Ruff Trouble Read online

  Bobby kissed Sam on the tip of his nose though it would irritate him before it made him laugh. Well, raise a smile anyway, which was better than nothing. “Maybe I didn’t want to run because it’s cold out.”

  This time Sam did laugh. “As if that means anything to a husky.”

  “Don’t get any ideas of us pulling you over the snow on a sled this winter.” Although now the image came to mind, Bobby was sure Sam would get a kick out of doing so. He and Chantelle might be willing if only to see Sam flying through the snow, his nose and cheeks red, his grin broad, laughter bubbling out of him. Sam often came across as moody, which suited his personality; to witness moments of joy shine out from his face when Sam forgot to worry and his pain left him in peace were akin to sunshine.

  “If we even get snow.”

  “We’ll have snow.” Bobby sensed it. Although early December, he could tell snow was on the way. “It’ll be here well before Christmas. Speaking of which…”

  Sam poked him in the ribs. “I’ve got it all sewn up.”

  “I can tell.” Bobby gave the book on the counter a nod. “I’m impressed.” Sam had ordered with care and been frugal. They’d decided they would festoon the bar by December fourth every year, though they were going to be a few days late this time being their first Christmas here. Sam had ordered in a few things, gone in search of others. Trying not to wince over the cost of Christmas decorations, telling himself they would last a long time after the initial investment, Bobby asked, “So we decorate when?”

  “We can begin as soon as you get back from your shift tonight.”

  Bobby had transferred to a small police force in the West Country. Some days he was unsure whether he’d made a wise decision. Sometimes he wanted the simplicity of running the pub and restaurant with Sam and Chantelle. Sam must have seen something in his face for he said, “Go on with you. Go. Run. Then get to work. You’ll forget about wanting to hang around here with us as soon as you’re at the station.”

  Annoyed him how Sam was right. Once at work, he’d feel better…until Bobby got home again and questioned why he hadn’t spent the day here with the two people he loved.

  * * * *

  Dropping low to the ground, Chantelle made as small a target of herself as possible. She followed the trail of a rabbit with no intention of attacking it. Even her dog half wasn’t inclined to spill blood. Contrary to what many humans believed, if her animal half were true to form, animals hunted for three reasons: the need for food; the need to prove oneself to a potential mate; and the thrill of the chase. The last option didn’t need to bring home the bacon…or, in this case, rabbit. A wild animal might not have expended the energy required to indulge a moment of fun—not unless young, in which case such ‘play’ was also a learning experience—but Chantelle was not wild. She didn’t need to catch the rabbit to prove herself to her mate, or to fill her belly. She wanted to run.

  Something stopped her. She went low, sensing danger. Stilled the quiver of her hindquarters as the rabbit broke from cover and made a dash for it. She let it go.

  Did something hunt her as she stalked the coney? Using her sense of smell, Chantelle scanned the area. Wanting to sneeze the scent of a rabbit out of her nose, she fought not to do so. If in human form, the effort would have made her eyes water. As a canine, it pissed her off.

  Rabbit. Wood. Damp. Mould. Decay.

  Leaves continued to rot on the ground, yet the chill wind blew light and crisp across her snout. The winter wind was clean in the way a summer wind never was although she liked them both.

  Sour.

  The husky wrinkled her nose. Whatever the scent was, it felt stale. Her human half found it strange to link feelings and scent, but her animal had no problems doing so. Something or someone had been here. Unfriendly. Dangerous. Oddly familiar, yet at the same time, not. At times her two different personalities overlapped, confusing her.

  Gone. The wind changed direction, but Chantelle remained where she was, casting her senses out until certain she was alone. Crawling forward she tried to catch the odour again, to be sure. Satisfied, she rose, padded around, sniffing about. Now convinced the scent had been old, her hackles eased down. Maybe she had disturbed something in her headlong dash.

  She trotted back the way she had come. Nothing.

  I’m going mad.

  As an animal, Chantelle often thought in the equivalent of single words; at most, short sentences. On occasion such a human idea drifted in, although she was always aware of her human half, same as when human she was aware of her animal. She hesitated now, her human mind working. Her hackles lifted once more. She didn’t want to take another step along the path. Both aspects of her knew it, but neither clarified why.

  Bad. Back off. Leave now.

  If there’s a danger, I need to know what kind. I need to protect us.

  Her human half won. Chantelle padded into the dark overhang of low branches. She smelled…man. Cocking her head to one side, she peered through a gap in the boughs. Although bare of leaves, here among fallen tree limbs, someone had slept.

  Wrinkling her snout, Chantelle backed out. Although unwashed human was not as offensive to a dog as to another person, the circumstances or emotions behind such a happenstance were. Had she disturbed the resting place of a tramp? Chantelle growled at her dog’s use of the word and substituted it with homeless person. Might account for the malevolence she sensed. Unhappiness would be understandable, and might explain her impression of danger. A homeless person would resent the circumstances that had brought them to this. Dark brooding ambitions. She sensed dark intentions and…

  Run.

  Chantelle spun even as she recognised another smell barrelling in from the right. She broke out into the clearing in time with the dog on the other side. Her lips drew back over her teeth in a snarl—one that challenged, knowing the other dog would take up the gauntlet. The expression on her face had to be the doggy equivalent of grinning.

  Putting aside notions of some poor soul having to sleep rough in the woods Chantelle turned tail giving the other dog a view of her rear. She had no chance of outpacing him, although she might give him a good race, and for a few hundred yards, she did before she slowed. He would catch her, eventually, but she couldn’t bear to wait so long.

  A little longer. To make him work.

  They were too far out. Her human and animal minds coalesced with one direction: Home. She sped and led Bobby, her course chosen.

  They almost made it, were a few yards from the back door, when Bobby caught her, mounting her from behind, taking her down. Chantelle let him. Did Bobby even know she let him? He had to know. Had to notice in her smell she was willing. She rolled, his teeth closing on her as she did. Bobby took her by the throat before he licked over her muzzle. As she rolled onto her back, Chantelle changed, making the transition to human form when Bobby transformed too.

  “Fuck, it’s cold.”

  “Didn’t think about that, did you?” Bobby laughed.

  She hadn’t. Neither had she given any consideration to how uncomfortable it was to have sticks poking her in the back, to lay on a blend of dry and squishy leaves. “Ugh.”

  “Not so romantic. We should have stayed in dog form.”

  They hadn’t done that in a while, but Bobby had a point. Her nipples stood out as two rosy kernels, but not from desire; the hard nubs emphasised winter like two exclamation marks. Didn’t stop Bobby making a dive for them, taking first one than the other into his hot, scorching mouth.

  Oh…fffuu…Chantelle failed to complete the silent curse. The heat and wetness he left on one side made her nipple even more sensitive to the cold as he withdrew. Her left nipple ached from the torture, from the chill, with longing. Her right…Ahhhh…Engulfed.

  Her and Bobby’s teeth were a little sharper than most humans’. They had learned how to use them to good effect, on each other and on Sam. Bobby was making his way to her navel. Everywhere his tongue trailed left a pattern for the icy wind to attack.


  “Shit, Bobby. This is madness. Aren’t you cold?” Shifters ran warm, but the fact served to tell her how bitter it was out here.

  “Freezing. We’ll have to be quick.”

  Quick? So…Bobby intended to fuck her despite the arctic conditions. As if he read her mind, he asked, “Do you object?”

  “Yes. No. Yes.”

  Bobby chuckled. Chantelle slapped him on the shoulder. “Not fair to give me options when you’re…” She didn’t finish the sentence. They both knew where he was heading. “If anything crawls on me, I’m gonna scream.”

  “If you scream, it won’t be because of a few bugs.”

  She was about to argue when Bobby flung her legs over his shoulders, buried his face and lapped.

  Her whole body contracted. With her calves, she pressed down, pushing him against her. With her arms, she reached out, dug her nails into his shoulders. Bobby grunted, maybe owing to pain, maybe because he needed to breathe. He didn’t cease licking.

  Only Bobby was ever able to do this to her. Frostbite threatened, and she didn’t know how to push him away because the focus of her body was on Bobby’s hot breath, warm lips, snaking tongue. Bobby always ate at her as ferociously in human form as he did on the rare occasions when they remained as animals. The surge of desire was always fast, immediate. He lapped, and his lapping always made her seep, so he licked her more, trying to drain her. The assault often became a circle, sensation causing her sex to flow, making Bobby work on her harder.

  Even if she reached orgasm, he didn’t always stop. Three times was her limit. In the past he’d used his mouth on her until she’d fallen apart under him, begging and sobbing for him to stop because the pleasure had become torture even though she’d enjoyed every moment he had taken to transform her into a shuddering wreck.

  They’d freeze to death if he tried for three times out here. She lifted her head to tell him this, only to have it fall back. Her neck had no muscles left to support it. Bobby’s tongue—ohhh…the hot flickering delved into her, more than seemed possible. Bobby wasn’t able to alter a single part of him—a rare ability among shifters—so maybe he simply had a long tongue or some knack, because it felt as if he managed to lick deep inside her. The first three inches were the most sensitive inside a woman, and she was glad of it. Some men stabbed with their tongues, used them as tiny cocks, but Bobby knew to lick…and suck. Slurp.

  The sounds were so disgusting, so utterly sexual they notched up her arousal sending it into a spiral. She never doubted Bobby made sure she heard as well as felt what he did to her.

  He nipped.

  Her too tender flesh rebelled. Chantelle yelled, flinging a hand over her mouth as she did. All they needed was for their staff to catch them out here. No one should have arrived yet, but this was stupid yet so freaking hot in the sensual sense, making it impossible to stop. They should go inside. The back door was right there, a couple of hundred yards off to their right.

  Heat replaced the sharp pain as Bobby kissed over the area he’d bitten, and what the hell did she know when it felt as if he enticed a gush of something physical and libidinous out of her. He went back to lapping again.

  “Bobby!” His name was a complaint. She was cold, and now wet—two kinds of wet, one so right, the other so ugh—wrong. She was going to be filthy by the time she got home. She said so.

  “Dirty wet bitch.” Bobby panted against her and assaulted her sex once again. His reaction told her he’d gone beyond feeling the cold, the front of his body pressed to her legs, to the heat he created in her sex. Chantelle, spread naked upon the ground, wasn’t so lucky, although she was powerless against the need driving her.

  “I want you in me.” She spoke the truth, but not the total reason. Her teeth now chattered.

  Either because he wanted in her too, or because he was mindful of her predicament, Bobby moved. Something hard and relentless probed her entrance, rammed home. Having no need for mercy, Chantelle wrapped her legs around him. His hands grabbed her wrists in a vice-like grip and—the world swayed. Her head was thrown back as her body left the ground and, for an instant, Chantelle viewed the world upside-down.

  Then she was up, thrown forward. Her arms, once free, went around Bobby’s neck, even as he rose to his feet. The rough bark of a tree pressed into her back. She wasn’t sure the position was any more comfortable, but she didn’t have to worry about rubbing too fiercely against the tree. Bobby had the strength to hold her. He could have used gravity, but Bobby held her pinned—pinioned—and curled his hips, thrusting into her. The plunges were deep, steady. His cock dragged across sensitive flesh already distended from his licks. The sensation, torturous, missed her where she needed friction the most, and Bobby, the adorable, loving bastard, knew.

  His gaze caught hers, holding her as trapped as he did with his strength. Often the sex between them was playful, but sometimes it transcended the joy they shared, became something so serious it was almost painful.

  “Ask.” Bobby might as well have told her to beg. She shook her head, but not in denial. Her hips did her asking for her. “If you refuse, I’ll stop.”

  Knowing he would leave her no choice, Chantelle opened her mouth but failed to force out the words, in part owing to rebellion—even though she loved this aspect of their love play—in part from the inability to form speech.

  “Don’t stop.” A male voice broke in on the tableau.

  Bobby’s head whipped around to the speaker as Chantelle rolled her head to gaze at the newcomer. Sam stood on the edge of the woods, watching. His arms were folded across his chest as if he too ached from the cold, but what she sensed from him was desire. How had he crept up on them?

  “Don’t stop,” he repeated. “I love watching you together.”

  Sam surprised her, and she sensed Bobby’s astonishment too. Still, he did as Sam asked without hesitation, lifting one of her legs higher, giving Sam the view of him ploughing into her. Bobby swivelled his hips, pressing first on one side of her channel and then the other, and although his movements heightened her need, it wasn’t helping her to completion. She found her voice. “I…can’t…”

  She hadn’t believed Sam would surprise them further, but he moved forward, his stride strained, rocky. Her eyes widened when she noticed he used a crutch to lean his weight on his bad side. When he reached her, she felt how much heat he gave off, how chilled she was. Sam’s mouth burned against her right cheek, and seared the edge of her mouth, making her moan. His warm fingers singed a path over her body, stopping on one side to tweak a nipple before delving between her legs.

  His fingers toyed with her in the right spot, taking her to the precipice with slight manipulation. Then his fingers parted, forming a bridge between which Bobby had to thrust. His thumb pushed her clit lower, so it encountered the slick slide of her lover’s cock. Still it wasn’t enough. She almost groaned out her frustration.

  Again, as if he knew, Sam circled the small protruding nub with his thumb, his skin sliding over her slickly, producing a scream from her she barely contained to the small space between them. He repeated the pressure, pushing against her, contorting the folds of her sex so she felt Bobby glide inside her.

  The last plunge was enough. She threw back her head, writhing between them even before Bobby pulled out. Bobby fought to hold her, and Sam tilted her head. His mouth on hers swallowed her cries. As he broke away, all three of them gasping for air, the heat of his hand pressed against the side of her mouth. Her tongue flicked out, and she tasted herself on his fingers.

  With eyes closed, she hung suspended, sandwiched between two gorgeous men and a tree. A laugh bubbled out.

  “You’re going to be late for work.” Took Chantelle a moment to realise Sam meant Bobby. “But I suggest a hot shower.”

  Yes. Hot would be good. Had she mentioned it was fucking freezing out here?

  Chapter 4

  As Bobby needed to get to work, he went first in the shower, but he didn’t agree until Sam said he�
��d make sure Chantelle took a hot bath after she’d washed off all the mud.

  Chantelle stood at her dressing table, unusually self-conscious dragging a brush through her hair, picking out leaves and twigs. Her scratches were easy to take care of by shifting, but a few blemishes didn’t warrant the effort. Besides, she liked them. War wounds.

  Sam’s gaze met hers in the mirror. To her surprise, a flush spread over his face. Before either of them spoke, Bobby emerged from the bathroom. He grabbed his clothes, donned his shirt, fastened his trousers, pushed his feet into his shoes and grabbed his jacket. With one swift glance at the clock he hurried to the door, cursing.

  Despite the time, he paused to grab Sam’s face, hard, by the chin, and crushed their lips together. He gave one look across to Chantelle, back to Sam, before he kissed him more softly. “Take care of my girl for me. And of you.” Bobby fled, his steps thumping down the stairs, a sound which made Chantelle smile. Bobby hated his work shoes. He moved more silently and more swiftly when barefoot. Rising, Chantelle walked into the bathroom, twisting the taps to run a hot bath and adding a warming soak to the tub. The smell of ginger and black pepper filled the air. Sam appeared in the doorway.

  “You can get to work, you know. I can take a bath by myself. And I’ll get through quicker if I’m alone.” She winked at him.

  “You’re embarrassed.”

  With shaky fingers, Chantelle pushed her damp hair back behind one ear. Her head itched. She scratched. Did something crawl over her scalp?

  “I never thought you’d ever be embarrassed in front of me.”

  “Didn’t you?” She quirked an eyebrow and chuckled. “Should I be fine about you finding us fucking in the woods?” She swallowed there on the pause. “Like animals?”

  “We’re all animals. We conveniently choose to forget. You’ve mud on the back of your hair. Jump in the shower first.” Sam walked over to the bath with a slight limp, reached out and turned off the taps. Chantelle, unsure whether the itch on her scalp was an insect, her imagination, or drying mud, decided the idea was a good one.