There was something slightly erotic about having a strange man rub her tits with a towel, and Claudia felt her nipples crinkle. She wanted desperately to grab a handful of that long blond hair and press his face right to one aching nub.

“Are you cold, Claudia?” Dante asked. He looked pointedly at her nipples. “That champagne was probably freezing.”

“Um,” Claudia began. “Am I? I can’t tell.”

Dante stood in one fluid motion. He caught the corner of Andre’s towel, where Andre was still diligently trying to sop up the puddle in her lap.

“Andre, let’s get Claudia upstairs to change. I’m afraid this is hopeless. The dry cleaner is just going to have to hate us,” Dante suggested.

Claudia watched as the kneeling Andre looked up at Dante and let the suggestion seep past the champagne-soaked brain cells. Now, why did Dante stare at Andre and bite his lip? Something was familiar about that expression, but she couldn’t remember what.

Andre handed over the towel. “Sounds like a plan, old chum. Help me up, will you?”

Dante stepped around Claudia’s feet and lifted Andre as easily as if he were a child, not a six-foot tall grown man. They were almost eye-to-eye once Andre was upright. Dante held Andre’s shoulders until Andre stopped swaying. Blue denim contrasted with black silk. Sun blond and shadow dark, broad shouldered barbarian and sleek, panther-like sophisticate.

“God, you both are so pretty,” Claudia said, engaging mouth before brain was in gear. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oops. Sorry.”

Both men turned. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Won’t you, Andre?”

“I’ll take any compliments Dee chooses to dish out. Even if I have to share with a liberal Democrat like you.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Doesn’t even know when he’s being insulted,” Andre commented to Claudia. “Come on baby. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“I’ll be the donk and do the lifting, Andre,” Dante offered. “You lead the way to open doors and turn on lights.”

Dante scooped Claudia up and followed Andre up the stairs. Claudia wound her arms around Dante’s neck for balance. Her face was half buried in his silky mane.

“Oooo! Pretty blond hair, Dante!” Claudia said. “You should have been a girl. Then I could tell you blonde jokes, and you wouldn’t remember them.”

Dante remarked, “Well, I’ve heard my share of them over the years.” He was not even breathing hard as they made their way ponderously up the stairs, but his heart was pounding as he felt Claudia’s breath against his cheek.

“Yes,” Andre agreed. “What is a blonde’s mating call?” he asked.

Dante spoke in a squeaky falsetto, “I’m sooo drunk!” Then, in his normal voice, he asked, “What is the brunette’s mating call?”

Andre contrived to look haughty. “Has that damn blonde left yet?”

All three giggled.

Andre sniggered and looked at Claudia’s red hair. “And what is the redhead’s mating call?” he prompted.

Claudia laughed and exclaimed, “Fleet’s in!”

Andre swayed a moment on the landing, impeding their progress. “And you have a whole fleet to yourself tonight, baby. Dante is an ex-sailor, too.” He turned and began to climb again.

“Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it?” Claudia remarked, not knowing what to say next.

Dante put her down in the bedroom while Andre wove to a bedside lamp. Light flared, blinding her. “Bright light, bright light!” Claudia complained in the squeaky voice of a movie character from her childhood. The light went back out.

In the dark, with just moonlight filtering through the curtains, Dante fumbled with the clasp at the back of her dress while Andre came over and stood in front to assist. The dress lifted over her head, revealing just her black panties. All she’d been wearing underneath was the panties, heels, and perfume.

“Whoa,” was Dante’s soft comment.

“Yeah,” was Andre’s awed response.

“Uh, do you need a shower, Claudia?” asked Dante, in a slightly strangled voice.

Andre swayed. “Shower, hell, can we lick you clean?”

Claudia knew it was now or never to get her fantasy fulfilled. All she had to do was agree. She held up her arms to both men. “Why not?” she laughed.

“Excuse me, I think you dropped this.”

The man turned around. So he understood English at least. Good start. Laurel held up the black wool scarf she had just unwound from her own neck. She’d followed the man to his hotel a few blocks from the club. The finest hotel in the area, she noted, as he’d nodded to the doorman who impassively opened the large glass doors for him.

She’d nodded to the doorman as well, saying in German, “Cold as a witch’s tit, eh?” The man had done a slight double take and then grinned broadly as she sailed past him, her eye still on the broad back covered in a fine camelhair coat.

As he turned around she now noted his eyes, a dark, rich chocolate brown—unusual in a person with such blond hair. She felt his appraising gaze as his eyes quickly swept her. He smiled and said, “No, uh, sorry. I have my scarf.” He touched a tan scarf at his neck that perfectly matched his coat.

“Well then, guess I’ve got me a scarf,” Laurel grinned, draping it over her neck. She stuck out her hand and said, “Laurel Jordan, pleased to meet you.”

He automatically took her hand, shaking it firmly. “Jonathan Goldman.” They stood smiling at one another for a moment as she waited. After a beat he said, “Uh, would you like to go into the bar and have a drink, perhaps? Are you staying here?”

Bingo.
|
“I’d love to,” Laurel assented as if it were a brilliant idea, and one she never would have thought of on her own. She didn’t add that no, she would never drop four hundred dollars a night for a room, no matter how posh the hotel. “I’m staying with friends,” she said airily.

They settled themselves at the bar. Jonathan ordered another gin and tonic, Laurel asked for Cabernet. As they sipped their drinks Jonathan said, “So you’re American. What brings you to Germany?”

“The tail end of a few months of bumming around the continent. I’m going to give it another try back in New York. I have an idea for a club there, and a few friends with too much money for their own good willing to invest in it. I’ve already found the location and I have a partner too.”

“You’re from the city? I live in Manhattan. Work for a real estate development firm. Just finished closing a deal here with a German firm that wants to do business in the States. Small world.”

“It is. No matter where I go, I run into people from New York.” Though I don’t always follow them from strip clubs, she thought, inwardly grinning.
“So what’s this idea of yours for a club?”

Laurel took a drink of her wine and said, “A BDSM club. But not some dump in the basement of a clothing boutique or a warehouse, like most of them. Not a poser club for wannabe players dressing up in leather and pretending they have a clue. No, this would be something different—a full dungeon, professional Doms, paid membership. Very upscale.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows. “BDSM! Sadomasochism, whips and chains, all that stuff?”

Laurel laughed at the surprise in his voice. “Uh, yeah. You’ve heard of it?” Her tone was sardonic.

“Well sure, yeah. Cat woman in latex and stilettos wielding a whip over a little naked bald guy who’s licking her boot?”

Laurel laughed. “Oh stop. Surely you’re not that naïve. Even if you are American.”
Jonathan colored slightly and took a long drink of his gin and tonic. “So what would make your club different from the usual black walls, porn videos, fat girls in leather corsets and miserable lonely men in trench coats?”

“Sounds like you’ve been to a few of the clubs, huh, Jonathan?” She grinned, dimples appearing in each cheek as she watched him blush.

“Well, uh, you know. Passing through…”

“Passing through? So you have no fantasies of your own personal slave girl? Of having her meet you naked at the door each night, a whip in her mouth, forehead touching the floor, ass in the air?”

“Jesus,” Jonathan said. “No! I mean, I respect women.”

“So? What’s that got to do with what moves you sexually? With what turns you on?”

“Well, I mean, it’s just, I would never, you know, hurt a woman. Degrade her.”
“There’s nothing degrading about consensual submission,” Laurel said softly, putting her hand lightly over his. Jonathan didn’t pull away, instead narrowing his eyes as he regarded her.

Laurel wondered if he liked what he saw. She knew she was good-looking with dark wavy hair that fell in soft waves, large green eyes and fine, clear skin. Even at twenty-seven she barely needed and rarely used makeup. Her body was long and lean, the muscles a result of hard work and hard play. The idea of joining a gym to work out made her laugh—why pay to jump up and down and lift things? Why not just get out there and plant a garden or climb a mountain? Do something useful or do something fun. Life was too short to spend time sweating in a mirrored room with a bunch of overweight women jumping in place to bad disco music.

He wasn’t exactly falling over himself for her as so many guys did, but she liked that. He didn’t send off that desperate vibe that was so unappealing in a man. He seemed confident, if a little guarded about his sexual predilections. But maybe he was just being careful on her account—not wanting to shock her with his sadistic fantasies. If he even had them! Maybe Greta had been right and he was actually a sub! Watching the girl onstage with his hand over his cock, but in his mind’s eye it was himself on that stage. God, maybe he was gay too! A gay sub—terrific.

She smiled ruefully at the conversation in her head. “You have the most adorable dimples,” Jonathan said suddenly. He still hadn’t pulled his hand from beneath hers. Okay, not gay.

“And you have gorgeous teeth,” she responded. “I was always a sucker for good teeth.” They grinned at each other for a few seconds and Jonathan withdrew his hand. He gestured toward the waitress for another round.

“So when are you heading back to the States?” Laurel asked casually.

“Well, tomorrow actually.”

“Tomorrow! Doesn’t give us much time to get to know each other, huh?” She watched him, and could almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he calculated his ticket times and weighed the risks and possibilities. He looked at his watch. It was already near midnight.

He had taken off his coat and suit jacket, and now unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. The tie had probably come off after he’d closed the deal with the Germans. She noted the fine linen of his shirt and the gold cufflinks at his sleeves. As he opened the shirt a little she couldn’t help but admire his thick neck, not muscle-bound, but strong and masculine. She liked a big man—someone who could give her a good fight when she wrestled him, but who would always win.

She felt her pussy moisten and tingle as he smiled again, fine, square white teeth against tan skin. When he smiled his face creased up, smile lines at the corners of his eyes and his mouth. He looked like a man who smiled often.

She licked her lips, her eyes on his, waiting. Either he’d invite her up to his room now or he’d stand up, say how tired he was and how he hoped they’d meet again soon. She found she was eagerly hoping for the former.

Dawn’s first light shone through the sheers in the dining room. Even though Mike had been gone for almost five years, his place setting remained as always—including the beveled glass into which Consuela always poured his tomato juice at breakfast time.

I forced my eyelids open wide and snapped on the kitchen light. Tuesday morning already. All I’d managed since leaving Jack was wearing out batteries and watching the changing patterns of the red digits on the clock’s display for the past four and a half hours. The hair clips yielded to my pinches and came loose. My still-damp hair teased down my back and swished against my ass and I tossed the tortoiseshell accessories onto the kitchen table. Bathed in the subtle yellow light, I shuffled over to the fridge and shoved my head inside. A carton of limeade sat so close to the orange juice I fully expected a tongue-curling experience upon opening either and swigging down some of the contents. Make no mistake. We of human extraction knew nothing of what went on behind the closed refrigerator door.

The eggs might even prefer mingling with the mustard on occasion.

With a carton of milk in one hand and a pink foam carton of eggs in the other, I bumped the fridge door closed with my hip. Consuela had already placed a mint green ceramic bowl of buckwheat flour on the counter. I set the milk and eggs beside it and counted down the numerous drawers housing every utensil known to kitchen witches and culinary artistes.

“Want me to show you how to make the best pancakes?” Jack entered the kitchen and swatted my ass. Not yet dawn and already one sexy man was likely rising in more ways than one.

How long had he been watching me? I spun around and my left pink fuzzy slipper skidded underneath the kitchen table. “Sure, Jack. Show me what you want to eat this morning.”

Boy, I had to lose sleep more often. My inhibitions were down and off faster than Angela Morris’ panties during halftime at the high school football games.

Two drawers down from where I stood wearing one slipper and keeping my lips closed to prevent salivation, Jack removed a set of beaters. “You’ll need these to get everything together the way it should be.”

Huh? What I was cooking up at the moment hardly required crazy loops of metal and buckwheat flour. “I’ll warn you in advance. Cooking isn’t one of my strong points.”

“Neither is eating.” He slapped the eggbeater’s handle and the curved blades spun around a couple times. “That nice body of yours won’t stay that way if you starve it. Spent more time playing with your food at the diner than eating it last night.”

He set down the implement, cracked open the new carton of milk and poured liberally over the bowl. Drawing back his tanned arm, he put the open flap up to his mouth and tossed back a long swallow. I drifted my gaze over his bare tanned chest. Golden hairs coiled around each pink nipple. Over his belly a sparser thatch sprouted and trailed to the waistband of his sapphire blue and white striped pajama bottoms. Lord but I could feed on him for every meal and not mind the ravages of starvation whatsoever.

The tie ends dangled over his crotch and underneath the fly lay a bulge my fingers were obligated to uncover before any batter hit Sue’s griddle. The burning in my belly competed with the hammering in my head.

Strip him bare. Do him on the kitchen floor. Tear that carton out of his hands and put them to better use.
“Care for some?” He passed me the carton.

I grabbed it from his grip and plunked it beside the mixing bowl. Cut the crap. “We both know what we want this morning.”

He twirled the one pajama bottom tie around his finger but not enough to separate the flap opening. “Yeah. I always have a bigger appetite about this time of day.”

The right slipper joined the left and I closed the distance between Mister-oh-so-hot-I-could-scramble-the-eggs-right-on-him and myself.

At touching his left biceps my fingers tingled. “Care to show me how to make your morning the best it can be?”

A grin parted his kissable lips and revealed the straight teeth underneath. His long tongue swiped along the lower lip before disappearing back inside. He immersed the beaters in the mix and stirred them around. Not a drop of battered milk splashed out.

“Crack two eggs in here and that’ll get things going.”

The door opened and Hilda Ferris squinted at her visitor. “Aye?”

“Mrs. Ferris. I was wondering if I could have a word?”

“Whorra about?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“May I come in?”

The Ferris woman opened the door wider, allowing Grace to enter. The stench of unwashed bodies in the closeness of the small room nearly knocked Grace off her feet. She quelled the need to put her handkerchief to her nose. Numerous pairs of eyes stared at her from different positions around the hearth. Dirty faces and ragged clothes adorned thin limbs of children of indiscernible ages. Opening the bag she brought, Grace showed the children the oranges within. With a smile, she gave the bag to the child closest and turned her attention to Mrs. Ferris. “I’ve come about your two eldest daughters.”

“Oh? They done summick?”

“No, nothing, I assure you.” Grace quickly appeased her. “I would like them to come work in the kitchen at Woodruff House. Only, I cannot pay them a wage, but they will have food, clothing, shoes and board. Also, I will send you a basket of food each week.”

Mrs. Ferris scowled. “No money?”

“No, sorry.”

A child sidled up with orange juice slicing dirty streaks down his chin. “Can I have the bed ter meself then, Ma?”

The child received a clip behind the ear for his troubles. “No, yer bloody can’t! Now, go git Alma an’ Minnie.”

Presently, the two girls came in grumbling about cold fingers and frozen toes from collecting water from the well down the lane. Their mother quickly told them the news of their employment. Astonished, both girls looked at Grace with wide eyes glowing from pale faces.

“You will be treated well,” Grace told them, hoping they would not become hysterical in denial. With relief, she saw the girls smile and turn to each other in excitement, before quickly dashing off to gather what few possessions they had.

Grace stepped outside and appreciatively breathed in. The crisp fresh air was like nectar to bees, intoxicating. The three women opposite looked at her and she smiled. Allowing the girls to say goodbye to their family, she went up to the old dogcart and replaced the empty bag under the seat. The ride home would be tight, for the dogcart really only held two people, but the girls were slight and she was sure they would fit.

After a final wave, the girls ran up the lane and stood behind the cart waiting, for Grace to move on.

“Oh no, girls. You shan’t walk behind. Come and sit here beside me. There’s room.”

Giggling, the girls scrambled onto the seat, and with a little squeal as the horse lurched forward, they turned to wave goodbye to the pit rows.

Once they had negotiated the track up onto the flat fields, Grace relaxed and turned to the sisters. “So, how old are you both, and who’s who?”

“I’m Alma, and I’m fifteen.” The girl at the end of the seat spoke up first.

“And I’m Minnie. I was fourteen last week,” the other added shyly.

“Well, I hope you both enjoy being at Woodruff House.”

“Oh, we will, Miss Woodruff. Anything is better than home.” Alma nodded wisely. “Or working on the slag heaps.”

Grace hid a grin. She relaxed and gently flapped the reins. A sudden wrench, and a loud crack sent the dogcart sideways. They screamed as one side of the cart hit the ground with a teeth-shattering thump. Grace found the breath knocked from her as both girls landed on her. One wheel rolled some feet away and came to rest on the grass. Frightened, the horse shied and tried to bolt, dragging the broken cart along the track. The girls screamed again and hung onto the seat. The hard, wet ground brushed Grace’s cheek as they were hauled along. One-handed, Grace pulled on the reins to steady the horse, while she also tried to hang on. Gradually, they jolted to a stop wedged in a muddy ditch by the side of the road.

As their senses cleared, they heard shouting and running behind them. Gingerly, Grace glanced back, trying not to move in case the horse bolted again. A man ran towards them.

The girls were above her, gripping the seat for dear life, their eyes wide in pale faces.

Moving to sit up caused pain to shoot up her arm from her wrist. “Girls, are you all right?” she croaked.

“Yes, Miss Woodruff,” Alma mumbled, leaning up away from her sister, who was squashed between them.

In a scatter of stones, George Henry Walters skidded to a halt beside the lopsided dogcart and knelt down beside Grace. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so, Mr. Walters,” Grace mumbled, easing her shoulder from where it was jabbed hard into the ground.

“Can you help me out, Mr. Walters?” Alma asked.

“Right, lass.” George Henry lifted Alma from the cart while the horse rolled its eyes in terror. “Now you, young Minnie,” he instructed, as Alma stood shaking by the roadside. When both girls were free of the cart, he moved around to Grace.

He took the reins from her stiff fingers, tied them to the dogcart’s front rail, and then gently put his hands under Grace and lifted her bodily.

The pain from her wrist made her cry out as George Henry adjusted her weight in his arms. “Where do you hurt, Miss Woodruff?”

“My wrist,” Grace whispered, cradling it against her chest. She glanced up and found herself staring into his deep green eyes. At close range, she noted the green was darker around the iris. Fine crinkles creased the corners of his eyes, indicating he either smiled or squinted a lot. He returned her stare boldly, and she was shocked when her stomach tightened.

“Can you stand?”

She nodded, acutely aware of his strong arms holding her, supporting her against his broad chest. He smelt of soap, and his hair was damp. She had an insane urge to run her fingers through it. He gently stood her upright and she hated the break of contact. “Thank you.”

He took out a folded handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed it gently against her cheek. “A few scratches,” he murmured.

Breathless at his feather-like touch, she willed herself to stand still and not give in to the weakness of her wobbly legs.

“Girls come stand by Miss Woodruff,” he ordered, before going to give the horse the once over. Satisfied the horse had come to no harm, he un-harnessed it from the shattered cart. “Can this horse be ridden?”

Her mind was in a whirl and her heart thumped like a drum. Something primal and intense awoke deep inside. Her senses were attuned to his every movement, his every word. “Y…yes. Apples can be ridden.”

“Right then,” he swung himself up onto Apple’s back, “I’ll go on to Woodruff House and let them know.”

Grace blinked, desperate to clear her head and summon her dignity. Why on earth had she reacted to him holding her? He of all people! He made it plain he didn’t like her, had been barely civil to her on the few times they met. Confused and a little scared by her fascination of him, she directed her feelings into anger, an emotion she knew very well and one she felt safe using. “You expect us to stay out here in the open and wait?”

“What do you suggest then?”

“The girls and I can walk to Woodruff House. Thank you for your help.” She dismissed him in a brusque tone.

Grace waited for him to dismount and then nodding to the girls to retrieve their belongings, she walked past him with her head held high and took the horse’s bridle with her good hand.

“Alma, why do you an’ Minnie go to Woodruff House?” He forestalled them, ignoring Grace.

“To work, Mr. Walters. Got set on t’day.”

Grace turned back. “Come Alma, Minnie.” She pinned George Henry with a frosty stare. “Good day, Mr. Walters, and thank you again.” She inclined her head in a way that would have made Heather proud.

“I’ll take the horse for you, so you don’t hurt your wrist anymore.” He marched up and grasped the bridle. Without waiting for them, he made for her home.

They walked in silence for half a mile. The throbbing ache in her wrist made Grace grit her teeth with every step. The girls’ excitement of an hour before had dwindled. Grace looked at their pale faces and felt sorry for them. No doubt, their thoughts had turned to what lay ahead.

Finally, she was within his grasp. There would be no escape for her this time. Noon tomorrow. The words rang in his ears. Emil had just confirmed the time of their meeting. He had anticipated this day for two years. Yesterday he received the message from the Carbonesse requesting a meeting. Part of his duties as alpha was to monitor the other shape-shifting races and it gave him an opportunity to keep track of Jenna. In recent months, he had witnessed the struggles of the Carbonesse. Several years of drought had led to the inevitable forest fires. The Valde had been lucky in escaping any severe damage to their lands. The felines had not fared as well. Now they sought assistance, he might be willing to help for a price.

The night was quiet, almost as if all the creatures held their breath in anticipation. Wandering into his moonlit, private garden, he followed a winding cobblestone path lined with lupine statues to a hidden frost-brushed bench. With a sigh, he collapsed upon it. Overhead, the brightness of the wolf’s moon drew his feral gaze. His mind was troubled. The future of his people perched squarely on his shoulders and sometimes the burden was heavy. Valde and Carbonesse. Lupine and Feline. They had shared this mountain for centuries. Coexistence required wary acceptance of one another’s ways and respect for the other’s territory. Ultimately, their goals were the same, to live in peace and to keep the outsiders, the humans, at bay. They needed each other to survive.

He needed Jenna to live, the past couple of years he had only existed.

Doubts plagued him, his father’s death was a heavy burden to carry but he had to believe that his relationship with Jenna was not the cause of it. His sister Riza made him believe it. How could his father have resented his relationship with a feline when he had loved a feline as well?

Tomorrow he would look into his counterpart’s eyes and judge his intent before reaching a final decision, even though he feared in his heart that his decision had been made long ago.

He had known Jenna’s brother, Leon Muldrew, as a young male, rash, careless, always out for an adventure. The last couple of years they had met on rare occasion. They had both changed under the weight of leadership. No longer were they the best of friends, but he owed the Carbonesse ruler a personal debt. He would settle the debt tomorrow.

Ominously, a ring encircled the moon. Was it a warning or a sign? He judged he had about a sixteen-hour wait until the fruition of his dreams. It would be a long night.

Lunging to his feet, he paced inside the walled enclosure in an attempt to work off some excess energy. Suddenly, the walls seemed to close in upon him. The beast within him raged as he felt the need to change and let his baser side free.

His clothes now a nuisance, he ripped them off. A single beam of moonlight revealed a face stark with need. Slowly raising one hand, he trailed the tips of his fingers along the ridge on the underside of his erection. A grimace of pain and pleasure contorted his face. Tomorrow the ache that had gnawed at him for so long would end. He could still remember the taste of her sweet cream on his tongue. In his mind, he imagined Jenna’s delicate fingers tracing the veins of his cock, her lips parting as he thrust between their lush fullness.

“Tomorrow,” he gasped with a tortured breath, ripping his hand away. The familiar tingle of transformation glided up his spine as he threw back his head and howled.

Unease churned Jenna’s stomach as she headed back toward her private rooms. It had been a long time since she had seen Gio. She wondered if he had changed much. Had he taken a mate? She comforted herself with the knowledge that if he had she would surely know. Nausea rolled through her at the thought. Someone would have told her. She would have felt it in her feral heart.

Restlessness plagued her as she tossed in her bed. The thought of seeing Gionne tomorrow intensified the hollow ache within her womb.

Bolting upright, she flung perspiration-dampened covers from her nude body and ran to her window to perch on the window seat. She threw open the shutters. The view that greeted her was breathtaking, the dense pine-covered mountainside sprinkled with snow, but that was not what drew her from her bed.

The restless sounds of the night greeted her. There it was again. She knew his call. He was out there somewhere. It reverberated through her soul, making the tiny hairs at her neckline stand up. She felt the familiar tingling along her spine, her body’s want of the change. When she was young, she had answered his call many times. However, she was not that young girl anymore. The full moon beckoned and she yearned to trot across the mountainside with the crunch of ice and snow beneath her paws. It was out of the question though, at least for tonight. It would be far too dangerous in her current condition. Instead, she curled her frame upon the window seat staring aimlessly out into the night. Dropping her hand between her thighs, her fingers tried in vain to provide relief to the raging heat within.

The howl of a lone wolf echoed through the valley. It was the call to mate. It went unanswered. Her lips curled in a smile. One way or another, tomorrow would alter her destiny.
 

I stand undressed before Coby, unashamed, compliant, gone. I’m not here, this is just a hollow shell, my body waiting for him. Waiting.

“Turn around,” he commands.

I obey.

He sits on the bed and studies me, the bruises on my hip where McBane hit me with a bottle when he came by last week, the cigarette burns along the inside of my arm, the scars…

When Coby’s hand touches the small of my back, where the skin’s raised from wounds that will never fully heal, the touch is so kind, so unlike anything else I’ve ever felt before that it wrenches me back into the present, into this tiny room where I’m naked and cold. Warm fingers tentative and unsure trace the patterns that scar my back and buttocks.

I hold my breath, almost afraid to let it out and shatter this sudden tenderness. Continue reading ‘Scarred by JM Snyder’