Peyton's Ride (Riding With The Hunt, #1) (2 page)

Yeah, she had it bad.

She tapped hard on her phone’s screen and tried to bring up the calendar app. The screen blacked out.

What the hell? The battery had a full charge. She'd made sure to plug it in the night before. She pressed the power button and got no response. Holding the button down to reboot the phone, she waited for the screen image that indicated it was powering down.

And waited. Waited some more. Nothing. All that time filling in her itinerary, each task assigned a time frame based on careful consideration, mapping of her route, and the amount of miles she’d cover each day. Gas fill ups, lunch stops, even scenic detours. The final check in on her bike was supposed to take less than an hour. It probably wasn’t necessary, but the dealership insisted on it after she’d stopped in to buy new chaps and let her plans slip. She’d scheduled an hour and a half for this venture to account for contingencies.

Wasted. She just knew it. The damn phone was almost new, and it was deader than dead. One more to add to the drawer full at home. Her ability to destroy electronics would have been comical if it wasn’t so expensive. Even her e-reader and laptop were new, and now she wondered if she had hundreds of dollars worth of unusable junk packed.

“Fucking stupid phone.” Aggravated, horny, and possibly a cannibal. Wasn’t that the perfect combination?

“What’s the matter?”

Shoving the offending electronic into her pocket, she poked at some of the parts on the bench. “It’s dead.”

The clink of a wrench hitting the cement and the scuff of his boot sounded. “You need to make a call?”

“No.” The hunky mechanic had run right through her time frame. Her almost new phone was now only useful as a paper weight or a shiny hockey puck. Damn and double damn. What else could go wrong? Maybe Aunt Flo would decide to give her a nice spontaneous visit and turn on a gushing faucet in her vagina. “Are you about done yet? You’ve totally messed up my schedule.”

Ooohh that wasn’t nice. But maybe he was doing all this on purpose. Yeah right.... Maybe she was just a creepy wanna-be cougar. He’d probably rather stab himself with a screwdriver than drop trow and bump uglies with her.

“Sometimes...” She met his gaze and her lady parts got all ramped up and she swiped at her chin in case she was frothing at the mouth. He scratched at his chin and curled his upper lip in. “Schedules need messing.”

Oh that cocky, self-assured vibe tickled across her skin and set her on edge. She should walk over to him, saunter up, and smack him right in the ass. Or tug his shirt up and bite his nipples, yank on his hoops and scratch her nails across his back. Walk her fingers down to the button on his jeans...

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her clit swollen and throbbing. Talk about hard up. Letting her fantasies run around in her head this way would only lead to trouble. At least she had her rabbit.

Unless that bastard had bit the dust too. Thank God for internet shopping and two day delivery.

Those green eyes and corded arms would be front and center in many of her personal time ventures for some time to come. Okay, had been. Why lie about it. She wanted to be a complete and totally dirty slut for him. And she was...in her fantasies.

Speaking of green eyes . . . The weight of his stare caused prickles across her neck. She peeked and froze. Ian crooked that half smile at her again, showing off his white teeth and dimple. Her breath caught, and she picked up some of the parts on the work bench, pretending to be interested in the greasy metal hunks. He probably smiled like that all the time. At everyone. Nothing special about it.

Except when she dared to sneak a look again, the half smile spread into a full-blown grin. He wiped his hands on an orange shop towel and swept a look at her from head to foot with appreciation on his face.

O-kay. He’d never given her the old up-and-down before.

Uncomfortable with the arousal spinning her head in a circle, she cast about for something to do. Anything would work. This...she didn’t know how to deal with. Imaginary-Ian was easy to deal with, Real-Live-Sex-On-A-Stick-Ian was something else altogether.

Plus, she couldn’t entirely trust her hormones. She could be pre-menopausal. Or about to start her period. Or rabid...there were entirely too many thoughts involving biting him playing catch in her head.

She said a prayer to the monks who invented wine that she wouldn’t accidentally eat him.

The door to the showroom hung open on the left-hand side of the bay. And that would be her escape route beckoning. Safety from embarrassing herself. If he kept looking at her that way, she was liable to drool all over her chin. God, she’d have a wet spot on her jeans from her crotch to her upper thighs.

“I’m going to, uh, look at some gloves.” There. She’d done it again. Spoken to him without spitting, biting her tongue, or forgetting how to speak entirely. Doing good. Going great. Three more steps to the door and she’d be out of range. No more sharing space with the overwhelming presence that was Ian Coghlan.

And then everything went to hell.

Her foot slid out from under her, and she crashed to the floor, landing on her back. The cement floor’s cold and unyielding surface bit into the back of her skull and left elbow. Pain arced from one injured place to the other in a loop. Spots of white light pulsated across her vision in a slow strobe.

The monks must have let her prayer go to voicemail. The bastards.

O
h. Shit. The guys he played softball with liked to call him a lady killer, but they didn’t mean actual death. They thought he had an unending supply of female company, not knowing that any real interest on his part could lead to fatalities. He could hear them now, joking about how he’d almost killed a woman by looking at her and smiling. This would earn him a new nickname. Probably something like Dick Death or Pussy Killer.

“Peyton!” He rushed across the floor, terror igniting in his veins. A pit opened in his gut and sucked all the breath from his lungs.

When had he developed feelings for Peyton? They’d never even been on a date. And yet, somehow, he felt a connection with her beyond physical lust. Something in him recognized her, a pinging gong resounded through his soul, and he gasped.

No fucking way. That magic hadn’t been awake for years.

Peyton glowed with health and curves, had beautiful light brown hair that glowed with natural blonde highlights. Enormous hazel eyes framed by outrageous eyelashes. Ample breasts and hips he’d imagined digging his fingertips into more than once. He loved to watch her come into the dealership and check out the bikes. The way she stole looks at him when she thought no one would notice. It was cute.

He’d taught the beginner’s motorcycle riding course she’d taken—one of the dealership’s offerings in an attempt to garner more business. Train people on the bikes the dealership sold, and they’d be more likely to make their purchase there. Their interactions had stayed professional and that of a teacher and student, despite how attractive he found her. Something held him back.

He’d enjoyed their short chats, had always found a way to be available and in view when she came into the store, because he liked her. There was just something about her...if she’d been a Fae, he’d have pursued her. Caught her. Bedded her until neither of them could walk in a straight line and her pussy twitched around his cock with uncontrolled spasms.

Oh yeah. He could teach her a whole new way to ride. His cock twitched behind his zipper.

He even knew about the situation with her mother from the bits of conversation he overheard and the talk around town. Travers, Georgia was small enough to give credence to the idea that no one had any secrets, ever. Why he’d moved here five years ago, he’d never know. Blending in would be damn near impossible soon. Already some of his friends made pointed jokes about supplements and steroids to explain how he showed no signs of aging and recovered from physical activities much faster than they did.

Humans were so damn fragile. Keeping them as play things never ended well. It was part of the reason he’d never pursued more than friendship with Peyton, despite the connection he knew existed between them.

The hair on the back of his neck rose, and his skin tingled. Pixy magic in the air tonight. Her eyes fluttered as he checked her head. A large goose egg rose on the back of her skull, but the skin remained unbroken. Danger of a concussion remained, but no blood. A pent-up breath escaped his lips, and he moved on to her elbow. The swollen joint blazed bright red with a tinge toward purple.

He cringed and shook his head. The tinkle and chime of bells floated through the air, and he swore under his breath. Pixies were nothing but trouble; buggers hated being the size of gnats and took their bullshit out on everyone around them. He’d thought he’d gained enough respect from the few he’d allowed in past his wards to trust true malicious actions wouldn’t occur. “Damnable creature. She could have been killed.”

A coffee tin filled with nuts and bolts crashed the floor from his workbench, and a high, girlish laugh sounded. The wee ones liked to cause mischief and play tricks on the unwary. Usually they pestered him with hidden tools, untied shoelaces, and turning the volume on the radio up to full blast. Simple, harmless things. This boldness didn’t bode well.

“Who are you talking to? That was quite an inventive swear word you used.” Her hazel eyes opened and focused on his face.

He choked and blinked, casting about for a way to regain his composure. Bugger. The language he’d sworn in wasn’t English. Or any language a human should know.

The Fae tongue could only be understood by the Fae born.

Who was this woman?

“Ian? Why am I on the floor?” She started to struggle into a sitting position, and he guided her back down.

“You fell. Stay still.” Confusion and a sense of events spiraling churned his stomach along with a wave of selfish joy. If she was a Fae female, he could take her for a turn or twenty between the sheets. All those ample, lush curves under his mouth and hands. Fuck yes.

The clatter of metal hitting cement rang out again. His mind raced in circles. Who was she? All Fae were accounted for on the rolls. Duty bound him to report her to the Overlords. With their numbers dwindling as humanity spread and destroyed their homes in the forests, mountains, and even Underhill, each and every Fae must be accounted for.

Sorrow gripped him at the idea. She’d be taken in, her lineage discovered and traced, and then placed in a clan. With other Fae who shared her blood, magical affinity . . . she’d be married and pregnant within two months.

Irrational rage billowed up when images of Peyton on her knees sucking another man’s cock, with her legs twined around another man’s hips, or her beautiful breasts cupped in another man’s hands coalesced in his head. No man but him should be pleasuring this woman. He’d kill—

“Oh my God. Your eyes.” She gasped and scooted away from him, her injured arm cradled to her chest.  “Stay away from me.”

White-hot heat stole from his solar plexus and into his fists. He clenched his eyes shut and attempted to think of something else. Anything else. She needed medical attention—was hurt. Might need a doctor. Focusing on taking care of her, of not frightening her, helped him tamp the magic back down. Shoving the power back into its cage meant it would simmer and boil until the lid blew, but he had to take care of her.

“Ms. Reynolds. Peyton. It’s okay.” He held his hands at chest height, palms out, and prayed his irises had returned to human green. She must have seen them with the full bore of his magic pouring out like a pair of neon green searchlights. For each step he moved closer, she scooted in the opposite direction. Damn the gods, but he needed her to trust him. Her fear twisted him into knots, and a madness he hadn’t experienced in years crested. The rut ascended from the hollow he’d managed to stuff it in, a shrieking tsunami of magic fueled lust searching for his mate. He shoved it down and aside, surprised when his craving to reassure and protect her stemmed the surge. “Peyton. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe with me.”

And if he was lucky, she’d be naked with him soon. Spread open wide and taking his thick cock into her pussy.

Now that’d be one hell of a nightcap.

The roar of approaching motorcycles reverberated through the repair bay. Every hair on his body stood on end, and territorial fury smashed into his magical shields.

The Wild Hunt. Here. Now.

A cross between a stallion’s trumpet and a snarl erupted from his lips, but the blast of revving engines covered the sound. Mostly.

He had to get her to trust him, and fast. But what could he do? The engines grew louder, and the drawers on his tallest tool chest flew open. Sockets pelted the floor in a metallic clatter.

“Ian, what the hell is going on in here?” Howie Turner, the floor manager for the dealership rushed into the room. Sweat stained the underarms of his shirt, and his pot belly protruded over his waist. “Oh, great. I told you not to let her in here with you. What happened to Ms. Reynolds?”

The short, balding man went to one knee next to her hip and reached for her arm.

“Don’t touch her, Howie.” His voice bordered on a growl, but he couldn’t help it. His innate Fae magic and the rut reacted to the magic of the Wild Hunt, whirling, condensing, and growing inside. She belonged with him. To him. Protective, confused, and agitated, the thought of another man handling her was enough to almost push him over the edge. She was a lost Fae, and his every instinct railed at him to claim her. Now. Before another man spirited her away.

The motorcycles cut off, but the pixies weren’t done with their devilment. Another coffee can careened off a shelf. The air compressor kicked on with a loud, grating buzz, and Peyton shrieked.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes huge in her pale, frightened face.

Damn Manannan. Damn those pixies. Damn Howie. Fuck the Hunt. He paced in a tight circle and threw a shop towel.

“Ian Coghlan, watch your mouth.”

The glare on her sweet, rounded features startled him, and he swore again, then laughed. He’d sworn in the Fae language. No one had corrected him in such a way since his mother centuries ago. His mirth lasted until Howie touched her and helped her stand.