What was that, then?
Arran had run smack into the bent-over woman with the wiggly tush. He wasn’t usually so daft, but who could blame him for being distracted? She’d literally waved her red flag, er, panties in front of his Bull.
There was a reason certain sayings became known. A truth that existed somewhere between the lines. His Bull saw her red flag and now, the idiotic creature was having all sorts of naughty, wonderful ideas about the female.
No. This would not do.
“Would you mind gettin’ off me?”
Arran grunted the question. It was all he could do to remove his hands from her luscious posterior.
His request was the opposite of what he wanted, but being a reserved sort of Bull, Arran dinnae think it was a good idea to molest the female in the middle of the stacks.
It’s a great idea, actually, his Bull insisted.
Feck off, he grumbled at the beast.
“Yes,” she interrupted his inner battle. “Actually, I think I would mind.”
The gorgeous, but obviously daft, female surprised him with that answer before plastering her luscious mouth to his. Arran moaned, opening his mouth to tangle his tongue with hers. The wee lass tasted like sunshine and sin, a more potent combination he’d never experienced.
What the actual feck was going on?
Mine, the Bull growled.
What? No!
His human side tried to reason, but the Bull was having none of that. Wouldn’t be the first time a Highland coo had gone crazy. Still, the timing was impeccable. After all, hadn’t Gerard just given him a lecture about doing his duty to the Herd?
Might not be exactly what the Alpha wanted, but Arran did not give a single fuck about that. Not when every cell in his body was singing with joy at having found his mate among the stacks at Wulver & Dracos.
Mine. Mine. MINE.
The sexy female was all curves and power as she wriggled against his hard body. He’d never felt such raw animal attraction before, and that was really saying something considering he shared his body and soul with a Highland Bull.
Och, but so does she. This one won’t hold it against you any for being a right beast.
Arran saw stars the second her lips met his. Sure, at his age, he’d been kissed a time or twenty, but never like this. She tasted of honey and sweet grass. Sin and sunshine, the smell of her Wolf’s fur tickled the periphery of his senses.
His Bull did not even stutter at the predator in his arms. In fact, the beast was calm, practically purring from her attentions. Lost in her kisses, Arran ground himself by wrapping his arms around her shapely form.
“Christ, woman, you kiss like a goddess,” he moaned as she nipped his lip between her teeth.
His cock strained beneath his pants as the female growled softly in her throat. Beneath the wondrous assault on his senses were the scents of books, paper, leather, and ink. Of all the places to meet his mate, this was definitely top on Arran’s list.
Heart racing like mad, he rocked his hips, hissing at the heat coming from her core. It was like all his favorite things combined to make an aphrodisiac the likes of which his Bull could not resist.
A deep, rumbling growl emanated from his chest in turn, and Arran took over their kiss. He was not demonstrative by nature, but the wee she-Wolf brought out the beast in him.
She was perfect. Aggressive enough to initiate this passionate interlude, yet submissive too, as she allowed him leave to take command. He’d never felt quite so turned on as he switched positions, rolling her beneath him.
“Yes,” she whimpered, and the scent of her arousal grew stronger.
It took every last bit of strength he had not to tear her clothes off and ram straight into her like a rutting beast—and he wanted to. Christ, did he want to! Never had he ever been so instantly attracted to the point of almost coming in his jeans.
“More,” she demanded.
Arran growled and plundered her mouth with his seeking tongue. His hands roamed her body, cupping her sweet breasts and tugging on the hardened nubs of her nipples while he rolled his hips against the hot apex of her thighs.
He should slow this down, he thought as her hands roamed his chest, shoulders, back, and arse. But Arran just couldn’t help himself. The woman was growling and rubbing herself on him, and fuck, he’d never wanted anyone more than he wanted her.
She’s a stranger.
No. She is my mate.
On and on, the warring inside his head went until he could not even hear it anymore. The way Arran saw it, some things went beyond the realm of his meager understanding.
Kissing a stranger and falling in lust in a matter of seconds, for instance. These were things that happened in the normal world, but for Shifters, they meant something else. Something more.
This felt like more. This felt huge. Their kiss was no gentle meeting of the lips. No practiced seduction or hasty curiosity.
Feck, no.
This was an all-out tempest. A hurricane-like crashing of mouths and bodies, souls, and fate, fueled by instinct, need, and raw desire.
His Bull roared inside him. The animal was letting his human side know in no uncertain terms he wanted the she-Wolf. Fated mates were rare in their world, but legends persisted.
Arran never believed in all that before, but she was quickly changing his mind. Nothing had ever felt so singularly perfect as having this woman’s mouth glued to his.
It was like the stars and planets had aligned until this very moment had come into existence. It had to be destiny. The universe, the gods, heck, the Fates themselves. All or one, something larger than he could comprehend, had to have had a hand in this.
Arran had waited his entire life to feel connected, and here it was. With this stranger, he felt more than he ever had with anyone else. Even Bonnie. He’d never experienced such heady bliss, such a keen sense of rightness, and lightning fast.
The sounds of footsteps reached his sensitive ears, and he tensed, holding onto the writhing she-Wolf.
“Mr. Balloch? Phone call, sir. I trust everything is okay up there?” the familiar voice of Robbie called from the hall.
Arran could hardly think as the sounds of footsteps were getting closer. He barely had a moment to gather his wits before he stood up, taking the wee female with him. Arran tucked her behind him, using his body to shield her.
Blocking her from the nosy clerk’s view, he growled softly as the sounds of the female’s racing heart reached his ears. Her breathing hitched in her chest, and it bolstered his own confidence, knowing she was as shaken as he.
“Mr. Balloch? Can you hear me, sir? You have a phone call,” the clerk said, turning down the aisle to face him only seconds later.
“Take a message, man. I am working,” he growled, and the man paled.
“Um, yes sir, but he said it was urgent—”
“I don’t give a rat’s arse. Take a message and tell whoever it is I am not to be disturbed while I am here. Shut the door on your way out and keep the wing closed,” Arran said in a tone that brokered no argument.
“Um, yes, sir. Are you sure everything is okay up here?” Robbie inquired again, trying to peek behind Arran.
“Did you not hear me, then? Does it look like I need your help?” he barked.
“Sorry, sir,” Robbie muttered.
That earned him a wee giggle from the she-Wolf, and he felt her shake with laughter behind him. Naughty little minx. It was hard to keep a straight face, but he managed.
Barely.
Did Arran look as ridiculous as he sounded? He could only hope not. But what was he supposed to do? He was hard as bloody stone, and two kisses away from shagging a stranger on the damn floor.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Nothing. Mate. Claim. Bite.
There it was again. His Bull whispered into his brain, and his thoughts had more power than the threat of an atomic bomb.
The clerk left with an audible squeak and Arran was left alone with the female who was trying, and failing, to not laugh hysterically. Slowly, he turned round.
“Think that’s funny, do you?”
“A little,” she replied smartly, melting his heart with her Wolfish grin.
Damn, but she was sexy. The woman was even more fetching than he’d thought. Short, dark, thick hair framed her elfin face, and a pair of naughty jade green eyes glittered with mirth.
“Are you some kind of fae then? A delicious little sprite, come to tempt me to Faerie?”
He was only half-kidding. If not for the scent of fur, he’d have thought her a bonafide fairy.
“Nope. Not a drop of Fae blood, I’m afraid,” she replied and giggled again, and Arran found he really liked the sound of it.
“A Witch then,” he teased, dipping his head to steal another kiss.
“Maybe,” she said, lust painting her voice as she leaned into his touch.
“Wolf, then. And American?” Arran stated, though it came out more question than statement.
“Guilty.”
“An American Werewolf in Scotland. That is something, then, isn’t it?”
This time, it was an exclamation that left his lips instead of a question mark at the end of his sentence. Arran breathed in her delicious scent and held her close as he waited for her to respond.
“Guilty again,” she replied cheekily, not seeming to mind his need to touch her.
“Never thought I’d be in this position with a Wolf,” he stuttered, running a hand through his short, brown hair.
“Would you rather I was on top?” she asked pertly, undaunted by his less than welcoming manners.
Thank the gods for small favors.
The female leaned up, invading his personal space. She ran her cute little nose along his skin from his earlobe to his Adam’s apple and took a deep inhale.
“On top. Beneath. Sideways. I’ll have you anyway you let me, woman,” he growled, shivering involuntarily at her continued sniffing, and the light touches she traced on his shoulders.
How could such an innocent gesture turn him on so? Arran dinnae ken. But it did.
“You smell really good,” she murmured, dropping a kiss on the space where he swallowed.
“I think maybe we should talk about this,” he mumbled as she herded him to the table at the end of the aisle.
“We’ll talk. I promise. But later,” the female said huskily, and she didn’t stop moving.
In fact, she pushed against his chest, forcing him to sit on the table. Luckily, it was metal and sturdy. The thing was made for holding mass quantities of heavy books. It could hold their combined weight, thank heavens, because the little lass did not stop with a shove.
Naw. Sexy wee mate. Fierce little she-Wolf.
“You’re class, aren’t ya? A right beauty,” he murmured, allowing her to do as she pleased.
First rate female. Sexy, sexy Wolf.
The pretty thing straddled his thighs, hands around his neck, pressing those ripe breasts of hers against his chest as she ground her heated core along his shaft.
He scented her renewed arousal, and it was better than anything else. Need, want, lust—all three filled him until his beast saw red. Everything was bathed in crimson, and Arran growled deep and low.
“If you dinnae want this, lass, you must stop now,” he told her, giving her one last way out.
No!
His Bull roared. His vision was hazy and red, the Bull peering out through his eyes. He’d never experienced it before, but Arran knew all about what it meant to be in rut.
When a Bull met his mate, the fever took over almost completely. His body pulsed with the need to claim her, to fill this female with his seed, mark her with his scent.
“My name is Delia, and I want you,” she murmured before closing the distance between their lips.
Bloody hell. I am done for.
Delia kissed him senseless. Her tongue dueled with his until Arran lost all sense of time and place. He was a goner. Hands cupping her glorious buttocks, he pulled her tight against him and kissed his American Werewolf with everything he had.
For a man who believed in using brains over body, this was something entirely unusual. Was that a bad thing, though? It sure didn’t feel like it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I don’t usually do things like this,” he murmured, her ass solidly in his hands.
“No? Well, do you want me to stop?” she asked, giving him the out this time.
“Feck, no. Don’t you dare,” he growled immediately.
“Good,” she replied and rolled her hips.
She stroked him with her core, and it felt so damn good, he went cross-eyed.
“Okay, well,” she whispered, her hands on his chest. “If you decide you want me to stop, just tell me.”
“Lass, I dinnae want you to stop.”
“Good. I’ve been looking for you for a long time,” she confessed, running her hands down his chest, and tugging his shirt up to stroke his skin.
“Have you now?” he murmured, licking his own trail from her earlobe to her lips.
“Mmm,” she moaned, holding on to him like he had all the answers.
Feck, he wished he did. Once more reason tried to worm its way in, telling him to slow down. But this felt too good for that. She felt too good to quit.
Delia was warm and soft and perfect in his arms.
“If this is a dream, I dinnae want to wake up,” he whispered, claiming her mouth with renewed passion.
Arran had his share of affairs, but nothing had ever struck quite like this. Like lightning, she exploded into his universe, brightened the gloom of his world, and changed it forever.
“Me either. You feel important to me,” she told him, and Arran’s insides hummed in pleasure at the statement.
“You feel important to me, too, Delia.”
You feel like mine.