Scott parked his cruiser under the carport, picked up his now cold dinner and trudged up the stairs to his house. In a trance, he unlocked the door and made his way to the kitchen, tossing his jacket on the sofa.
He put the food in the fridge and pulled out a beer. Twisted off the cap. Stood there and downed it in one long, throat-gulping pull.
Then he reached for another.
After the second beer, he toed off his work shoes, undid his uniform shirt, and stripped.
This called for a run in the swamp. He’d hunt something down and kill it. That’s what he needed. Expend some of his pent-up energy. That’s what this was really all about. That’s all he needed.
He turned off the porch light and slipped through the front door, pulling it shut behind him. Trotting down the stairs, he let the change begin.
By the time he’d hit the last step, he leaped from it in full wolf form and disappeared into the blackness of the woods that surrounded his secluded home.
»»•««
Ted rolled over and looked at his travel clock glowing in the darkness of his room. Two a.m. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, and if he had that fucking dream again, he’d lose his mind.
Another straight man? He had the most intense case of the hots for a straight man.
He groaned and rolled onto his back. The light of the full moon gave an eerie glow to the world outside his window.
Ted sat up, ran his hands through his hair, and went to the window. The parking lot was full. Every car accounted for, and one extra. Must be Peter’s. It was a black Camero. Sleek and sexy.
Would Peter be the same? Would he be the one Kirsten had come here to meet or was she just getting away to do some art?
Charbonnet was nothing more than a creepy, insecure old man. Still, it was early days in the trip. He’d keep his mind open about Kirsten and see what happened.
A movement near the edge of the woods caught his eye, and he leaned over to stare through the glass. A dark shape moved, and for some odd reason, Ted thought it watched him. Could see him in the darkened window.
At first, he thought it was probably a dog. But even at this distance, it looked bigger than any dog he’d ever seen.
Then it was gone, faded into the shadows of the oak trees that surrounded the property.
He shrugged and went back to his bed. Crawling under the covers again, he tried his deep-breathing method to relax.
But all it did was fill his dick. With each deep breath in, his cock grew harder, until it dripped a string of precum on his belly and dotted his black briefs.
What the fuck was he supposed to do here? No gay bars to hit in Cajun country, for damn sure. He got up, padded over to his kit, and got his lube.
He’d just get rid of his boner the old-fashioned way. By hand.
Back in bed, he covered his right hand in slick and went to work, sliding up and down on the rigid shaft, bringing up his tried and true jerk-off thoughts, like a parade of strung-together scenes from porn films. Guys going down on each other, guys fucking, guys kissing.
Oddly, it was always the kissing that got him the hottest. Tongues and lips and mouths. Hands buried in hair, gasps and sighs and soft moans.
All the things Ted never allowed himself to do.
He never pictured himself in any of his fantasies. Always good-looking guys, buff, and hard-bodied. Just like that sheriff.
Oh shit. He wasn’t going there. That was a nonstarter. He readjusted the film playing in his head. Back to our regularly scheduled broadcast, folks.
But the sheriff returned, and no matter what Ted did, he couldn’t shake him.
Ted gave up and let the images flow as he jerked his meat. The sheriff had him bent over the cruiser’s hood, his cock pushing its way between Ted’s ass cheeks. The sheriff, in the car, legs spread, and Ted going down on him.
Those big hands buried in his hair, pulling him up for a kiss, opening for Ted, surrendering to Ted.
Ted groaned as he spilled over his belly.
Yeah, the kissing always did it for him.
Minutes passed until Ted’s breathing steadied, and he leaned over to snatch a T-shirt from the floor and wipe the cum off his stomach.
He rolled over and closed his eyes.
He would not have the dream again.
»»•««
Scott ran the trails only the wolves knew, killed a rabbit and ate it, then ran them again. As the sun came up over the swamp, he padded back to his house.
Under the carport, still in the shadows, he changed back and ran up the steps. He rushed inside and shut the door, leaning against it, breathing hard.
Hoping it had been enough.
He’d spilled blood. Torn and bitten and ripped flesh from bone. Ate red, juicy meat, tender organs, as delicious to him as a wolf as the finest food he’d ever eaten as a man.
He needed a shower and then bed.
Exhausted, he ran the water until it got hot, then stepped under the hard spray, sluicing off the sweat, blood, and stink of the swamp.
His cock had been half-hard, even as a wolf. He needed to fuck and needed it bad.
So Scott did what he did every morning since this thing had started. He soaped up his hand and slid it over his cock, pulling and tugging, swiping over the head, at first hard and tight, then loose and fast, as he took himself to the edge of orgasm…
Where he hung, refusing to visualize what he knew would send him over the edge.
No fucking way.
He wouldn’t do it. He’d never done it before. Thought of a man to get off.
Not just a man, one man. His mate.
“No!” he shouted. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be!”
His jerking became erratic as he fought the images that loomed just on the edge of his vision.
He wouldn’t come that way. Not if he could help it.
He thought of every beautiful woman he’d ever seen in a Playboy magazine, tool calendar, or porno flick.
None of them did it for him. They used to.
“Fuck.” Frustrated, he slid to the floor, his hand flying over his cock, his balls burning. If he didn’t come soon, he’d probably have a heart attack.
He gave in.
Saw the guy from the restaurant. The dark eyes, dark hair, hard body. Pushed him against his cruiser and captured his mouth, thrust his tongue inside and…
Scott cried out as he came, shooting a string of white cum across the shower to paint the glass wall.
Too weak to get up, he closed his eyes and nodded off, until the water turned icy and he had to get out.
That was never going to happen again.
»»•««
Ted had the dream again, waking at the same place he always did. No face, just the tanned arms, blond hair.
It could be anyone.
But the setting? How did he explain that? It was the bayou country, looking exactly like it did right here. The house could be down the road.
If he could just find out where the sheriff lived, saw his house, he’d know at once. Then he could move on, get past this aching from not knowing.
He threw off the covers, willing his boner to go the fuck away, and sat on the edge of the bed until it subsided. The alarm on his phone went off, and he swiped it away. Seven a.m. He stood, slipped on a pair of navy sweats, gathered his things, and checked to see if the bathroom was clear.
The door stood open.
He made his way there and stepped in.
A young man leaned against the sink, dressed only in plaid boxers. Blond, tanned.
Ted groaned. “I don’t fucking believe this.”
The guy turned to him and laughed. “Sorry, I’m almost finished.” He had brown eyes and very pink nipples. One of them had a silver ring through it.
“It’s all right. I wasn’t talking about you.”
“Right.” The guy snickered. “Marie told me we have to share. I’ll just bet you’re not the sharing type.” His gaze swept over Ted as he cocked an eyebrow.
Ted had seen that look a time or two or twenty.
“You got it, kid.” Ted could play the gruff guy better than anyone. This young man was Ted’s type, the kind of twink he’d pick up for a quick blowjob.
“I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-three.”
“Uh-huh. Look, are you finished?” Ted leaned on the doorframe.
“Yeah. I’m done. By the way, my name’s Peter Graham.” He edged past Ted, brushing up against him.
“Ted Canedo.” Ted stepped inside and closed the door.
Okay. Ted’s gaydar pinged. This couldn’t be Kirsten’s meet-up. But he might be an interesting development.
What would Darcy do when he got an eyeful of Peter?
Ted knew exactly what Darcy would do. He’d have Peter down on his knees with Peter’s mouth on his cock.
If Ted wasn’t so out of sorts, the idea of Peter sucking him off would sound very, very good.
So how come it didn’t?