ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (107 page)

                        “Call him.”

                        Red blinks at me.  “What?”

                        “Call Denny and see if he’s up for some company,” I see, fishing around in my purse to readjust my lipstick.  I see excitement light Red’s features as he presses the speed dial on his cellphone.  H steps aside for a moment, and it’s a tense few minutes as I hear him talking in low, murmuring tones to someone on the other end.  When he finally comes back with an answer, the grin on his face matches my own.

                        “Come on,’ he tells me, offering me a hand.  “I’ll drive.”

                        His vintage little Alfa Romeo befits both his salary and his love of old cars, and there’s not much to be said as he drives with one hand and slowly reaches into the side of my dress to play with my breast on the way back to his apartment.  I reach out a hand and fondle him through his pants, and all that we both can hear is the sound my purring and his isolated groans against the silence of the road.    It’s a little hard for both of us to walk to the door of his apartment when we finally arrive.

                        Denny is cute as hell.  He’s got these cocoa brown eyes that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Bambi, and a mouth that belongs straight out of a parrying man’s dream.  He sees both of our disheveled states and knows there was some hanky panky going on in the car.  And to my delight, he looks amused.

                        Who needs words when everybody already knows what’s going on?  Denny offers me a seat while Red goes off to pour me a drink.  The living room is cool, and Denny slowly begins to rub my shoulders.  He’s quite good, and I feel my muscles unkink, one at a time.  I drink the lemonade Red’s brought me, and as soon as I finish the glass and wipe off my lips, he leans over on the couch and kisses me, trying to get the last drops.

                        I kiss him back, mixing my tongue with his, and Denny walks around the couch to kneel at my feet.  Red is fumbling with the straps of my navy dress, all corporate charm and medical professional, and he pushes it down so that my breasts are free to the room.  Denny begins massaging my feet, and he’s so good that I moan aloud, and I’m not exactly sure if it’s from his ministrations or Red licking my nipples.

                        Red stands and we all walk over to what I assume is their bedroom.  My dress is all bunched around my waist, and Denny slowly finishes unzipping it, leaving it in a pool at the foot of their posterless bed.  I’m excited.  I can smell it on myself, the way dew is beading on my skin.  Denny takes my hand and leads me over to the bed.  He makes himself into a human cushion and invites me to sit against his skinny little body, fragile and agile all at the same time.  The mattress gives a little bit as I join him, and while he touches me, I hear Red undressing.

                        Denny’s cock is hard against my back, and I let myself loll back as he plays with my breasts and kisses my neck.  He is running his fingers up the smooth sides of my body, dripping into the valley between my tits, and his tongue is making the nerve endings in my neck come completely alive and undone.  Someone’s moaning pierces the air, and I realize that it’s mine.

                        Someone it spreading my legs; a quick glance down reveals that I’s Red, and that his fantastic little ginger head is heading straight towards the apex of my thighs, and that he is spreading me down there, and licking me with his tongue.  My breathing quickens as he sucks on me, again and again, and moves his tongue in firm circles on me, and I know I’m making a mess on their clean bed and I just cannot bring myself to care.  I can feel Red begin to slip a finger inside of me, and I reach down and take it out.

                        “No,” I manage to get out, shaking my head.  “I want you.  I want it.”  My hand reaches out and brushes his erection, and there cannot be any doubt as to which it I’m referring to.

                        I’m a warm cradle of life and pink-spread willingness as Red hooks his arms under my thighs and pierces me slowly.  He fills me up and I love the feeling of stretching around him.  He pushes into me once, twice, and then I tighten my muscles around him, telling him to stop fucking around and just fuck me right already.  He grins, and it’s mixed in with a pleasurable groan as I do that, and I know he got my message and loves the way that feels.

                        We’re skin into skin as he pushes into me, as Denny grasps both of my breasts with his hands, my nipples peeking out from in between his knuckles, and I’m being bent almost in half by the two men.   I feel myself building and building, and I’m threatening to burst into a million pieces, but there’s something missing, something that’s keeping me safely lashed to the ledge—

                        Denny slides a warm, lubricated finger directly into my ass.

                        And wouldn’t you believe it, that’s what does it for me?

                        I’m filled everywhere at once and I scream out as I leap off the ledge and splatter all over their bed.

                        God
damn
.

                        It takes just a little while longer, but I don’t mind, still shuddering in the aftermath of my glorious coming, and then Red joins me.  Warm liquid erupting from him, he tilts his head back and the veins on his neck strain as he groans his pleasure aloud.  And when he collapses onto my bare chest, a familiar wave of tenderness fills me.

                        And then, when Denny crawls over and begins to kiss him awake, a very different wave comes over me.  I am pissed.  I do not want Bambi touching my man.  And that’s when I realize I’ve had a niggling feeling in me ever since Red mentioned his boyfriend, ever since I laid eyes on Denny.

                        Well, actually, it’s two feelings.

                        One is that I want Denny’s hands off of Red.  I want to be the only one stroking Red’s hair like that, whispering “baby” into the delicate whorl of his ear.  Which actually leads me to my second point, and it’s one I’m not ready to say aloud anywhere but here just yet.

                        I’m still in love with Red.

                        And I’ll do anything to get him back.

THE END

Falling for the Bad Boy

              Spot Café is so low-key that nobody bothers you.  Menus are tattered past their lamination, their edges soft and inconsequential.  It is below ground, with a rickety old staircase that leads to its wooden door, past a narrow waiting corridor, and then into a thicket of tables that might well be from a tavern in the Middle Ages.  They serve desserts so sad that they smack of childhoods ragged enough to expect that even a small glimmer of sweetness might cut through the loneliness.  Dave comes for the coffee, black and strong enough to stand a spoon in.

                         A cup stands before him now, white steam rising off of it in plumes; it looks bracing, but not appetizing, the way he likes it, but he barely notices it.  His mind is unusually consumed and racing, so far from his normally balanced state of zen that he experiences while working in his shop that he scarcely recognizes himself.  A serving attendant approaches him, asks if he knows when his second party will be joining him, and he almost chuckles at the posh-sounding question in so disreputable an establishment.  “Any minute now,” he says, and straightens his leather jacket from where it has bunched up on his shoulders. He has been sitting at Spot for a long time.  He glances at his watch again, a relic from his grandfather, the only thing he holds dear from his family; twenty minutes he’s been sitting here.  Dave is not a man who enjoys waiting; he is a hard man with steely green eyes and a short black buzz haircut who does not generally enjoy people at all.  He knows he will wait for as long as it takes for Alexandra to arrive.

                         He recalls the first time they met.  He’s not much of a performer, but Josh, his oldest friend, runs a monthly long form storytelling show and begged him to be one of the featured guests.

                         “What am I going to talk about?” Dave growled, taking apart the back axel of a shattered wheel.

                         “Talk about your dad, man,” Josh told him, and that was that.

                         When Dave’s on stage, he rarely notices anybody; it’s how he lives his life, either way.  He’s up there, talking about the time his dad gave him a choice—be beaten with the iron wrench or the leather belt.  It’s all a little
Good Will Hunting
, but sometimes, good cinema reflects life.  So Dave zones out, and the next thing he knows, his performance is over, half the audience is in tears, and Josh is slapping him on the back, congratulating him on a job well done.  And then through the crowd there’s this ripple, something or someone too small to be seen parting the people before them like Moses with the Red Sea.  Dave wouldn’t notice except suddenly there’s a small hand on his bicep and a luscious woman’s voice filling his ear.

                         “That was phenomenal,” she gushes, but her tone is sincere enough to snag his attention.  “I don’t have much faith in long form storytelling, and my standards are high, but you blew me away; there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, including mine.  And I am not even ashamed to admit that.”

                         She’s this tiny thing with hazel eyes and long dark hair swept up in a French braid; her round thighs are encased in cargo shorts, her feet in white-and-orange striped sneakers, and she’s got these glasses on that frame her face.  She looks like a cross between a phys ed teacher and a librarian, but that’s not what he sees.  What he sees is someone who is, in one of the most random occurrences of his life, speaking to him directly from the heart.

                         “Thanks.  You liked it?” he finds himself saying.  She barely reaches his chest, she’s so small, but he can sense the energy rolling off of her in waves.  She is far, far larger than she looks.

                         “Liked it?  Oh man, what was that thing you said—the one about how your dad would create that moat with the tub of ice cream?  Hit me right in the soft spots.  Reminded me so much of my mom that I almost couldn’t take it,” she says, her eyes burning with intensity.  She is honest.  She is direct.  She is fearless.  Dave feels something completely crazy charging through him, this strange feeling as if he can see the girl before him astride a horse and himself following her into battle.  He tries to shake it off, but instead, he hears himself saying:

                         “I’m glad you enjoyed it.  I’d love to hear about your mom sometime and the other thoughts you had, we should have coffee talk about them.”

                         What?  Have coffee and talk about it?  Even Josh looks at him askance; the Dave he knows would have slunk away after a terse ‘thank you,’ not wanting to interact with anyone.  Dave can’t help it, though; he feels drawn to her energy like a moth to a flame.  She is all bright eyes and confidence, but he can see this thing in her eyes, like her soul is far older than the rest of her.

                         She nods and offers her hand; he takes it without thinking, and it almost disappears inside of the conglomeration of his scarred fingers.  “I’m Alexandra,” she tells him, and it sears itself on his brain.  In any other time and place, he would slap himself, but instead, all he says is, “I’m Dave.”

                         “I know,” she answers, turns on her heel, and walks away.

                         All of that was three weeks ago.  And damn if he can’t get her out of his brain.

                         The same night they met, she sent him a friend request.  And an invitation to grab the coffee.  He found himself excited as a kid in high school, so he shut his laptop screen, walked into his bathroom, and flipped on the lights.  He ran a hand roughly over his face and considered his reflection in the mirror.

                         What the hell was he doing?  He was a grown man of thirty one who liked his solitude.  When he needed a woman, he went out and got one, then went back to his shop and it was over.  He split before performances were over, and he only had the one friend.  He liked his solitude the way some men like their beer—served cold and daily.  Alexandra was dangerous, he could sense that clearly.  One look at her and you knew she was the kind of woman who liked to build her own furniture and pretend that she never needed a man.  The kind of woman who liked to make throw pillows and paint apartments together.  She was the kind of woman who sucked men into her domesticity and made them believe that they liked it, that it was their idea all along.  His green eyes glare at him hard in the mirror, the fluorescent lights illuminating the scant lines in his face and the scar above his right eyebrow, and then, without meaning to, he lets his gaze soften just for a moment.  In the newfound softness of his expression, he catches one thing—he’s excited by her.

                         He walks back to the laptop, opens it, and says, “Four on Tuesday at Spot Cafe.”