Wesley (6 page)

Remus moved around him. Wes was aware of him as some sort of spiritual whirlwind. The air swirled over Wes, and scents of sage and pine filled him. Wes shook and mewled, his body jerking and bones snapping as the shift hit him.

Pain rendered him breathless as he hit the ground, writhing. Shifting had always hurt, but never had it been this agonising. Wes shouted, his throat burning and his ears ringing. He couldn’t say whether or not he made a sound as the snow leopard spirit took its pound of flesh from him.

Wes arched so hard he thought his back might break, then he was contorting, tufts of hair sprouting up all over his body. He rolled and got to his paws, clawing at the ground. The urge to run and hunt pressed down on him, but Remus was right there in his face.

“I cannot let you loose on the pack lands, Wes. Think of the wolves that would see you and give in to their animal instincts. Dogs chase cats, wolves chase leopards, I would imagine. You must remain on my property. Run, follow the fence, but do not clear it or I will be very angry.”

Wes wasn’t stupid. He purred and rubbed against Remus’ legs until the old man chuckled. “All right, all right, go on. There is a rabbit out there waiting for you.”

Wes chuffled at that. He seriously doubted any rabbit would be waiting to become his dinner, but he didn’t doubt there was one out there for him to hunt.

“Don’t return until the moon is centred above you. I told you I have others to attend to, and they deserve their privacy.”

Wes took off, his powerful haunches sending him forward in a mighty leap. It had been too long since he’d shifted. The night air was warmer than he’d have liked, and thick with humidity, but there was a strong breeze that ruffled his fur as he bounded through tall grass.

Wes learned to avoid the cacti that littered the area. One poke to the nose made him a lot more careful, but he had fun, chasing bugs and rodents, and yes, his rabbit. He revelled in being his leopard, and almost wept to think of how close he had come to losing this part of himself.

The moon wasn’t quite centred when he sneaked back to Remus’ house, but he had a burr stuck in the pad of his right paw that he couldn’t get out and it hurt. Limping, he tried to hang back when he heard voices, but something about one of them set all of his senses on alert.

The pain in his paw ceased to matter as arousal circulated through him with each heartbeat. The urge to mate, to breed and claw and bite, had Wes arching and rubbing against the ground. He spiked his tail up and purred as he lowered his chest. Wes wanted to yowl, but remembered Remus’ warning about staying away.

He’d disobeyed that, but Remus could just get mad. Armando was in the house, Wes could hear him talking to Remus, laughing every now and then at something Remus said.

There was Wes’ explanation as to why Remus had blown off the odour-disguising question. Remus knew who he’d been talking about, and, Wes would bet, Armando knew Remus was a shifter. Maybe he even knew that Wes was, too.

And why would Armando want something to nullify any odour he had, good or bad? To keep his scent hidden from us. But why?

Wes’ arousal was dampened by the realisations, and he curled up a few yards from the door. He could see Remus, and Armando, and hear them, but he was thinking more than eavesdropping. Shifters, at least the ones he knew, wolf and snow leopards, were excellent scenters. They could detect so much not perceptible to a human, like arousal and anger—and Wes figured he had his answer. He’d wager that Armando did know about shifters, and somehow, he’d met Remus and got the shaman to make him a sort of protection in the form of the odour neutraliser.
But why?

Maybe he just wanted privacy. Wes cringed inwardly at that, because there he was lingering where he’d been told not to. He needed to scoot on back until he couldn’t see or hear what was going on.

Except his body wouldn’t cooperate. He couldn’t seem to look away from Armando. He’d showered, Wes thought. There was a wet look to his black hair, and, instead of the baggy jeans he always wore, Armando had on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. The shorts were long, past his knees, but not so loose that Wes couldn’t detect a nice, round rump on the man. The shirt was every bit as huge as the ones Armando wore to work, but it was short-sleeved, and he could see the slight musculature to Armando’s arms. Nothing bulging or major, and the skin was the same golden brown as his face. Black hair was spread sparsely over his arms, and his legs were dusted with it lightly as well.

The contrast to Wes’ own much paler, hairier body was fascinating. Wes wanted to stroke that smooth skin, taste it and see if it was cinnamon and sugar or salty spice. He couldn’t look away from Armando as the man gesticulated like he was telling an entire story with his hands. What would those hands feel like on him, smoothing his fur, or, better yet, his skin?

Wes rose, the urge to prowl right up to Armando almost irresistible. He twitched all over, panting, waiting, wanting.

As if he felt Wes watching, Armando froze, one hand almost straight up in the air, the other curled and out to his side. Remus went from listening intently to peering out of the window. Wes knew the old shaman saw him, but he wasn’t expecting Armando to spin around in his seat and look right at him.

Wes stopped mid-breath. He kept perfectly still just as he did when hunting prey. The light shining through the window had likely exposed him even though he wasn’t standing directly in it. Either that, or his eyes glowed—or both. All Wes knew was that he was busted. A mewl slipped out before he could stop it, his leopard begging for his mate.

Wes thought his heart had stopped right along with his breath.
My mate? My leopard wanted his mate, my mate?
Wes’ cock throbbed and his heart slammed so hard against his ribs he thought he’d bruised it. He raised his head and let go of a yowl that he could no longer hold in. Anger pinched at him but Wes refused to give it root. So his mate had been hiding from him. It wasn’t an intentional deceit—Armando’s scent had been so totally eradicated, Wes was certain he’d been covering it for a long time.

But now it was time for that to stop. Armando had no need to hide from him, and the lack of shock on Armando’s face at seeing him assured Wes that shifters were something Armando was aware of. Yes, the man looked surprised, but not freaked-out scared.

Everything snapped into place for Wes. His desire for Armando, his fascination with the man, his need for him. Now he understood it all, but why was Armando frowning at him like that? Shouldn’t he be feeling the same exultant desire Wes did?

Chapter Four

Armando tried to swallow but couldn’t get anything past the tight knot in his throat. He wished he could say it was fear, but it wasn’t. Want rose in him like tides to the moon, centring on Wes. Armando didn’t need to be told which shifter that was out there, he knew it instinctively.

“He asked me why he couldn’t scent you. I did not answer him.”

“Why not?” Armando couldn’t look away from the magnificent snow leopard watching him in return. The moonlight fell on the cat, making the white fur gleam silver in places. Dark rosettes, black or possibly grey, patterned the leopard’s coat. His tail was thick, and flicked back and forth as if the cat was agitated.

“It was not my question to answer.”

Armando grunted at that. Leave it to Remus to be vague and wise. “I think about him,” Armando admitted almost simultaneously with a rumbling sound from Wes. Remus had become the one confidant Armando truly had. Alisa was a good friend, but she didn’t know about shifters, and she didn’t know about Armando’s past. Remus did, and treated him with affection rather than pity.

“How do you think about him?” Remus asked, so softly that Armando almost didn’t hear him.

Then it occurred to him. “He can hear us, can’t he?” The window was raised, the screen doing nothing to filter their voices.

Remus moved to the chair beside Armando and put his hand on Armando’s shoulder. “I doubt he heard your confession over his own racket.”

Armando gulped then, finally getting enough saliva together to do so. He couldn’t seem to look away from the golden eyes of the leopard. “What’s happening between us? I went for years without wanting anyone…” He stopped, aware of his audience. One of them might hurt him with that knowledge if he continued.

“That is for you and Wes to figure out. I cannot interfere, Armando.” Remus touched his cheek and Armando forced himself to meet the shaman’s gaze. Affection and concern lit his eyes as he looked back at Armando. “He will not hurt you, Armando. He cannot.” Remus stood and bussed a kiss across his forehead. “I will be in my bedroom. It’s late for this old man.”

“Don’t—” Armando began, panic ticking like a bomb in his chest. He started to grab at Remus’ hand but stopped himself. “I can’t help it, Remus. I’m scared.”

Remus took his hand and patted it before gesturing at the snow leopard now at the base of the steps. “Look at him. Look past your fear, and see the man in the leopard. Perhaps it is time you release your fear of living, and
live.
” Remus patted him once more then released his hand. “I will not be far away, but unless you call to me, I’ll not hear what passes between you two.”

Armando frowned hard enough to hurt.
What does that even mean, what passes between us?
Armando’s blood seemed to warm in his veins, then it shot south as Wes curled up on the ground outside, his shift taking him over. It looked painful as hell, and Armando was glad he wasn’t one of them. If sometimes he felt a twinge of envy that the wolves—and leopards—could run for hours in the wild, all he had to do was watch one shift. The wolves said it didn’t hurt, but it hurt to watch, and Armando would take a pass on the whole experience.

As he watched Wes’ body turn from leopard to man, his cock grew harder. Each heartbeat sent lust thrumming through him. Armando found himself clenching his ass as a desire he’d not experienced in years caused an awareness of need in his core.

Wes’ long, lean form was exposed under the moonlight, his skin pale and covered with more hair than Armando would have expected. He could imagine the way it would feel against his skin, crisp and scratchy and masculine. Wes threw his arms over his head and arched as a spasm rocked his body, and his muscles stood out in stark relief. Armando pressed a hand against his groin, barely cognisant of what he was doing. Wes’ cock was long and thick, curving up to almost kiss his navel.

Armando eyed that shaft eagerly as Wes spread his legs. He followed the length of it down to the heavy balls he longed to cup. It was obvious to him that his libido was back with a vengeance, at least where Wes was concerned.

Wes rolled to his side, giving Armando his back. Dirt and grass clung to it, but in no way marred the perfection of the man’s body. His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. A tight, muscular ass begged to be explored. Armando had never topped before, but he wanted to now, wanted to step outside and fuck Wes right there in the dirt and grass.

No!
Armando jerked as if he’d been poked with a cattle prod. He didn’t want to hurt Wes, and what he’d been thinking about, that would have done so. Armando shivered and his erection wilted at the realisation. He, of all people, should know how painful that could be. If he ever fucked Wes, he’d take his time and prepare him properly, not shove into him without regard for Wes’ pleasure.

Armando couldn’t look away from Wes, now panting as he lay still except for irregular shivers that rippled over him. Was he honestly thinking about having sex with Wes, about possibly topping him?

Memories popped up in Armando’s mind but he refused to give them power. He’d been very young, very scared, and very hungry not too many years ago. The things he’d done for food and shelter… Those things had scarred him, but he had forgiven himself for them. More problematic was the other, darker images that wanted to come screaming to the surface.

Armando shoved them down deep, envisioning a cement tomb for them. His therapist had told him to try to imagine things that brought him peace, and the lack of hellish memories would certainly do that. Wes moaned and rolled onto his back. His cock bobbed, still hard and beautifully arched. Armando forgot about everything but the perfection of that long, strong body and the way the moonlight played on Wes’ skin. He curled his hands into fists, the drive to touch so strong it had him rising to his feet.

Wes sat up then, instantly looking at Armando. “I—”

Whatever else Wes had intended to say, Armando didn’t have a clue. He was moving, as if his feet had minds of their own. His cock firmed back up as if it had never gone soft in the first place. As if he’d been hard all day and he needed to come immediately.

Wes gulped and started to rise. Armando pointed at him as he put a hand to the screen door. “Don’t. If you want me to touch you, don’t move except to lie back down.” He could only do this, maybe, if he was in control. The fear of failure, of flipping out and running away, or, worse, screaming and crying, almost stopped Armando in his tracks. Then Wes lowered his lids until all Armando could see was a bare hint of Wes’ irises, and he lay back effortlessly, like water flowing over stones in a river.