Celia Kyle's Blog, page 31

Bear nearly kills her…

And on that fateful day, Simi resolves to trust in Cougar, to listen to her animal counterpart and learn to value her dead-on instincts. So they run. As fast and as far as their legs can carry them. Away from Bear's abuse and the miserable life they've led. Sadly for them, with little money in hand, it isn't nearly far enough.

For weeks, Simi and Cougar live on the streets, lying low and staying off of Bear's radar. But the frigid temperatures of winter force them to seek food and shelter elsewhere…risking their safety and their lives all over again.

But by doing so, Simi and Cougar also find their mate—a volunteer named Brand who shows her that kindness still exists, even for a battered, wary woman such as herself.

Before she can even think about moving on with her life, Simi knows she has to first conquer her fears and rid herself of her abuser, once and for all. Only then, can she and Cougar escape the clutches of Bear's hate and rage and persevere…and find salvation in the arms of a wolf who's generosity has no limit.

Pages: 104 ~ Words: 26432

They met over the gravy boat. Literally. Both sniffing and inhaling, getting closer and closer by the second…

Simi was cold and starving, and the chill air of winter seemed to sink right into her bones, no matter how many layers she'd piled on. Too bad going furry wasn't exactly the answer to her problem. People might find it a bit disconcerting to see a golden cougar running around the streets of downtown.

So she stayed upright in human form, trudging through the slushy snow, searching for a place to stay for the night. Temperatures were supposed to drop below zero, and she needed somewhere to hide. To eat.

And when she least expected it, for once, God answered her prayers, her salvation emerging in the form of a conversation she overheard. Plodding past a burn barrel, two men were talking about Satisfied Women's Shelter & Soup Kitchen, complaining they'd get a meal, but not much else. Spouting off that the director was a mean bitch that discriminated against men, saving all the available cots for the female kind.

Simi didn't have to understand the reasoning. Right now, she and the animal counterpart inside her, Cougar, needed a warm place to stay. And even if it was for just one night, Satisfied sounded like it could offer them a temporary safe haven from the bitter cold. For someone on the run, just like her. So beaten down, broken, brainwashed, that it had taken near death for her to finally have the courage to leave, only to find she really had nowhere to go. At least, not far enough away from Malcolm. She knew he'd find her—it was just a matter of when.

Should she risk it? Risk Malcolm finding her at the shelter? Until now, she'd shied away from those places, stayed under the radar so she wouldn't be caught. When she'd run, she did it with the clothes on her back, her winter coat the only luxury she'd been able to take with her. Little money, no credit cards. Malcolm had everything under lock and key. Speaking of which, she was down to her last five dollar bill, and with her metabolism demanding more sustenance than she could scrounge from dumpsters, Simi's stomach imposed its will and made the decision for her—to seek out the shelter.

Cautiously making her way through the entrance to Satisfied, she knew it was a risk, but to her, a much needed and calculated one. Cold weather meant warm food, hopefully more food than she'd had in past couple of weeks. Cougar was restless, hungry, whining every day that it needed more, needed out…just needed something other than sleeping in the cold, digging through trash. Running on empty, the animal in her was tired of hiding.

Standing in line to be served, Simi watched the man holding the gravy boat across from her, glad that Cougar had urged her to seek out the shelter in the first place. He was gorgeous in a rough way. A black five o'clock shadow covered the lower half of his face, the color matching his dark hair, its gentle waves just begging for her to run her fingers through the tresses. His eyes were a piercing green, like perfect emeralds glowing in the dim light of the dining room.

"Gravy, little one?"

Simi jerked, unaware that she'd been staring, deep in thought for so long. She'd backed up the line while lost in her daydreaming. "Yes, please," she whispered, the sound barely audible to even her own heightened sense of hearing, but nevertheless, she hoped the stranger had heard her.

Cougar whimpered, anxious to eat, like a ravenous animal, wanting to devour the entire turkey she'd passed by. But Simi persevered. She'd be eating well enough for the evening. And if she were lucky, there might even be a bed or a corner she could occupy for the night.

The volunteer ladled the steaming brown fluid over her turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing, and with a humble nod, she whispered, "Thank you."

She moved down the line, taking a roll and silverware from other volunteers. Edging along behind fellow unfortunates like herself, she nearly dropped her tray when a soft touch landed on her jacketed arm.

Mr. Five O'clock Shadow stood there, concern marring his features, brows pinched and lips drawn into a frown. "Hey, it's okay. Just thought you might want to eat somewhere else. You know, away from here." He pulled his hand away, ever-so-slowly, holding his palms outward, as if to show he didn't mean her any harm. "Easy." The man dropped his voice as she had earlier. "It seems as if you're not exactly comfortable around people, little one. Or should I call you…little cat?"

She'd guessed right. Or scented, rather. She hadn't given it a second thought, but she'd caught the hint of something while being served by him. Something earthy and wild and free. Whatever he held within, it was pleased with his human counterpart. She too longed for a bit of happiness. If only she knew how…

She nodded, trying her best to form a smile with her unwilling lips.

"Come along, hon."

He turned away and she followed. Simi glanced back every so often, checking faces but recognizing none. Didn't mean she hadn't been followed. Didn't mean any of the people in the room weren't looking for her. Malcolm had spies. Everywhere.

The volunteer reached a door and opened it, beckoning her to enter. She slid past him, not touching. Never touching. It was a rule. One of Malcolm's many rules.

She shook her head, dispelling the life she'd once known. With Malcolm, anything and everything had rules. Simi knew she needed to forget them now, if she ever wanted to give herself a chance at a fresh start.

She slid into the chair in front of the massive desk occupying the office, then placed her tray on the smooth, wooden surface.

Lisa Bradenton is breaking out of her shell. And what better way to take a walk on the "wild-one-night-stand-side" than a visit to the infamous Trasola? At the urging of her friends, Lisa goes to the bar with the hopes of finding a lover to take her mind off her ex-boyfriend. Soon after walking through the door, she's overwhelmed by the sexy bartender who has a quick smile, seductive eyes, and a deep, rumbling voice. He's definitely one-night stand material. Most. Definitely.

Jonathan and his inner beast crave the sexy, sultry, and curvy siren's touch, but Lisa's smile and a good conversation aren't going to be enough for him. To his surprise, even after he's made love to her, he finds himself craving so much more. The temptress' pretty looks reeled him in, but he's forever mesmerized by her innocence and modest nature. So when she just disappears, after one night of heavenly bliss, he wonders what the hell he's supposed to do? Because Lisa is his mate, and without her, life won't be worth living.

Pages: 61 ~ Words: 15329

Publisher's Note: This title has been previously released with another publisher under the title, "Silk Panties."

I can do this, right? Right. It's one night. Look out world, Lisa Bradenton is breaking out. Boom! There, the shell of her former self was gone and in its place was a vivacious bombshell just waiting to get it on with a hunky guy. For one night only.

Her hands, unfortunately, weren't on the same page as her thoughts. They were sweating and clammy, and absolutely refused to release the steering wheel of her car as if they had a mind of their own. This had seemed like a good idea as she got dressed for the evening. Now, after she'd made the hour-long journey, here she sat having doubts.

"Break out of your shell!" they'd said. "Live a little!"

"The only way you'll get over him is to have a quick, no-strings-attached fuck. And Cole? Cole knows how to hook ya up with someone who will rock your world. Guar-an-teed." That had been Rochelle. But what sealed the deal were three little words: We dare you. Lisa had agreed her friends were right about needing to live it up a little. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, off they went, planning her little night out all the way down to her pink silk panties. Gah! She was a heifer! What did she need with silk panties? It didn't matter; her friends had decided she'd be wearing the skimpy panties so that's what she wore.

The one thing she needed to help her get over her ex was a roll in the hay with a hottie. Then her ex would be out of her system and she could move on. The only problem with the plan was that she'd never been a one-night-stand kind of girl. Like, ever.

Her first and only lover had been her ex, Mick. Or, Mick-the-dick as Rochelle called him. Rochelle always did have a way with words, and her assessment of Lisa's ex had been spot on. Mick was a dick. Lisa also found out, after a recent and rather enlightening conversation with Ro, that not only was he a dick, he had a small one to boot!

How was she to know? She'd never been with another lover and never even peeked at Playgirl. Until she'd had enough of Mick's cheating, she'd never even thought of being with another man. Now, six months after their break-up, she was sitting outside Trasola, psyching herself up to go inside and pick up a one-night-stand.

Lisa's cell phone rang and she dug through her purse, searching for the ringing offender. "Hello?"

"Get out of the car." Rochelle.

"How do you know I'm still in the car? I could be freaking a hunky man right now for all you know."

Rochelle snorted into the phone. "Baby, if you were fucking a hunky man, you sure as hell wouldn't be answering the phone. Besides, I know you remember? I know that you're sitting in your car, psyching yourself up to go in there. So, go already! You look hot! What's the problem?"

The problem? Ro wanted to know the problem? Well, she'd never done anything like this before, for one. And two, she'd only ever had sex with Mick. He obviously wasn't happy with her performance since he cheated on her. What if she sucked at it?

"Why couldn't you guys come with me? I can wait here while you drive over."

"No. This is about you getting a grip on your life and what you want. This is not about hiding behind the group. Mick pushed you into the shadows with his insults and controlling behavior. We're pushing you back out. Get. Out. Of. The. Car. Go and find some one-time lover that thinks you're the hottest thing on two legs and get the Dick out of your head, once and for all. Cole knows you're coming in tonight and promises to keep an eye on you so you don't end up with a freak that's too freaky. Get going!"

Good Lord, the owner of the bar knew she was coming in and looking for loving.

Could she be any more embarrassed?

Rochelle was right. Crude, but right none the less. Plus, it made her feel a little better that the owner of the bar, Cole, was a friend of Ro's and he'd make sure she didn't end up with a total nut-job. Sighing, she let her head drop back to the headrest and closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled it slowly through her mouth before responding to her friend. "You're right. I'm doing it. I'll call you guys in the morning."

"You go girl!"

Laughing, she clicked the phone shut and put it back in her purse, double-checking to make sure she had the essentials: lipstick, keys, and condoms. Lisa scrambled from the car before she had a chance to second-guess herself, again.

Walking became a new experience for her in Rochelle's four-inch stilettos, but tonight was about busting out of her old rut. Cute sandals were out, and sexy freak me pumps were in.

The shoes and the clothes had all been chosen and forced onto her by her friends.

There was no way she'd have ever gone out in such a tight fitting, short ensemble otherwise.

Lisa had curves. No, not just curves, her curves had curves. Every minute Lisa spent wrapped in Rochelle's mostly spandex and flowing chiffon clothing she felt like she'd pop a stitch. But the girls had assured her that she looked hawt. Of course, they said it in their best Paris Hilton voice.

Tugging at her skirt as she approached the door, she took a deep breath and stepped into the bar. Looking around she was relieved to see that the interior looked like any other bar. Unless you knew the type of people, human and not, who frequented Trasola, you'd never know it catered primarily to creatures that went bump in the night. She just hoped they'd want to bump her.

Sela's a hot, curvaceous werewolf who minds her own business, and is simply trying to live a normal life. Little does she know that her world is about to come crashing down. The last thing she's expecting is to cross paths with a yeti. But that's exactly what happens when a crazy pack-mate locks her in a freezer. Yup, you guessed it…with a goddamn yeti. At which point, that seemingly normal life of hers begins to spiral out of control. Starting with the hotter than hot man licking his chops that's fully intent on eating her…sadly for her, she, and not what's between her legs is on the menu.

Though at first Yosi cursed himself for ever having stopped in this backwoods town for a bite to eat, he's now happier than a pig in shit that he did. Because the mundane life he's led now revolves around finding as many ways to pleasure his luscious mate, Sela, that his dirty little mind can think up.

Yeti! Were? contains the four short stories: Ice Cold Yeti, Are We There Yeti?, Yeti! Again, and Not Yeti!. These titles have been previously released with another publisher.

Buy it from Summerhouse Publishing

They met in a meat locker. Okay, honestly, it was an industrial deep freezer, but they all looked the same to Sela. Meat lockers, freezers, all were lined in metal and cold as hell, if hell was a frozen wasteland lined with meat.

Damn her alpha Royce and his misguided acceptance of everyone. He should have killed Ron, the weasel in wolf's fur, long ago. But no, he was the alpha's brother, he just needed understanding, a bit of counseling and massive doses of medication and he'd be fine. Whatever. Yeah, Ron was fine all right, so fine that he had to threaten death to get a female to rut with him. Of course, she hadn't made it any better by telling him she'd rather die than fuck him. Too bad Ron took her up on her dare. And not one of her pack stepped forward to stop him. The cowards.

Then again, Ron always was an idiot. Sure, she'd be uncomfortable in the cold locker, but the man seemed to have forgotten that she was a wolf. Not only that, it was the night of shift, the midnight moon. The moon would rise, calling to her beast, and she'd have no choice but to shift or fuck through the frenzy in order to remain human.

Survival was as easy as shifting and settling in a corner until the pack-owned meat factory opened on Monday. Too bad the pack would have to trash all of the meat in the freezer. Hey, a girl's got to pee sometime. She'd find a nice corner on the other side of the room to take care of personal business and settle on a few boxes to laze the weekend away.

Of course, those plans were thwarted the minute he was shoved through the door. He was what she'd consider a big, hulking, tall drink of water with a bit of rum mixed in for good measure. Scratch that, he appeared to be more rum than water.

His skin carried a deep beige tone that appeared to be natural and not sun induced, as if he was from a Middle Eastern country. But he didn't look like any Middle Easterner she'd ever seen. He. Was. Huge. Like Incredible Hulk but not green, huge.

Dressed in tight fitting, faded blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt that showed every single bulge, dip and curve of muscle, the man wasn't exactly dressed for a weekend in the freezer. Damn. She could last all weekend, but this guy? Nah, he wouldn't make it through the night, no matter how many muscles the man boasted.

Those muscles were good for heavy lifting, but not for insulating against the cold. And he was such a prime specimen of manhood too. Sela supposed she'd have to figure out how to get them out of the metallic room for his sake more than hers. She might be a bitch, literally, but she wasn't a bitch or deranged like Ron. She couldn't sit idly by while a human froze to death in her presence.

Relaxing on a pallet of hamburgers, she watched as he pounded the solid doors with his ham-sized fists. The metal dented and bent under his constant barrage of blows. Impressive. She'd give it to the guy, he was wickedly strong. He hadn't seemed to have noticed her presence yet, so she remained quiet, observing him from afar. At least she could stare at him for a while. Too bad it couldn't be a long while.

Between the cold threatening his life and her increasing desire to shift or fuck, they had to get out of there. She would have been perfectly happy to stay in the freezer, locked up with the mystery man and fucking him cross-eyed, but he'd never survive the cold. And if they didn't get out of the room soon, she'd become a lust-crazed fucking machine or would shift and chase the big man as if he were her next meal. Decisions, decisions. Sela checked her watch. Only eight. She still had a few hours until midnight and the full moon rise. She could resist the change and not have to fuck for a few hours yet.

The man began rubbing his palms together, blowing air from his lungs onto his clasped hands. Sela furrowed her brow. Sure, it was cold, but not that cold. He hadn't even been in the room longer than a minute or two. Then he began hopping in place, stamping his mammoth-sized feet on the concrete floor. The man acted as if he'd been thrown out into the middle of a blizzard. She looked at her arms and legs. A few smatterings of goose bumps covered her cinnamon skin. Wiggling her perfectly French manicured toes wrapped in the tiny scraps of leather of her sandals, she realized her toes weren't even cold. She'd been in the room for over half an hour and she didn't seem to be as affected as this stranger. Curious.

The stranger continued alternating between hopping and stomping his big, leather boot covered feet on the ground, rubbing his hands and arms as he paced in front of the door. He was probably looking for the release mechanism. He wouldn't find one. Not because it didn't exist, but because the release was actually a long cord that normally hung from the ceiling. Pity Ron and his goons had dispensed with it when they shoved her in there. Sela couldn't wait to be free so she could exact revenge on the mongrel. Brother of the alpha or not, he'd pay and then she'd go on the run and settle somewhere nice and quiet. She'd preferably like to settle in a place without a pack or other wolves to deal with.

Sela continued to stare at the man, following him from one side of the door to the other, his ass and thighs flexing and teasing her with each step. Damn, the pull of the moon felt strong tonight.

The creators of "Mission Impossible" would be proud. After weeks of preparation, spying, bribing, and generally underhanded behavior, Ashley's about to get her reward: Trevor. The man's stubborn but she's prepared to out-stubborn him. He doesn't have a chance. Maybe mighty Trevor had risen the corporate ladder over her, but Ashley's grandma always said, "what goes up must come down." And Ashley's going to make darned sure that Trevor would be going down—in this elevator with her, and if she just happened to be dressed in her new Domme wear…well, then he can go down in a whole different way.

Buy it from Summerhouse Publishing

She needed theme music. Something like "Mission Impossible" but with a bit more sex appeal. That thought came to Ashley as she tugged on the belt of her black trench coat for the thousandth time. Nothing she could do about it now, though. Any second, the elevator would begin its nightly climb to the thirtieth floor, bigwig central. It would pick up its lone occupant for the evening and then begin its descent to the first floor. Because what goes up must come down. Of course, on its way down, it would pick up one additional passenger.

The LCD panel above the elevator doors came to life, slowly rising in number as the metal box made its ascent along the shaft. Her phone buzzed against her hip and she pressed the Talk button on her Bluetooth headset.

"Hello?" Ashley didn't know why, but she whispered. It wasn't like anyone else was in the building this late at night. Well, anyone but her, the man about to enter the elevator, and Marlon.

"It's going up." Marlon, the building security guard, had a penchant for stating the obvious.

"Yes, I can see that. Is our deal still in place?" She needed to make sure, doubly sure, he'd taken care of everything and wouldn't allow her to be interrupted. Tonight was too important for the aging man to suddenly gain a conscience or simply forget to turn the elevator alarm off so that it didn't notify emergency services. She really didn't want to explain her outfit to some fireman or police officer. Really.

"Yep, long as you've got a place for me come the end of the year."

"I do." The bribe hadn't been a difficult one to agree to, but she'd make sure he got what he wanted, without fail.

"Then I don't believe there will be a problem for you this evening, Miss Ashley."

"Excellent. Thank you, Marlon." She pushed the button again, disconnecting the call. During their brief chat, the elevator had continuously been rising, passing floor after floor.

The red numbers taunted her as they switched from one number to another. As the elevator rose in its shaft, the bile in her stomach rose toward the back of her throat. Nerves caused the muscles of her abdomen to twitch and her belly to churn. Maybe it had all been a mistake. No. She wouldn't back out now. Not after all the preparation she'd gone through.

Enough was enough. Trevor had brought this all on himself, and she wasn't about to let him get away with what he'd done. She'd tried to be the sweet, submissive girlfriend and where the hell had that gotten her? Thrown to the curb. Now, she'd get her way and there wasn't anything he could do about it. At least, not while they were in the elevator.

The red lights showed the number thirty and Ashley's heart stopped. The elevator would be descending soon. Any second now it would begin its way back to the lobby. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the Down button and waited. Ashley had plotted, planned, followed, and bribed people, okay, a person, for this chance. There was no going back now.

Ashley pulled at the belt of her jacket, sliding one end through the other as she untied the slipknot. She brushed the belt ends aside and worked at the buttons, sliding them through the holes with increasing speed as the elevator approached her floor.

She let the coat slip from her shoulders, and the fabric skimmed her arms as it fell toward the floor and pooled at her feet. She hoped Marlon would remember to pick it up during his rounds and keep it safe for her. The red LCD lights continued to count down from thirty.

Twenty-nine…twenty-eight…twenty-seven… One more floor.

The soft ding signaling the elevator's arrival echoed in the tile lined foyer of the twenty-sixth floor, but she ignored the sound. Seconds ticked by as she waited for the elevator to settle and open its doors. Her heart rate increased with each passing moment until she felt her heart would burst from her chest, and she thought it'd simply stop from overexertion before she got a chance to finish what she'd started. Then…then the elevator doors did what she'd been waiting for. They opened.

Trevor stood in the center of the elevator dressed in his typical business suit with perfectly pressed, exorbitantly expensive shirt and tie. He held his jacket at his side with his fingertips, leaving his upper body clad only in his dress shirt. With his promotion, he'd upgraded to Armani. And true to form, he didn't carry a briefcase as work was best done in an office and never at home.

She made a note to tear the thing from his body, popping off each and every twenty-dollar button she could find. Of course, tearing the clothes from his back meant she'd get an eyeful of his body. Not that she was complaining, of course. With lightly tanned skin stretched over each rippling muscle, she'd be the last woman to complain at having to stare at his bare chest and six-pack abs.

His six pack led to his trim waist and in the front, those lickable lines on his hips. In the back, an ass she couldn't wait to nibble…and bounce a quarter off of just to see if she could. His legs were long, equally muscled, and also wrapped in Armani. Scissors. She was sure the expensive tailored wool suit would melt away like butter beneath a hot knife with her newly sharpened safety scissors. That thought alone almost made her smile.

The epitome of a man on the rise stood before her, and her knees shook as the enormity of what she was about to do landed on her shoulders like a grand piano. In fact, if she listened hard enough, she was sure she could hear Jerry Lee Lewis's "Great Balls of Fire" echoing from the imaginary keys.

Tolerance isn't just the name of a small city in Georgia. It's a way of life…

Sara and Chloe are moving home. College done, degrees earned, they're ready to open their own accounting firm. Of course, they're moving home, to Tolerance and their brother, Joe. Joe loves his sisters, their different personalities despite identical looks. Except his love runs a bit deeper than a traditional relationship between brother and sisters. He wants them like he's ever wanted another woman. But do they want him just as much?

Available Now from Coming Together

The creators of "Mission Impossible" would be proud. After weeks of preparation, spying, bribing, and generally underhanded behavior, Ashley's about to get her reward: Trevor. The man's stubborn but she's prepared to out-stubborn him. He doesn't have a chance. Maybe mighty Trevor had risen the corporate ladder over her, but Ashley's grandma always said, "what goes up must come down." And Ashley's going to make darned sure that Trevor would be going down—in this elevator with her, and if she just happened to be dressed in her new Domme wear…well, then he can go down in a whole different way.

Available Now From Summerhouse Publishing

She needed theme music. Something like "Mission Impossible" but with a bit more sex appeal. That thought came to Ashley as she tugged on the belt of her black trench coat for the thousandth time. Nothing she could do about it now, though. Any second, the elevator would begin its nightly climb to the thirtieth floor, bigwig central. It would pick up its lone occupant for the evening and then begin its descent to the first floor. Because what goes up must come down. Of course, on its way down, it would pick up one additional passenger.

The LCD panel above the elevator doors came to life, slowly rising in number as the metal box made its ascent along the shaft. Her phone buzzed against her hip and she pressed the Talk button on her Bluetooth headset.

"Hello?" Ashley didn't know why, but she whispered. It wasn't like anyone else was in the building this late at night. Well, anyone but her, the man about to enter the elevator, and Marlon.

"It's going up." Marlon, the building security guard, had a penchant for stating the obvious.

"Yes, I can see that. Is our deal still in place?" She needed to make sure, doubly sure, he'd taken care of everything and wouldn't allow her to be interrupted. Tonight was too important for the aging man to suddenly gain a conscience or simply forget to turn the elevator alarm off so that it didn't notify emergency services. She really didn't want to explain her outfit to some fireman or police officer. Really.

"Yep, long as you've got a place for me come the end of the year."

"I do." The bribe hadn't been a difficult one to agree to, but she'd make sure he got what he wanted, without fail.

"Then I don't believe there will be a problem for you this evening, Miss Ashley."

"Excellent. Thank you, Marlon." She pushed the button again, disconnecting the call. During their brief chat, the elevator had continuously been rising, passing floor after floor.

The red numbers taunted her as they switched from one number to another. As the elevator rose in its shaft, the bile in her stomach rose toward the back of her throat. Nerves caused the muscles of her abdomen to twitch and her belly to churn. Maybe it had all been a mistake. No. She wouldn't back out now. Not after all the preparation she'd gone through.

Enough was enough. Trevor had brought this all on himself, and she wasn't about to let him get away with what he'd done. She'd tried to be the sweet, submissive girlfriend and where the hell had that gotten her? Thrown to the curb. Now, she'd get her way and there wasn't anything he could do about it. At least, not while they were in the elevator.

The red lights showed the number thirty and Ashley's heart stopped. The elevator would be descending soon. Any second now it would begin its way back to the lobby. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the Down button and waited. Ashley had plotted, planned, followed, and bribed people, okay, a person, for this chance. There was no going back now.

Ashley pulled at the belt of her jacket, sliding one end through the other as she untied the slipknot. She brushed the belt ends aside and worked at the buttons, sliding them through the holes with increasing speed as the elevator approached her floor.

She let the coat slip from her shoulders, and the fabric skimmed her arms as it fell toward the floor and pooled at her feet. She hoped Marlon would remember to pick it up during his rounds and keep it safe for her. The red LCD lights continued to count down from thirty.

Twenty-nine…twenty-eight…twenty-seven… One more floor.

The soft ding signaling the elevator's arrival echoed in the tile lined foyer of the twenty-sixth floor, but she ignored the sound. Seconds ticked by as she waited for the elevator to settle and open its doors. Her heart rate increased with each passing moment until she felt her heart would burst from her chest, and she thought it'd simply stop from overexertion before she got a chance to finish what she'd started. Then…then the elevator doors did what she'd been waiting for. They opened.

Trevor stood in the center of the elevator dressed in his typical business suit with perfectly pressed, exorbitantly expensive shirt and tie. He held his jacket at his side with his fingertips, leaving his upper body clad only in his dress shirt. With his promotion, he'd upgraded to Armani. And true to form, he didn't carry a briefcase as work was best done in an office and never at home.

She made a note to tear the thing from his body, popping off each and every twenty-dollar button she could find. Of course, tearing the clothes from his back meant she'd get an eyeful of his body. Not that she was complaining, of course. With lightly tanned skin stretched over each rippling muscle, she'd be the last woman to complain at having to stare at his bare chest and six-pack abs.

His six pack led to his trim waist and in the front, those lickable lines on his hips. In the back, an ass she couldn't wait to nibble…and bounce a quarter off of just to see if she could. His legs were long, equally muscled, and also wrapped in Armani. Scissors. She was sure the expensive tailored wool suit would melt away like butter beneath a hot knife with her newly sharpened safety scissors. That thought alone almost made her smile.

The epitome of a man on the rise stood before her, and her knees shook as the enormity of what she was about to do landed on her shoulders like a grand piano. In fact, if she listened hard enough, she was sure she could hear Jerry Lee Lewis's "Great Balls of Fire" echoing from the imaginary keys.

Lyla's on the run from her pack's omega. Since he's at the bottom of the totem pole in her pack, this should be simple, right? Tell that to her aching lungs and jiggling thighs. She's never been one to go with the flow. So when her alpha orders her to submit to mating with the omega she's not about to start now. Good thing she runs into (literally) a big hunk of man who can make the scariest of wolves tuck tail and run.

Michael's had enough of weres to last a lifetime. After being caught in the middle of a territory war while in Brazil between the Pumas and Jaguars, he sure as hell doesn't want anything to do with the trouble following Lyla. But apparently no one told that to his cock.

Available Now from Summerhouse Publishing

The minute… No, the very second… Hell, the nanosecond she got away from this guy, Lyla was running straight to Gold's Gym and buying a membership. Maybe even two. More memberships had to mean more weight loss, right? Shit, she hoped so.

Lyla chanced a glance behind her and gasped at what she saw. Carl had almost gone full wolf as he chased her. His arms and face were covered in a mottled mix of grey and brown fur. His mouth had contorted and reshaped into a half-formed muzzle, and his hands … his hands had lengthened and were now tipped with fierce, razor-sharp claws. No way would she survive if he caught her. Damn. As pissed as he was at her for running, he'd slice and dice her instead mating. She picked up the pace, cursing herself for wearing three-inch heels instead of comfortable flats.

As she ran, the fat on her arms wiggled, her ass jiggled, and her thighs rubbed together. She mentally moved Gold's Gym to the very top of her list, above her next waxing appointment.

Now, running for her life from a freak of paranature, she finally understood why her mother used to harp on her about taking care of her human body. "Just because your wolf is fast doesn't mean you won't be caught human one of these days, baby doll," her mom used to say.

Today's the day, Mom.

Lyla skidded around a corner, breaking the heel of her left shoe in the process. Fuck!She stumbled, but caught herself before eating the pavement, and managed to only scrape her knee along the concrete. Now the pain in her side from running was accompanied by the searing, throbbing ache in her knee. So not good.

Her wolf clawed and scratched within, but she'd be damned if she went wolf in this area. Besides, letting the beast free was exactly what the sniveling omega, Carl, wanted.

Lyla kept running. She pushed Carl's behavior from her mind. Mutt or not, her Alpha had no right to enforce his power over her.

So what if she'd reached the ripe old age of thirty without mating. So what if she was a bit pudgy—okay, a lot pudgy. And so what if she worked a near dead-end job with no hopes of advancement, which Mr. Alpha-man felt was beneath a member of his pack, albeit a mutt. Just … So what!

Her breath came in billowing pants now. The pain from the stitch in her side warred and fought with the almost debilitating ache in her knee. And through it all, her wolf howled and paced within her. It, in its infinite wisdom, felt it could take down the lowly Carl. Good thing Lyla knew better.

A growl sounded from behind her, and she didn't dare look back. His shifted hand sliced through the back of her shirt, taking skin and flesh with it, and still she ran, cursing herself with every pounding step.

Why hadn't she demanded to be taken home, Alpha's wrath be damned?

She shoved the thoughts aside. Rehashing her mistakes during a run for her life wouldn't solve anything.

The houses and shops lining the street were dark at this hour. No help would come from within. Not that she expected any. She realized, almost too late, that Carl had driven her to the center of the inner-city wolf territory.

Fuck me!

Wait, that's right, that's what got her into this mess. The fact that she wouldn't…

Amy Kid rocks. Literally. Lead singer for i

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"One, two, three, four…

Give me five, then give me more…"

~Amy Kid, i

I fuckin' rock. Literally. Hard core, fuck you, lick my ass, rock. From my spiked ass hair to my tats and piercings, I am the embodiment of punk.

Except punks don't use words like 'embodiment' or 'literally.'

I play in front of tens of thousands at every concert, travel the world, spit in the faces of my fans and they love it.

I hate it. Hate my life, the time in front of the camera, being in the public eye.

The crowd is getting rowdy now. A glance at the clock shows I'm already an hour late, but that's typical. I'm known for being a bitch, making them wait, making them cater to me.

Besides, the record execs love that I do this. Give 'em all a big 'fuck you' and I rake in the money. Money that doesn't mean shit to me.

My hand is shaking while I line my eye, crooked streak of black below my bottom lid. Reporters will think I'm high or something. I'm not. Not yet, anyway. My stash is in the bottom of the makeup case, calling to me, begging me to pull it out, roll one, get a little buzz before I have to face the world.

But I've promised. Promised her I'd back off, get clean, but…

I can't. Gotta keep telling myself that.

My fingers are tight around the eye pencil, nails digging into my palm, knuckles white from resisting the urge to dig into the case. A shake of my head and I'm focusing on the mirror again, putting on the face of Amy Kid, lead singer of i

The liner is thick, practically drawn on with a crayon and the lips are next, deep red, simply because I like it. Reminds me of the color of my ass when She's done with it, lets me bring a bit of her on stage.

A drop of hair glue on my hands and I'm ruffling my short hair, spiking it in every direction. I look like a Chia Pet, but polls show the fans love it, so it stays. This week I'm sporting a nice rainbow of color: blues, pinks and greens.

Fuck, I'm getting too old for this. Except people depend on me. I've basically got a small town working for Fuckery and their livelihoods are in my hands. Yeah, there's a band behind me, but they get that I'm the lead, the star. Not that I want to be. But so it goes.

A roll of my shoulders, crack of my neck and shake of my arms and Amy Kid has settled over me, the rock star persona melding into little Amy Jones from the Midwest, Harvard grad and all around goodie two shoes.

Of course, ask the 'rents and they'll tell you I was corrupted in school, dragged into this cult of rockers and queers. They didn't have a problem taking the house I bought them, though.

I need to get ready, need to finish dressing, need…need just a quick hit, just a toke, mellow me out. I'll take whatever She gives me for a quick one. It'll be worth it.

A quick look over my shoulder and I see the door is closed. No one'll come in while I'm prepping. They know better. Except for Mia.

I dig through the case and I've got the little baggie in hand. Funny how you can find pot anywhere in the world, right? Papers are in a slim cigarette case, antique actually. I've got the top flipped, slipping a piece from the metal container and the door opens, a quiet click as it closes again and my eyes are wide, gaze meetings hers in the mirror. Fear is coursing through my veins now, a quick shift from anticipation. The door opens, then shuts. She's in the room with me now.

Mia is beautiful as always, perfectly wavy hair that falls around her shoulders in waves. It's jet black and I love burying my face in it, inhaling her scent. Her eyes are so dark they're almost black, and when she's pissed, like now, they truly are the color of midnight. On stiletto clad feet, she makes her way across the cracked tile floor. Click, click, click…

Slow, as if she's stalking me. And I can't do a thing but sit here quietly, waiting for her, what she's gonna say.

Her body rests against mine, her front to my naked back, and she plucks the papers and baggie from my hand, tossing them on the counter. She rests her palms on my shoulders, kneading my tense muscles, rubbing pressured circles over my upper back.

She leans down and her hair creates a curtain around us, cutting us off from the world, giving a sense of privacy we've never really had. "Need to relax, little one? You know you just have to ask."

I lean against her, take her strength, her power, into me. She's right, it's been one of our rules from the get-go, I ask for what I need and she decides if she'll provide it or tell me to 'buck up, buttercup.'

"Yes. I'm scattered. Tired?" I nuzzle her neck, inhaling her sweet scent, loving the perfume I'd bought her. It was a woman's scent, clean and floral and perfect for her. She's so beautiful and I'm so…plain. God, without makeup and in my jeans and t-shirts, I look like a boy. A pretty little twink, but a boy nonetheless. But she loves me, loves my skinny body, small tits and impish face. Loves that I'm over thirty and look like a teen. I tell her she's got an age-play fetish and she just laughs, telling me she's got an Amy fetish. "I need to relax, Mia, need to get on stage, need to do so many things and I'm exhausted."

There's a time in a dancer's life when movement is no longer a job and becomes their very soul, their world, their identity.

And when that world ceases to exist, they depend on those that they love to help pick up the pieces, dust them off and put them back together again. Abe's Dom is there for him when the bits scatter, ready to pick them up and slam them back together again. With apaddle, if need be.

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"Eroticism is like a dance: one always leads the other." ~ Milan Kundera

Harlow's there in the darkness, watching me, weighing me, deciding. And I stretch longer, push harder, feel the music in my bones as I move. I want to make him proud.

The Company is important, the other dancers, the choreographers and the benefactors…but Harlow…he's the world, the sun, the moon, the stars.

He's my inspiration, greatest cheerleader and supporter.

So I shift for him, extend my leg, raising it higher, pointing my toes, every muscle screaming with the movement, but his praise is worth it. Always worth it.

I don't care about the crowds, their support, because it's surface, superficial. They don't know me, don't kiss my toes when I come home and they're bleeding, don't massage my muscles after a long day.

They clap, they cheer and that's all some need.

Not me.

The tempo increases, growing louder, and I'm spinning, body tight. Heart pounding, the sweat on my forehead travels down the side of my face. But the sounds seep into my soul and I still dance.

I'm old now, older than most, and I feel it. But I can't stop. What if I stop and…

The chorus is fading into the background now. My primary partner and I re-enter, time for the Pas de deux. Time to pretend I love women, adore her, that I'm in love with and worship the very ground she walks upon.

I pretend she's Harlow.

Together we twine, moving in sync, countering steps and supporting one another. I lift her body, contort her, extending with her. We become one with the music, the song of life, the sex in motion.

Some have called it horizontal lovemaking, our bodies telling a story as old as time.

The crescendo is coming, the orchestra building higher and higher. I lift her, straining under her weight, but it shouldn't be that way. It should be easy, but it's getting more difficult with each performance.

But I don't drop her, keep going, must keep going. Ten more minutes and it's over.

It'll all be over, the dance, my career, the biggest part of my life for almost as long as I can remember. And I'm fighting the pressure, the depression that eats at me, the fear. I'm only thirty-five. What am I going to do with the rest of my life? One answer: Harlow. He'll keep me steady, he'll…

My time on stage is winding down, two more eight counts and I'm done. I keep the tally in my head. Children are taught to count as high as the sky. Dancers count to eight. Throw in an occasional "and" and that's the extent of our mathematical needs. Our bodies are our diplomas. The rest is just fluff, in our world.

The closing notes drift through the crowd and we strike the final pose, an embrace, a tribute to our love. Lights cut, curtains draw close and I straighten, releasing my partner's waist, reaching for her hand.

The chorus and players line the stage and the fabric parts, bright lights in our eyes. We bow, smiles in place, pretending we haven't just danced for hours. That we aren't exhausted, that our feet don't ache and that we won't be soaking in a tub when we reach home. Because we're dancers. That's what we do. We complain to each other, but share our "gift" with the world, smiles in place.

Jesse goes to a gay  werewolf BDSM club looking for the perfect master.  Nicolas is bored with the beta personalities under his thumb at his club.  He needs someone with a little spunk, a man willing to submit but not be a doormat.  Does such a sub exist?

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Some clubs come off seedy. Lights too dim, drinks watered down, Doms who are nothing more than posers in leather. Others are too high class, specified dress and quiet whispers. 'Knots' was all of those things and none of them at the same time. And of course, the whole thing was run by wolves. One wolf in particular.

Nicholas surveyed his domain, inhaling the woodsy scent of his pack as they meandered through the club, stroking this sub and that, beating and tying and hurting and soothing at the same time.

All males. All of them.

Nick ran the only gay pack in Arizona and he liked it that way. Liked having wolves around him that ran the way he did. It didn't hurt that wolves, in general, were gorgeous creatures, all muscle and growls when they were dominated.

And after one hundred and sixty-two years, he hated it.

He hated the big bad wolves with their big bad attitudes; even when they were a submissive, they fought hard.

Betas, all of them, some lower on the totem pole than others. The lowly of the low were strapped to tables, lowered to their knees or secured to a Saint Andrew's cross.

He sauntered through his domain, running his fingers over a kneeling Adam. "So pretty," he whispered, admiring the perfectly placed, neatly spaced, glowing red stripes lining the wolf's back.

"Thank you, Master." Adam murmured.

Nick felt his cock twitch at the low response, the title he was given. True, he was the master of the entire domain, but knowing and hearing were two entirely different things.

"Care to play, Adam?" He crouched behind the kneeling form and traced the stripes, enjoying the heat emanating from the welts rising over the skin. They'd be gone in short order, a wolf's body healing easily from the pain inflicted.

He hated that too; wanted his marks of ownership to last and last and last. For days if possible. Only way to mark one of his own was to use a silver tipped whip and then the marks would be permanent. No middle ground with his kind. Unfortunately.

Adam's head jerked up for a moment, his excitement at playing with Nick visible. The sub's cock hardened before his eyes, visage sparkling with lust and drool nearly dribbling down the man's chin. Then his training took hold and he lowered his head once again. "Yes Sir."

Before Nick could say another word, though, he caught the scent his wolf had been waiting for. Over one hundred years and the man just waltzed into his club.

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