Wolf Song (Wolf Song Trilogy #1)(13)
“Shit. Shit. Shit. I want to devour you. You’re so beautiful. I need to taste you again. To drink you. To eat you. To be inside you. I need—” He broke off and muttered another curse. Another string of curses. This time she saw the wolf in his eyes, dancing, pacing, unable to work off the fierce hunger holding him in its grip. “I need a f*cking condom,” he snarled.
“So…you’re hurting a little, too?”
“Hell, I’m way past hurt, Aura Lee. I’m so far into permanent blue-balls territory, I may be howling soprano for the rest of my f*ckin’ life.”
“Yeah, um, no. Not if I have anything to say about that.” Before he could react, she reached up and took his cock into her hands, her fingers barely able to close around the wide, hard length.
He howled, his voice rough and hoarse, so filled with raw sex the sound almost made her come again. She slid her hands up and down his erection from base to head, watching his expression, the reaction of the wolf within his eyes. When she hefted his tight balls in one hand and pumped with the other, the harsh cry torn from his throat rewarded her. She leaned over, taking the thick tip of his cock into her mouth, and swirled her tongue around it. He gripped her hair and pressed her to him until she took another inch. And another inch. He pulsed against her and she felt the first drop of salt splash onto her tongue.
With a sudden roar, he lifted her off him and pushed her away, his hips bucking wildly as he came against the sheets. She waited until he flopped onto his back next to her again, panting, the breaths seesawing in and out of him.
“That wasn’t necessary,” she told him.
He gathered her against him and tucked her under his arm, his huge muscles locking her at his side. “Yeah. It was.” His voice rumbled uneven and ragged. But so deep and low there’d be no mistaking him for soprano. Ever.
She nearly laughed. But he looked so tortured she wanted to cry. “I think we’d better go into town. Get those condoms. So we can take care of each other right.”
Chapter Four
Calhoun Bartholomew Seven studied the huge map covering one wall of his office at The Graymarket Trading Company Saloon and Casino. Once, the skinwalker town of Shady Heart had accounted for only a small corner in the upper right quadrant. But the march of red pins reflecting the expanding territory and influence of Goldspark Enterprises—named after the shifter clan he headed—drove relentlessly outward and down, until only the town of Los Lobos, on the southwest side of the mountain, and the woodland area surrounding it, remained in the hands of the Black Hills Wolves and out of the perimeter Cal’s influence and control.
He needed all of it. Needed the wolves out of the way and off the map. Only then could he ensure the cats’ survival.
Within him, his cat paced restlessly. He took a long slug of the 40-year-old Scotch in his tumbler and set the empty glass on his desk. Immediately, one of the saloon girls disengaged herself from a corner of the room, where she’d been pretending to be wallpaper, and sidled to his side, crystal decanter in hand.
“Refill, Bart, honey?” she crooned. “Or some other…refreshment?” She thrust her chest forward, her ample breasts all but spilling from her low-cut blouse to graze his arm. Another male might have pounced. But Cal felt…nothing. Except possibly annoyance at the interruption of his calculations.
“Leave it,” he muttered, taking the bottle from her. The top of her head barely reached the level of his clavicle. Which didn’t much matter when she dropped to her knees in front of him and reached for his belt.
He brushed her hands away and yanked her to her feet.
“But I’m so hungry for you, baby,” she whined. “It’s been so long. Emmy says you did her last week.” She rubbed herself against him. Typical feline. Her mewling morphed into purrs of pleasure.
“Don’t believe everything you hear.” He looked down, smelling the musk of her arousal. But also the scent of a she-cat going into heat. “If half the gossip about me was true, I’d be f*cking you ladies 24/7 and I’d never have time for anything else.”
“But, baby….” The purring gave way to a yowl of unsatisfied disappointment. “I’ve got an itch. I need you to scratch it.”
He shook his head. “Get back to work, Delilah. Plenty of guys out there’ll pay top dollar to scratch that itch for you.”
“Damn you, Bart. You’re the only one I really want.”
“Out.” He jabbed a thumb toward the door. With a pout, she flounced across the office, heading to the exit. “And take care of yourself, if you don’t want to be knee-deep in a litter of kits.”
She paused, her hand on the knob, and looked back at him, her golden feline eyes narrowed. “Thought you were looking to increase the clan?”
“Yeah. When I know I can take care of all the young and everyone else looking to me for security.”
“Just need you to take care of me, baby.”
“We’re done here, Delilah.”
She blew him a sarcastic kiss and left him alone at last. His employees—hell, most of Shady Heart—referred to him as “Black Bart,” a play on his middle name and the dark looks he aimed in their direction when their work fell short of his exacting standards. Originally, they’d used the nickname only behind his back, but then more openly as soon as they’d realized he didn’t care one way or the other. Women, especially, seemed to prefer it, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, particularly when they managed to entice him into their beds and boasted about it afterwards.