’t fried in my restorative siesta during the sun’s highpoint. A shiver steals over me, underscoring that I prefer to sleep in a basement where there is no accidental risk of exposure when defenseless. Maybe this place has a basement? I’ll have to ask.

  I rise and pad to the bathroom to get ready. I’d love to spend time in the kitchen working on some dishes. Flavia gave me a tour before she and her husband departed for the evening. They’d stocked the pantry and fridge well for our arrival.

  I pull on a faded pair of jeans and an old “Bite the Cook, He Likes it Al Dente” t-shirt before cracking open the door to the hallway. The darkened passage looks safe, no stray burning beams of fading sunlight. I ease out and shut the door, thankful I’m not sharing a suite with Tommy and Bob. They’re nice guys and all, but in a weak moment they could become my unexpected dinner.

  I travel the lit stairwell and emerge on one side of the foyer. Blackout fabric covers the many doors leading to the enclosed courtyard, preventing any chance of injury. Hmm… Vivian has thought of everything. Well, in half a century, I guess you’d learn a thing or two—or died long before.

  Canned laughter from a television issues from the living room wing, and voices drift from the opposite side of the foyer, indicating more people are gathered in the kitchen. The scent of fresh coffee fills the air and the ending sounds of a sputtering cycle means a new pot has finished brewing.

  In the kitchen, Rafe sits at the long island, laptop open in front of him. Dressed in dark jeans and blue top, his face shows deep concentration as he examines the screen. Distant laughing brings my eye to the retreating forms of Drew and Chelly, arms wrapped around each other’s waist while they disappear into the game room.

  I head straight for the coffee pot across the room, snagging Rafe’s empty mug as I go by. “More joe, boss?”