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Vince kept out of sight behind a tall bush and watched her walk across the parking lot, her long, slim legs eating up the pavement. He wasn’t worried about her catching his scent. Like him, she was a dreamwalker, not a full shifter. Like him, she didn’t have a physical wolf. Like him, her wolf only came out to play at night—on the dreamscape.
But unlike him she was able to use her skills to slip into people’s dreams to help people, while he was stuck pushing papers, his dreamwalking curtailed by the do-gooders in the shamans’ circle. Those jerks who controlled everything dreamwalkers and spelltalkers could do in the pack—just because he’d failed some kind of mandatory test. If he’d had a physical wolf and been a full shifter they couldn’t have used a spell to stop him: they would have had to kill him to stop him.
If he’d had a physical wolf, he’d have been able to smell her, even from this far away. But instead he had to pull from his memory to remember the sweet, sweet scent of Serena Lowell.
Just the thought of the way she’d smelled when he’d met her last month had his imagination running wild, all the way to how good she would taste when he had her legs wide open and his mouth diving between them. Like fresh whipped cream on hot cherry pie.
Come here, sweet cheeks. Daddy’s hungry.