Gunther West’s eyes flew open. Something had awakened him, something still in the room with him. He’d gone to bed alone, but as he inhaled, his senses confirmed what his subconscious had known: a female stood in his bedroom. Not just any female either—Judy Bristol. His mate. Although she’d yet to admit it.
The woman who filled his nights with erections he couldn’t find relief for. Maybe he dreamed still. If so, all he’d have to do is get up and shove himself in her sweet little pussy and warm up inside of her.
“After two years, have you finally come to fuck me?”
She quivered in the darkness, grief flowing from her. “Denise died and it’s my fault.”
He sat up, the sheet falling. To his canine senses, her scent tasted sour and wrong, and her pulse beat too fast. Damn it, he’d been so fucking horny from the first moment he’d smelled her, he hadn’t noticed her sadness. He could not feel any illness, just distress. His inner wolf raged to make things better for her even as he calmed himself. It would do him no good to scare her off. She didn’t have a mean bone in her body, but years of learned bigotry against werewolves couldn’t be undone all at once. He had to act the gentleman, and not the wolf. Even if it killed him.
Yvette Nelson swung the door behind her, leaving the coarse jokes and steam of the back of the kitchen for the loud music and swearing in the dining room. She rolled her eyes. Men were men wherever she went and all of them bored her to death.
She set a plate of nachos in front of one of her regular customers, smiled, and moved on. There were drink orders to take and bus boys to hassle. No time to rest for the weary. Not that she felt tired, at least not physically. Wolf-shifters could go for days without sleeping. She bit her lip to keep from scowling as she narrowly avoided a collision with a drunk trying to get to the bathroom. Maybe the time has come to leave this job.
Tingles on her spine told her someone stared hard at her. Eyes bore into the back of her head and she turned, expecting to be yelled at by a customer feeling neglected. Instead, across the dimly lit room she saw the most intense green eyes on the hottest human she’d viewed in a longtime. Blond hair fell around his shoulders, green eyes—oh yes, she wanted to fuck him, rub against him, mark him with her scent.
Mate By The Music:
She ran her tongue over them as she regarded him silently. As he watched the motion, his cock jumped in his pants.
Holy Shit. He wanted her.
“You’re going to be a problem. Aren’t you?”
Her accent sounded British, but not upper crust and stuffy. No, the little woman spoke like she’d stepped right out the back alleys of London and she had no problem with that whatsoever. Her eyes dared him to argue that he wouldn’t be trouble.
He didn’t intend to.
“I’m looking for my brother.”
She looked right and left. “Doesn’t seem to be here. Sorry.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”
She stepped out from behind the bar and moved toward him. “I’m Nancy Elwood.”
“Nancy.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to repeat her name. Maybe because, for some weird reason, it felt good on his tongue. Like her pussy would. He blinked at the though. Wow. He didn’t usually think like such a fucking horn-dog. How long had it been since he’d gone to bed with a woman? His last encounter had been weeks early. Not fabulous either. But not long enough to warrant his juvenile inner dialogue.
Out of Place Mate:
“What do you mean you both got married? To women I’ve never met? Did it even occur to you that these women could have targeted you for your wallets?”
The man wearing a too-elegant-for-a-bar tuxedo slammed his fist down on the table in front of Stark and Scott Quaid. His brothers. Victoria Bensen took another swig of her dark lager as she sniffed the room one more time. There could be no question—the newcomer in Gunther’s biker bar dressed like he’d just come from the opera—smelled like the third Quaid brother.
Only better than the other two combined. His scent suggested he’d spent time in the Middle East, or at least that had been what she’d scented all the time when she’d lived there for a year. His body radiated sandalwood, always her favorite. Her panties got wet as she took more of his essence into her veins. He didn’t look bad either. Taller than the other two by at least several inches, his dark brown hair contrasted with sharp blue eyes. His long face had a five o’clock shadow that stood out against his neat appearance. The facial hair told her he had hidden depths past the boring tux. If he truly behaved like the neat, organized person he portrayed to the world, he’d have taken the time to shave, no matter what.
Yvette, recently mated to one of Sean’s brothers, walked up to Victoria, holding her drink tray. She’d be leaving to travel with her new husband shortly, and Gunther had dragged Victoria, kicking and screaming, to take over her job until he could find a permanent replacement for the other woman. This would be their only night working together before Yvette left.
“Don’t get too interested in that one. He’s the third brother. Not as open-minded as his younger siblings. Stark says he’s a real hard ass and not necessarily shifter-friendly. He doesn’t even ride.”
Victoria raised her eyebrows. She didn’t know which part of that story Yvette objected to the most, the fact that he could be an anti-shifter, or that he didn’t ride a motorcycle. As for the hard ass part, Victoria could agree with that part. He did, indeed, possess a tight derriere. She wanted to squeeze it.
“Thanks for the warning.