The Bear's Reluctant Wolf

Evernight
Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2014
Jenika
Snow

 
ISBN: 978-1-77130-685-0

Cover
Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor:
Karyn
White

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING:
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal.
 
No part of this book may be
used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a
work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

As
always, without everyone’s support and encouragement I wouldn't be able to do
to what I love, and what has
been my dream
for as long
as I can remember. Thank you, to each and every one of you!

THE BEAR’S RELUCTANT WOLF

Sweet Water, 2

Jenika
Snow

Copyright © 2014

Chapter One

Her tits were big, and every time she
slammed her pussy down on his cock they bounced and jiggled. Trace grabbed
them, not really caring for more than a handful, but what the fuck ever.

“Oh, God.
Trace. You’re so big.”

He was used to hearing this, and
although he wasn’t a cocky bastard over the fact he had a big cock, he liked
that the females seemed to appreciate it. Besides, he thanked whoever in the
hell was listening for gracing him with a dick that could at least get the job
done.

“Slam that pussy down harder, and work
for
my cum
.” He was a dirty talker, no reason to even
deny it. That was who he was, how he was programmed, and the females who willingly
came with him knew exactly what they were getting: one night of hard fucking. Christa
did just that. She rode him hard, slammed that pussy down on his cock, and
clenched her pussy walls like she was desperate for his seed. Before he came he
pushed her off of him, flipped her onto her belly, and slapped her big, round
ass. That was the first thing he had noticed about her when she came into his
bar, Dakota Dark’s. He was an ass man all the way, and those big, juicy mounds
always got his dick instantly hard. “Get on your hands and knees.” He didn’t
sugarcoat anything, said what he wanted, and took what was offered. Christa. He
took hold of each of her cheeks, spread that shit wide, and stared at her
swollen, wet pussy and tight asshole. His dick throbbed, and he glanced down at
the latex covered appendage. Her cream coated him, but he had known that
without even having to look at his shit. She had gotten off two times already,
and her juices had spilled from her like a fucking geyser. Who knew she would
have been a
squirter
?

He aligned the tip of his dick at her
pussy and slammed into her hard. She squealed and reached out to grip the
headboard. The cheap motel bed squeaked as he fucked her hard. On the third
thrust he came, and immediately rolled off of her. Both of their breathing was
hard, but before she could roll over and start that cuddling shit he sat up and
threw his legs over the side of the bed. Tearing the condom off and tossing it
aside, he stood and rolled his head back and forth on his neck.

“Baby.”
Her voice was whiny, and already he was itching to get away. After the shit with
Karla, Trace just wanted to fuck and be done with it. He didn’t want any pillow
talk, and he sure as hell didn’t want to spoon afterwards.

“Don’t call me that.” He looked over his
shoulder and saw her already touching up her too red lipstick.

“Want to go another round? I’m still soaking
wet,” she said without even looking at him. Trace didn’t bother responding,
just stalked toward the bathroom, turned the shower on hot as fuck, and stepped
inside. The sting of those scorching little pellets hit his body, and he
gritted his teeth. He always took hotter than fuck showers, needed to wash off
the perfume that the females were always saturated in, and wipe off the feeling
of dirty one-night stands. After he scrubbed himself raw he grabbed the towel
that barely covered his softening cock and stepped back into the room. Good,
she had fucking left, but not before she placed her number scribbled on a scrap
piece of paper. He picked it up, stared at the little hearts she had drawn around
her name, and grunted. He tossed that shit in the trash, because she fucking
knew before they had come back to the motel that all this would be was a quick screw.

Trace shoved his feet through his
leathers and pulled them up. Once he found his white t-shirt he grabbed it and
pulled it over his head. Wallet in back pocket and attached to his chain, and
keys in hand, he got the fuck out of there. His Harley Fat Boy sat right
outside the door, and his cock jerked a bit at the gleaming perfection of it.
Yeah, his bike was a work of fucking art, and it was all his. It had taken him
a year to get his baby tricked out, customized, and restored from the floor up.

He threw his leg over her, sat his ass
down on the cooled leather seat, and cranked the engine. She purred like a
warmed kitten, and he revved the engine. He didn’t give a shit if it was going
on three in the morning, because this was the shit he lived for. After he’d
caught his ex-wife Karla fucking his once best friend in their own bed all
those years ago, he had given up on finding a decent female. Besides, he didn’t
need a female or a mate to tie him down. He owned a new and successful bar and
grille, fucked whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and didn’t have to
answer to anyone.

At forty-five he had his life back,
although a bit empty in his chest from what that bitch did to him. He was
content, or at least he liked to think he was. He would never admit to anyone
that, at times, he hated fucking these random, nameless chicks, but then he
pushed those shitty thoughts aside and asked himself if he would rather be in a
fucked-up relationship with a betraying bitch of a wife, and a piece of shit
best friend. He always came up with the same answer: no.

He hit the road, loving that the
pavement was a blur beneath his tires. It took him only twenty minutes to reach
the side road that would climb up the mountains and end where his cabin was. He
took the turn, drove up the steep incline, and pulled to a stop in front of his
porch. The only light on was the one in the kitchen, and his twenty-three year
old son Liam’s pick-up was parked by the detached garage. Trace already knew
Liam probably had a girl, or even two, in his house, but he couldn’t get mad at
him, not when Trace did the same thing. But the only difference was he never
brought the females back to his house. That was his own rule, and he stuck with
it. This was his domain, and no way would he bring his fucks back here for his
kid to see. Apparently Liam didn’t feel the same way, though.

Trace headed inside and immediately
smelled liquor, perfume, and sex. He fucking hated artificial scents, and the
amount these girls doused themselves in made his stomach roil. He went into the
kitchen, saw a few empty bottles of beer and some shot glasses on the table,
and just shook his head. He put the glasses in the sink, tossed the bottle in
the recycle bin, and turned off the light. He headed down the hallway and
reached behind him to grip the collar of his shirt and pull it over his head.
The sound of Liam’s door opening, and then of a very naked woman emerging
didn’t even have Trace blinking twice. She had small tits and a flat stomach.
She was skinny as shit, and not normally what his son went after, but Liam wasn’t
picky when it came to pussy. Gauging the sound of another female giggling inside
of his son’s room, it looked like he’d brought home two for the night.

The female stopped and stared at him.
Clearly she didn’t give a shit about her nudity, but then again she was
prancing around his house with nothing on like she owned the damn place.

“Hey, didn’t I fuck you?” He would have
blown her off, but her blatant way of calling him out had Trace stopping and
glancing down at her. She was human, and buzzed by the stench of alcohol that
came from her. The hallway was dark, but he could see her well enough. He
couldn’t even remember most of the women he’d fucked since leaving Karla, but
it had been a lot. The chances that he screwed this one were pretty high up
there, even if all their faces blended together over time. Yeah, he was a
man-whore, but he didn’t make any fucking apologies for it. He was an adult,
had done the whole marriage thing, which hadn’t worked out, and at forty-five
he was fucking living life the way he wanted. He made no apologies for that,
and didn’t give a shit what anyone said. If they had a problem with it and had
the balls to confront him, well, they found their asses sprawled on the
pavement as his response.

“Probably.”
He grunted the word out, saw her eyes widen a fraction, but turned and left,
not waiting for her to respond. Once in his room he slammed his door shut,
chucked off his leathers, and face planted nude on his bed. He had soundproofed
his room a year ago after Liam had brought a female home and fucked her so
loudly that he had heard the springs on the bed squeaking and the headboard
banging against the wall. He could only hear his kid fucking so many times
before he wanted to stab pencils in his ears. Sleep couldn’t come soon enough,
and the fact he wasn’t going into to the bar until after nine was golden.