Winter, 1974 – Prudhoe Bay, Northwest Alaska

 

They gutted an iceberg with two sticks of dynamite, forty
years ago when the shabby construction camps rose on the iconic Dalton Highway.
Oil was struck in Prudhoe Bay in 1968, setting off an irreversible string of
events: an ecological nightmare, an eight-billion-dollar pipeline transporting
crude oil 800 miles south from the North Slope to Valdez, and passage for
seventy thousand oil workers to the most menacing outpost on earth: Deadhorse.

A stolen scrap of bread. Chronic insomnia. Drug abuse. One
worker snapped, nicking dynamite from the munitions depot, flailing his arms,
all the while forgetting how fast the detonating cord burns to the quick. The
shock wave bulleted shards of ice in every direction, thrusting the assailant
twelve feet in the air in a whirl of fire and black smoke. He became the first
prize, the Number One. His victim, the second man, escaped.

It took two days for the particles to clear the air, finally
revealing an exquisite, dome-like crevasse in the ice the depth of five
residential garages — one after the other in a long, hollow train. Except this
garage had no yard outside because nothing grew in this place but resentment.
No gas grill on a redwood deck, no family huddled in the adjacent house. Only
the unrelenting cold and ice: on the floor, walls, ceiling. He loved it that
way, the Caretaker, the exclusivity of his access and the singularity of his
dark secret.

That spring, the suited men came in droves sporting fine
clothing and city shoes to explain the gravity of their problem, which later
evolved into their pitch. Well, their problem had just solved itself, hadn’t
it? No one knew about this place and nobody but him would ever find it. Some
secrets were just not for sale.

 

 

Chapter 1

Present Day December 18 – Inglewood Ranch, Cody, WY

 

I could feel it in my bones, this unspeakable energy of
change. Not a buzz, it was more like a low hum I could almost hear when I
closed my eyes and got real still. I’d woken with it today, of all days, this
visceral knowing that despite the regularity of my errand, it would have a
disruptive impact on my life, such as it was. My work in Jackson, a five hour
drive from our family ranch in Cody, was an odd arrangement to begin with, and
the two-bedroom condo I rented near the Teton County Sheriff’s Office was
uninhabitable without AJ. Even still, there was something else in the air
today. Cholo, our ranch hand and my lifelong friend, sensed something too,
though it wasn’t his way to articulate his thoughts. Instead, he put cinnamon
in the coffee, his quiet way of offering comfort. I could smell it the whole
way in from the barn.

I’d gone out before first light, watching the fluff of gray
dawn cover my beloved Inglewood, hoping to shake the image of a recurring dream
and to brush AJ’s quarter horse, Rain. At first, it was to console him, knowing
horses had unique and profound ways of grieving. Lately, though, the cold vigil
seemed more about me. Rogue, the word had been coming to me since AJ’s death —
a blurry dream-hand opening to a tiny piece of paper on which a single word was
written. Was it him reaching out from his watery grave? What did it mean?

Cholo passed me a cup when I reached the kitchen, shutting
out the ten-degree wind chill behind me. I unzipped my coat and sipped quietly
just inside the door, letting the hot coffee slide down my throat, waiting for
whatever his face was preparing.

“Been three weeks now.”

I nodded, three weeks since Sheriff Peter Barrett
disappeared — my boss, mentor, now another silent ache in my heart.

“I heard about the fire,” he added. “How many is that now?”

“Does it matter?” I asked him. “Seven.”

“You think they’re connected. Don’t you?”

I shrugged, pretending. But any sane person would. “I’m not
an arson investigator. Bryce at the State Fire Marshal’s Office is looking into
it.”

“Really?”

 I laughed. “Come on.
Bryce has a good team working for him. I know two of those guys.”

“They haven’t been out here since Thanksgiving.” Cholo
stared back, thick brows angled over large, black eyes.

“I know, okay? What do you want me to do? I’m not the
sheriff.” The words caught in my throat.

“You never know about people,” he said with that quiet
wisdom I’d never seen in anyone else, like he understood the longings in my
heart for answers that hadn’t yet come. Peter Barrett, Jackson’s most beloved
sheriff, vanished three weeks ago today.

 Cholo was right about
Bryce, too. Interagency politics aside, I’d need to call and follow up on the
arson investigation they said they were running. Add it to the growing list.

He took a long sip, still watching me.

“Well, spit it out already,” I said.

“I can’t take you to the airport.”

“It’s alright, I’ll get an Uber.”

 Cholo’s jaw was set
tight but his eyes were uncertain, like he was trying to think of an excuse but
couldn’t do it.

“What’s the big deal?”

“Woody’s gonna take you.”

“Woody!” My voice cracked like a whip. I set the cup on the
counter with a clunk and rezipped my coat. Ah…the cinnamon. Son of a bitch.

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Does he now?” I grabbed the warm mug for reinforcement and sucked
down the last three gulps. “Does he want to talk about how he stole two of our
horses, stole money from me? He robbed us, Cholo, all of us. And by doing so,
he broke something precious.” I didn’t like the sound of that word, precious.
Made it seem like Woody was important to me, and despite the intrusive logic of
that truth, there was no place for Woody here anymore.

“He says he’s sorry.”

“Not to me he didn’t. Besides, sorry’s just a word.” Already
mad at seven in the morning, great. I zipped my coat and turned my back to him,
facing the door. “A real apology is a change in behavior.” My eyes were wide as
I waited for him to take my challenge. To come to Woody’s rescue, explain how
the drugs made him do it or the excuse-of-the-day.

Still fuming, I left via Uber at 7:30 a.m. without another
word to either Cholo or my dad. Woody could kiss my ass as far as I was
concerned. I’d have to pay for my cold heart, of course. The world has a quiet
way of keeping score.

 

***

 

By 3:00 p.m., I was standing on the corner of Wave and
McClellan Streets in Monterey, California. Eleven hundred miles away in
historic Cannery Row, a sliver of sea was visible between the brownstones on
Lighthouse Avenue. The sun felt warm on my face and bare arms. Mid December in
California, I’ll be damned. A premonition, I couldn’t put my finger on it, made
me take notice, warning me to be careful. Something bad was coming.

Ash was right, I was loath to admit. There were holiday
decorations and tacky music everywhere, but it just didn’t feel like Christmas
in a hilltop penthouse overlooking the ocean, waves beneath me reflecting a
cloudy sky. The beauty of California’s coast was unmistakable, but in my heart,
Christmas was indelibly marked by snow.

“Is that you?” Cholo asked me later, answering his mobile on
the third ring.

“I guess. Some version of me, anyway.”

“What are you doing out there, Gree? You hate California.”

He knew, of course; we’d discussed it back and forth for
weeks. Why go now, why go at all? After being on and off the market for ten
years, my mother’s condo had finally found a buyer. I came here to sign papers,
to once again acknowledge the sting of her death and bring my feet one step
closer to the present. But that wasn’t what he was asking. Like all Cholo’s
questions, they were part real world and part spirit world. I knew what he
meant. I just wasn’t sure I was willing to answer yet.

“How’s Dad?” I deflected.

“He’s concerned about how it will look to the community, you
leaving town after Peter’s disappearance.”

“I don’t recall asking his opinion.” He was right, though.
It was too sudden, but it would be a short trip. Besides, everything was broken
right now anyway.

“No, but he’s always willing to share it, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” I laughed.

“He’s splitting wood right now,” Cholo said.

“Great idea for a man who just had a heart attack.”

“Come on, it was a mild one. He didn’t even know he was
having it. Besides, it’s gonna be zero tonight. We’ll be using that wood.”

I guess I shouldn’t complain. The fact that they were
staying in the same house, after such a long standoff, was nothing short of
miraculous and I had nothing to do with it. Maybe the rock of resentment got
too heavy to haul around anymore. I was dying to know who thawed first, but I’d
never ask. You didn’t do things that way out here. Not in Wyoming, not in this
family.

 

“Could you make sure he’s got a jacket on? For God’s sake
keep an eye on him. If left to his own devices he’d chop wood in a—”

“Gretchen.”

It was my dad’s voice now, Ash Gooding, former Sheriff of
Park County, who to this day insists on calling me by my birth name instead of
the nickname my mother gave me.

“How’s sunny California?”

It was meant as an insult. Everyone in town got lots of
mileage from the fact that I wasn’t a native of Wyoming, even though I’d lived
there since I was five.

“It’s midnight, Wyoming time. What are you doing up this
late? Do you miss me that much?” I joked to an awkward silence. I rambled on
for a while, telling him about the dark orange sunset I’d seen from the balcony
after signing a four-inch stack of papers. Hadn’t they ever heard of digital
copies? Apparently, this mortgage company insisted on paper-everything. Ash
listened. I heard the clinking of ice in his glass. Would this be his third or
fourth by now? I decided not to mention the wood chopping.

“You didn’t tell her?” he mumbled to Cholo. “Mmm.”

“Tell me what?”

A murmur of conversation in the background. Maybe his hand
was covering the phone. And maybe this was what Cholo was hiding from me this
morning.

“Dad, what is it? Tell me.”

“I can’t. Gotta show you. Guess we’ll have to wait till you
get back.”

 

 

Sonofabitch. I knew my dad, and that meant no manipulation
or psychology would wriggle out of him whatever he was keeping from me. After
signing over ownership of what had been my mother’s dream home, I left the key
with the bankers and took with me a cedar box of my mother’s mementos, which I
would undoubtedly squirrel away somewhere and forget about for the next decade.
All the better, right? Avoidance, since AJ’s death six months ago, had become a
sort of new religion. Didn’t avoidance almost always turn to cancer somewhere
down the road?

When I got back, I didn’t bother going home first before
looking for Ash. He’d planted an evil seed of dread and apprehension, and he
knew it too. Maybe punishing me for something; he’s a Gemini after all. I flew
into Cody from San Francisco instead of Jackson, where I’d worked for the past
twelve years as deputy sheriff under Peter Barrett, one of the kindest men I’d
ever met. Why did I feel like Ash’s secret had something to do with him? The
buzzing in my bones this morning…maybe that was the warning. Jesus, no. Not
that. The vague comfort of the word missing was too hard to give up.

Three in the afternoon to Ash Gooding meant five o’clock
somewhere. There’s this ratty bar on the edge of town called Stagecoach, Ash’s
favorite. Drafty as hell with dusty floors, swivel stools, and random darts
scattered on the floor looking for their board, threatening tetanus. Weird part
about it was that the owner isn’t a wrinkled prune of a man but someone
belonging on the cast of Below Deck, a body intended for board shorts, tanned
legs and a white polo shirt hauling up ropes with three-ply triceps. He was
trying to be unassuming in a plain brown t-shirt stretched out at the neck,
pretending he didn’t care about his looks. His artificially whitened smile
betrayed the deception – laughing eyes with something sinister behind them, a
joke no one knew about but him.

“How’s it going?” the guy asked.

I exhaled. “G&T, please. Been a long day.”

“Coming up.”

When Runway Model set down the glass, I suddenly didn’t feel
like talking. The weight of air travel, of the milestone I’d crossed and
today’s sad anniversary, burned behind my eyes. They watered as I took the
first swallow. I turned on the stool to look around. Ha, I knew it.

“Ash,” I said, walking across the creaking floorboards.
“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Drinking here alone, that’s what.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You can come to my house in Jackson and drink with me.
Wouldn’t that be nicer?”

He laughed. “Not necessarily. Besides, too long a drive.”

“Look, you can stay here and punish yourself for Mom’s death
all you like. I know what day it is.”

The slap of the men’s room door distracted us from the
tension. It was a sad old story with no ending. I smelled Cholo’s Irish Spring
soap behind me. I turned, my left arm involuntarily reaching for him, tugging
the frayed edge of his Carhartt jacket.

“Well.” I stood back a ways. “You two got real chummy in the
one day I left town.” They were looking sideways at each other in some silent
communication. Ranchers at a bar in the middle of the afternoon; it didn’t make
sense. “What’s the deal?”

Cholo nodded. “You’d better sit down.”

 

Lisa Towles believes stories hold the world together – and
the best ones expose what we hide even from ourselves. She builds that belief
into her main characters – Mari Ellwyn, Angus Mariner, Kurt Farin – each one
drowning in dark secrets, running from unthinkable truths. The award-winning
author of 14 mystery thrillers, her books pull readers into worlds of global
espionage, fringe technology, and shadow governments. Her titles include Terror
Bay (NYC Big Book Award), Codex (BookFest First Place), The Ridders (American
Fiction Award), and her E&A Series thrillers Hot House and Salt Island both
reached Amazon Kindle #1 Bestseller. Her next thriller, The Weight of Cold
Things – described as Yellowstone meets The X-Files – publishes in August 2026.
When she’s not writing, she interviews authors on her Story Impact Podcast and
coaches writers on how to be visible and memorable to readers. Follow her to
get notified of new releases.

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the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

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Delilah Belvedere is a Kenyan-born, Washington, D.C.–based
author and keynote speaker whose stories weave together mythology, sensuality,
and power. Her writing blends African-inspired mythology with nontraditional
vampires, witches, immersive worldbuilding, and unapologetically sensual
storytelling, exploring themes of identity, legacy, and self-discovery through
bold, unforgettable characters. Drawn to the spaces where ancestral magic,
forbidden desire, and hidden histories collide, Delilah creates worlds where
passion is transformative, power is inherited, and destiny is written in blood.
Through every story, she champions authenticity, body positivity, curiosity,
and the courage to embrace one’s truest self. When she’s not writing, Delilah
is exploring new cuisines, hosting backyard BBQs, or binge-watching her next
favorite series.

 

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Elliah ~ 1

My mother told me many times that all adolescents feel like
they don’t belong, but… I really didn’t. So I spent my free time away from
other elves, on my own but for the animals… they didn’t understand how broken I
was. And I was quite pleased with my current find, so I snarled when a noise
behind me scared away the drakeling that had settled in my hands. Black with a
pattern of red scales along its spine, its body the thickness of my finger, it
took flight with a flurry of thin leathery wings and disappeared behind a
massive brown trunk.

“The real ones are much more intimidating,” said
an unfamiliar voice.

Time slowed as I tensed to run, shocked that I’d let my
guard down so much that anyone had gotten that close. How many lurked behind
me? On the outskirts of town, in the thick of the woods near the river, I had
expected solitude.

“Stay, Bereft. I am not afraid,” said the voice.
His words provoked me.

“No one’s afraid of me,” I
blurted. Bitterness stained my words as surely as the pollen of the bloodcups
had stained my ragged clothes.

I turned away from the vanished drakeling to focus on the
intruder who’d scared it away. A man. No, I corrected myself, someone
my age. Someone not quite old enough for adults to consider one of their
own, but too old to call a child.

But not Bereft. No other elf shared that with me.

The newcomer was slightly taller than me with a thin frame,
his light hair hanging long, wild, and tangled. He was new to the village—I
would have noticed an elf with skin so light. I’d heard whispers of him at
school. Kethryllia had called him Salt-kissed, and I’d wondered what that
meant, but his light skin answered that question. He’d undoubtedly caught
whispers about me, heard of my… condition. Bereft. Yet at that moment, I
thought only of the hours of coaxing I’d spent to draw the little drakeling
into my grasp, and that the stupid elf had scared it away. I wanted to punch
him.

“Maybe they should be,” he said, taking a step
back, though it would have taken me two leaps to get to him, and he’d have me
pinned in one, if he had any skill with magic at all. But I’d prepared a leap
already, only not in his direction. As I sprung away, he continued, raising his
voice, “And you’re right, they’re not afraid of you.”

I landed with a tree between us. His magic wouldn’t be able
to snag me there. Unless he was very good at it.

“They’re afraid of what you represent.”

Continue the Thaumatropic
Roots Series

Magic is as
natural as breathing in Elliah’s world — except to her. Born without a single
spark in a war that runs on it, she has nothing but her will and her refusal to
accept the limits everyone else has already decided for her. This is what
happens when the world writes you out of the story, and you refuse to leave.

Hayil had the advantage of
excellent night vision—super vision compared to other humans. Plus, she
possessed an almost uncanny ability to connect with most wild and domestic
animals. Hayil mentally grimaced. She could also thank her grandmother
for her long overdue ability to shift. What would it take to trigger her body
into the lupine version of herself? Was it like a growth spurt that hadn’t hit
her body yet? Or was Hayil destined to remain the one person in her pack who
wasn’t able to wolf out?

 

Once again, her mother’s
constant refrain came back to her: “You’re a late bloomer, like your
grandmother. She was older than you when she shifted. All in good time.
You’ll see.”

 

Sure, Mom.

 

Hayil knew her mother
wanted the best for her, but found her cheerfulness a bit forced. Beneath her
mother’s optimism, Hayil sensed an undercurrent of concern about her
thirty-year-old daughter’s ability to integrate into the red wolf clan. This
missing piece of Hayil’s identity called to her like a siren’s song, demanding
she complete herself. Would she ever be a true part of the pack? Or
would she forever be the unmated one? What then? She was an anomaly, something
the pack didn’t tolerate well. Tradition dictated that if a pack member didn’t
shift by the end of their third decade, they were banished.

A chilling thought struck
Hayil mid-stride.

 

If I don’t
shift this year, will they force me out of the pack?

 

They were the only family
she’d ever known. Her mother would fight for her to stay and would probably
win. But at what cost?

 

Hayil would be an outcast.
She’d never be invited to pack meetings, deliberations or celebrations. Those
were reserved for shifters. If she married a non-shifter, the pack would drive
her out, of that she was sure. What if her offspring were able to shift? Would
that make things better? Would the pack let her stay then? It wasn’t as if she
could go to a genetic counselor and ask for a DNA test for werewolves.

 

The thought of losing her
extended family through no fault of her own made her gulp back tears. Angry at
herself for allowing her thoughts to go down that dark rabbit hole, Hayil
reminded herself she was a scientist. Review the facts, not the fears.

 

Fact one: Grandma had been
in labor with Hayil’s mother when she’d shifted for the first time.

 

Fact two: The majority of
the pack members had shifted when they’d hit puberty.

 

Fact three: Hormones! It
had to be related to hormones! The rush of hormones at puberty and the flood of
pregnancy hormones had to be related somehow.

 

Hayil was long past puberty
and the associated mood swings and acne, thank you very much. She was not ready
to be pregnant. For starters, she would need a romantic partner in her life.
She’d had zero luck on that score so far.

 

“I still have time. It’s
not too late. I won’t give up hope.”

 

Shaking her head to clear
her mind, Hayil double-checked her wild animal deterrents. All in place.
Then she tugged her knit cap down over her ears and pulled her hands-free
headlamp into place. She zipped her fleece jacket against the breeze and
adjusted her twenty-five-pound backpack. With an altitude gain of almost
nineteen hundred feet, she planned to take her time, pacing herself for the
strenuous four-hour hike. She grasped her lightweight hiking poles and took a
last look up at the stars. Time to see that spectacular view at the top.

 

As promised by the trail
blog, the dirt path was well maintained. The morning air was cold and crisp,
layered with the woodsy scent of damp earth and pine needles. An owl hooted,
and Hayil spotted movement in the brush between the thick pines beside the trail.
Her headlamp reflected in the eyes of small critters, all of whom skittered
deeper into the woods.

 

For three hours, all she
heard was the crunch of her hiking boots on dirt and gravel, the rasp of her
own breaths, the glug of water when she drank and the jingle of her bear bells.
She looked at yet another incline on the trail and decided she needed a hiking
song for inspiration.

 

“Country roads, take me
home,” she sang, belting out “Mountain Mama”—and something crashed through the
bushes ahead on the trail. Something large.

 

She froze.

 

An enormous black bear
stood on its hind legs at the top of the hill.

 

Shit,
shit, shit. If only I could shift, shift, shift!

 

The animal had its back to
her, but if it got her scent, it could turn and charge at her in a flash.

 

Heart pounding like a
jackhammer, she placed her hand on the bear spray.

 

A breeze sprang up, making
her eyes water with its intensity. The good news was that it meant she was
downwind of the bear. The bad news was that the air smelled like a wet dog had
rolled in a dead animal. The worst news was that the bear turned and looked
right at her.

 

Omigod.
It’s not a bear. What the heck is it?

Sharon Buchbinder is an award-winning author who has been
writing stories since she could hold a pen. The paranormal romance genre is her
writing home, a place where the impossible is simply the beginning, where women
find their power in the most extraordinary circumstances, and where love is
always worth the danger of seeking it.

A Maryland-based author with a background in healthcare and
higher education that has informed her vivid, grounded storytelling, Sharon is
drawn to heroines who have been underestimated — women who carry something
extraordinary inside them and spend the whole book learning to trust it. Sharon
believes passionately that readers deserve stories where the heroine doesn’t
just survive — she transforms. When she’s not writing, Sharon can
usually be found unplugging in her garden, obsessing over cryptid mythology,
and convincing her pets they are not, in fact, supernatural.

 

Website * Facebook * Instagram * Bluesky * Bookbub * Amazon
* Goodreads

 

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A Damned Dirty Thing

“Hey, did
you have a good run?” Lizzy asks, looking me up and down like I’m a dessert she
can’t wait to eat. I love that she can’t hide how much she still wants me. 

Maybe this
will be easier than I thought. “It was… therapeutic.” She nods, knowing running
is how I clear my head. “I’m going to shower.” Smooth, dumbass. You have
better game than this. 

But Lizzy
has always made me into a babbling idiot stumbling over my words. My therapist
told me it’s because I actually give a shit about Lizzy and care what she
thinks. Halfway down the hallway, I stop, remembering I decided to change
things with Lizzy, beginning with a date. “Do you have plans tonight?”

She glares
at me and snarks, “What, do you have a hot date and want the apartment to
yourself?”

I shouldn’t
mess with her like this, but she’s asking for it by thinking I would look at,
let alone be with, anyone but her. “Weeellll, I’m not sure yet. It depends on
her.”

“Such a
fucking gentleman. I can stay with Dee. Actually, I probably should’ve moved
out by now. I’ll do that while you’re on your hot date.” Anger oozes from her
even though she’s trying to hide it, but I know her too well. After slapping
her laptop closed, she heads to the guestroom, but I stop her when she’s within
arm’s reach. 

Fuck. I’m
messing this up already. 

“I didn’t
ask if you had plans, so you’d leave. The last thing I want is for you to leave
tonight… or any night. I was hoping you would be my hot date.” I brush
my palm against her cheek and see her take a deep breath. I haven’t lost her
yet. I whisper, “I’m going to shower and get ready for this smokin’ hot blonde
who makes my heart race.”

“Makes your
heart race? Too bad it’s not enough for you to make a long-term commitment to
her.”

Wrapping my
arms around her, I breathe in her light scent and say in a gravelly voice, “If
I did, she’s the only one I would ever think about making any type of
commitment to.”

“If. I can’t
live in a world of ifs. I need—” 

I interrupt
her with my lips. At first, her lips are stiff, but in mere seconds, she melts
into me. Thank God. 

My body
relaxes into the kiss. Her lips soften and mold to mine, followed by her arms
gripping the bottom of my shirt, showing me she’s trying not to get lost in
this kiss—lost in us. She changes the kiss from soft and languid to desperate
and demanding as she slips her hand under my shirt, skimming her fingertips
along my abs. 

I break the
kiss only so I can feast on her beautiful neck. I need to taste her—remind
myself of everything about her. Those subtle sighs. Quiet moans. How she melts
in my arms. 

I should
stop us. Change our old patterns of falling into sex. But damn, I can’t think
straight when she touches me. I always cave to her.

After Lizzy
pushes my shirt up, I whip it off and she immediately runs her hands up my
chest, causing my dick to become a steel rod. My lips continue to attack her
neck and suck on that little spot right below her earlobe. Working my way down
to her cleavage, pulling her tank top down, she gives me access to her
beautiful tits that I need to cherish and ravish. I wrap my mouth around her
nipple to suck, kiss, and flick her desire from her. 

“I hate
you,” she moans, directing my head back to her mouth.

“I can tell
you hate me so damn much.”

“I hate how
sexy you look after a five-mile run.”

“Try
thirteen miles today since I couldn’t get this gorgeous woman off my mind.” I
groan and swirl my tongue around her nipple, causing her to give me a long
moan. 

Her fingers
dig into my hair, further turning me on. I love it when she marks me with her
nails, even when I used to get counseled and lectured for allowing my girl to
damage government property. Instead of telling her to stop or at least mark me
where my uniform covers, I rewarded her with more orgasms. I pray she does the
same tonight. 

Switching to
the other side with the same fervor, I wrap her legs around my waist and grind
myself to her warmth. I can feel how turned on she is through her tiny athletic
shorts. 

“I hate how
sweet you are to Cristian.”

“Let’s not
talk about our godson right now.” That kid has a knack for killing a boner.
He’s been a cockblock a few times when we were babysitting him. My dick is
trained for Cristian being a no-fly zone until he goes to sleep. 

“We
shouldn’t—” 

I interrupt
her with my lips, knowing she’s trying to talk herself out of being with me in
any capacity. If we stop, she won’t go to dinner with me either. She’ll shut me
out. I can’t do that again. I need this woman with every fiber of my being. 

As I’m about
to roll my hip into hers, she pushes my shorts down, releasing my hard cock.
Her lust-filled eyes tell me what she wants from me, and no way am I going to
deny her anything. I have her shorts off in a matter of seconds. I almost shoot
my load when she wraps her hands around my dick, strokes me a few times, and
rubs me along her wetness. Fucking teasing me. I smirk, pulling her right
nipple into my mouth and doing a combination of flicking and sucking, which I
know drives her wild. 

“I hate that
you know me so well.”

I thicken my
accent, knowing how much it turns her on. “Back at ya, darlin’.” 

She
continues rubbing my dick up and down her slit, but when she moves me down, I
slip into her completely, causing her nails to dig into my shoulders and down
my arms. I didn’t realize her hands moved until I felt them. Yeah, that’s
going to leave a mark. 

“I
hate—right there, sexy… God, yes—how you fuck me.”

“Obviously,”
I say, kissing her neck. I can feel her tightening around me, and I pray I can
hold out until she finishes. Jesus, she’s fucking heaven. 

“I hate—”

“I hate how
much you’re talking.”

“Then shut
me up.” She flashes me a challenging look. 

 

Don’t miss the
other Boys of Bragg!