A Touch of Spring
~ Stockton ~
Quite some time ago, I wrote Harder in Heels, book four of the Alpha and Omega series. A number of readers asked me if I would consider giving Bronson, Asaph’s friend, a mate as well. Here is the start of that story.
Bronson frowned at the pile of mail on his desk and thought longingly of Beatrice; his best friend Asaph’s PA. She wouldn’t leave a mess like this. She’d have it handled in no time flat and there’d be hot coffee waiting on my desk. But, even when faced with the secret that Asaph and he could turn furry when provoked, nothing would convince the sweet lady to leave Asaph’s employ.
That pile’s not going to disappear by itself, he grumbled as he sat at his desk and flicked through the pile of envelopes. Invitations, openings, a schedule of exhibitions one of his managers sent through. Bronson put that aside; he had a few changes he wanted to make. More invitations and a couple of bills he put in his jacket to give to his accountant later. Magazines, advertising. Gods, I don’t have time for this junk; Bronson threw them in the trashcan.
Hello. What’s this?
A plain white business-sized envelope was buried at the bottom of the pile. No postage, so it’d been hand delivered. It was slim, probably didn’t hold more than a single sheet of paper. But it was the salutation on the envelope that made Bronson pause. You Smell Like Mine.
“Damn Ronan’s having a joke with me; I’ll kick his ass, so help me,” Bronson muttered as he pulled out his phone. Tapping the screen, he tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for his friend to answer.
“Asaph, you bastard, has Ronan been in my office again?”
“Hello, to you too, Bronson,” Asaph said smoothly. “No, my errant mate hasn’t been in your office; he’s currently under my desk. Did you want to know what he was doing?”
“No, I don’t.” Bronson was pleased when Asaph finally pulled his head out of his ass and claimed his beautiful omega, but the damned man didn’t have to keep rubbing his nose in mated bliss. “And I don’t need the visual.”
“What’s got your nose in a snit?” Asaph asked, his breathing sounding a little harsher and definitely faster. “Make it quick. My mate has a wicked tongue.”
“It’s nothing; I’ll see you both for dinner at eight. Don’t be late.” Bronson disconnected the call and eyed the envelope as if it would bite.
You Smell Like Mine. It had to be a shifter reference; no human would address a letter that way. Bronson never wore cologne and even his bath gels were chosen for their muted scents. But there were no other shifters in Orlando – there was him and Asaph and well, now Ronan too, but they hadn’t known about him until recently. There’s another shifter in town?
“Just fucking open the letter, you damned dork,” he chided himself, picking up the envelope carefully. No bumps or lumps to indicate anything dangerous. Bronson sniffed the paper but couldn’t detect any chemical smells. There was a trace of something pleasant, but it was too elusive for Bronson to determine what it was.
Ripping the edge of the envelope, he pulled out a single sheet of paper. Whoever had written it was concise and had lovely handwriting. With technology, not many people took the time to correspond in cursive anymore. Bronson read the note, shook his head and then read it again.
Dear Mr. Cunningham,
What do you hope for when you think about meeting your mate? Someone petite and sexy like the woman I saw you with on Thursday? Or maybe you don’t mind men provided they’re short and submissive like the young blond I watched you disappear into the bathrooms with on Friday night? Perhaps you’re hoping for a ménage – that couple I saw you with on Saturday at the gallery opening certainly seemed to appreciate your advances and you all looked very cozy when you huddled in the taxi together.
I have to wonder why you haven’t noticed me. Could it be your nose doesn’t work or are you so busy having a good time, you’re not ready for a mate? Or maybe, and this option shatters my heart but has to be mentioned, maybe you have noticed me and find me lacking. You wouldn’t be the first one to think that way but you could have at least told me so to my face.
I’ll keep watching; now I have scented you, I find it impossible to stay away. Maybe through watching, I’ll find the answer.
Have a nice evening, Mr. Cunningham.
A flood of emotions swamped Bronson’s body and instinctively he reached for his phone, before pulling his hand out of his jacket. Asaph would still be busy with Ronan and Bronson wasn’t sure he was ready to share the news just yet. “I have a mate,” he tested the words on his tongue. It felt good. “I have a mate!” Louder this time. Bronson’s heart soared and he looked around as though this magical stranger would suddenly appear.
But of course, he was alone. All he had was the note. A note that made it quite plain his mate knew who he was and felt…what exactly? Bronson considered the carefully penned words. Disrespected? Unworthy? Beneath his notice? A strong growl rumbled in his chest. No mate should ever feel that way and Bronson felt a flush of guilt at the thought of what his mate had seen.
Yes, he did take someone home damn near every night. As an alpha wolf, he had a strong sex drive. But for Bronson, sex did more than scratch an itch. The truth of the matter was, since Asaph mated Ronan, holding someone close, even if it was only for long enough to get his rocks off, banished the loneliness he felt as a lone wolf.
Checking his office door was firmly closed; Bronson called on his wolf and brought the paper up to his nose. Ink. Fibers. Chemicals probably used in the paper making process. A light tinge of exhaust fumes as the letter had been written outside. There. He leaned on the paper to hold it steady. Bronson groaned as he rubbed the patch of paper against his nose, causing the rest of the note to flutter against his mouth. Apricots and lemongrass with the slightest tinge of wolf. Hang on a minute, that’s not a wolf. Bronson pulled the paper away from his face and stared at it, astonished.
That’s a cat shifter I smell. A big cat. How the hell did I miss someone like that?
Harley glared as he saw two teenage girls simpering in his direction. Cleaning the traces of ink and blood off the finished tattoo, he slapped Sorel on the shoulder. “You know this should be covered,” he said tersely, “Just don’t come crying to me if you get an infection.”
“Straight home, quiet night, I promise.” Sorrel heaved himself off the chair and peeled a handful of hundreds off a large roll. “Same time next week?”
“I’ll be here,” Harley sighed, slipping the money into his pocket and not bothering to watch the girls fall over themselves as Sorrel sauntered past them with a wink and a smile. He set about methodically cleaning his space, his mind already focused on the evening ahead. Unfortunately, Bobby had other ideas.
“Can you squeeze in a couple of butterflies? The girls have pictures of what they want. It won’t take long.”
“Get Jughead to do it,” Harley didn’t bother looking up.
Bobby’s squirming caught his eye. “Jughead went home an hour ago. Said he had a hot date.”
“They can wait for Muriel then. I’m busy.”
“Oh come on,” Bobby leaned closer. “I know they’re supposed to make an appointment, but they’re really nervous. They’ll back out if they don’t get them now.”
“Are you bartering dates with our clients again?” Harley arched his brow at the pimply faced young man. The poor guy sweated all the time, had prominent teeth and even once his pimples had cleared, his face would still be pockmarked. Harley hired him for his expertise with figures – the ones on paper, not the ones standing at the door giggling at each other.
“One of them gave me their phone number,” Bobby admitted in a whisper. “Come on, boss. Twenty minutes tops and I’ll open up in the morning. I’ll even name our first child after you.”
Harley sighed and pulled out a clean tattoo gun. “Get the money up front. Make sure you’ve seen ID and they’ve signed the form. And Bobby,” he added in a louder voice as the young man hurried back to the counter. “Check that number before our clients leave. It’s probably a pizza place.”
One of the girls, a pretty blonde who had cheerleader written all over her went bright red. “I’ve just realized we have another appointment. We’ll come back another time.”
Harley chuckled as Bobby’s smile dropped. The two girls scurried out the door, the giggling gone.
“Told ya,” he said watching Bobby throw a piece of paper in the trashcan. “Don’t be swayed by cleavage and hastily given phone numbers. You know your mama wouldn’t have girls like that in the house.”
“I’m getting a place of my own soon, then I can bring home who I like,” Bobby said sullenly.
“You’ll miss your mama’s cooking,” Harley said as he grabbed his jacket and slipped it over his slim shoulders, flicking his dark braid out of his collar. “Tell Muriel to lock up. You can open at ten and I’ll be in by lunchtime.”
Bobby muttered obscenities as Harley strode out the door. Knowing he wasn’t meant to hear any of it, Harley ignored it and kept on walking. Bobby was young, full of hormones and went after stunning girls who wouldn’t give him the time of day. Harley had seen him used and abused more than once for his connection with the parlor and he wasn’t going to let Bobby’s heart get trampled again.
Heading to his bike, Harley made a mental note to check in on Bobby’s mama. She had a heart condition and one of the reasons Bobby got the job was because she needed the additional income. If Bobby was talking about moving out, then Harley would make sure she was cared for. He had a soft spot for Mama Riley’s deep fried chicken.
At the thought of chicken, his stomach rumbled. Harley needed to go home and shower before he headed out for his evening plans. He’d grab a bucket of takeout on the way. If his mate was at Breathless he could eat there, but having missed lunch, Harley decided to eat first anyway. He wanted the elusive Mr. Cunningham to notice him for his scent, not his rumbling guts. Or did he? Harley was still on the fence about the whole noticing aspect. For all his fancy words, did he really want to be rejected to his face?
“What is the matter with you? You’re fidgeting around like a cat on a hot griddle,” Asaph grumbled as Ronan slipped away to get ready for his set. Breathless was jumping, all thanks to the lithesome dancer currently making his way backstage. As much as Asaph hated the way everyone ogled Ronan when he was performing, Bronson could see the look of pride too. He wanted that. He wanted to feel pride in a mate. If only he could find him.
Unsure how much he wanted to reveal to his closest friend and fellow wolf, Bronson leaned back in his chair, cradling his drink. Asaph wasn’t wrong. He’d been edgy all evening. He couldn’t stop looking around, his animal senses on full alert for a change. His wolf was letting him know that yep, someone was watching him. But Bronson couldn’t work out who.
There was a pretty redhead sitting with her friends who kept giving him the eye, but his wolf ignored her. He spotted the couple who he’d been with the previous Saturday, also hoping to catch his eye, but he wasn’t keen on a repeat. Oh, Bronson was horny enough. He’d been horny since he sniffed that damn bit of paper. But now he knew he had a mate, he would stay faithful, claimed or not. All he had to do was find the person concerned. Because someone was watching him and whoever it was, was damned clever, because Bronson couldn’t spot him or her. Gods, please let it be a him.
“Are you purposefully ignoring me?” Asaph prodded him and Bronson turned his attention back to his friend.
“I found a letter today, addressed to me, from my mate,” Bronson said, leaning so he could put his drink back on the table. “Apparently, this person has been watching me for at least four days, maybe more and I haven’t got a clue who it is.”
Watching Asaph gape was amusing. The tall blond Viking-looking man rarely let his emotions show on his face. But whatever it was Asaph expected him to say didn’t include mate in the sentence. Every paranormal, Asaph and Bronson especially, knew how important a mate was to a shifter.
“What did it say? Is there any indication this person’s male or female? And…oh shit, this person noticed your activities?”
Bless Asaph for trying to be discreet. “Mentioned my date on Thursday, the bloke who gave me a blowjob on Friday and the couple I went home with on Saturday,” Bronson said drily, looking around again. “The thing is,” he added, leaning across the table, “I know this person is here. My wolf can sense we’re being watched.”
“Why didn’t your wolf notice it before?”
“He probably did, I just wasn’t paying attention,” Bronson hissed. “But the only thing I could glean from the note was this person doesn’t expect to be noticed. In fact, this person claimed it was possible I had already scented him or her and had ignored the mating pull. You know I wouldn’t do that.”
“Did you get a scent?”
Bronson nodded and pulled out the letter. He’d put it in a plastic bag so the scent would remain fresh. Asaph took it, and with a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching their table, took a quick sniff before handing it back.
“You looked like a druggie just then,” Bronson grinned.
“I should hope I look like a predator now,” Asaph wiggled his eyebrows. “Ronan and his friends are just about to start their routine. The customers will be glued to their tables. Let’s go for a little walk, shall we? Check out security. See if we can find any stray cats?”
“Should have known you’d pick that up,” Bronson said, standing. “I hope you’re not going to get all speciest on me.”
“A mate’s a mate, Bro,” Asaph said slapping him on the shoulder. “You helped me get my head out of my ass about mine; the least I can do is help you with yours.”
“I just wish everyone didn’t wear so much perfume,” Bronson complained as he followed his friend. “I’m going to end up sneezing at this rate.”
“What are you doing, mate of mine?” Harley muttered, making sure he was hidden in the shadows. “Could it be you’re actually looking for me? Hmm, what to do, what to do?”
“Hey, Harley, what’s up? Barely noticed you hiding in the corner.” Fuck, Sorrel and Jughead, how the hell did they get in?
“I was just leaving,” Harley grimaced at his biker friends. Thank goodness, they were human. “Not really my place, you know?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sorrel said with a leer, looking around at the crowd. Most of the patrons had dressed up for the evening. Sorrel and Jughead stood out with their leathers and untrimmed scruff. “There’s plenty of hot mamas here who might be keen on taking a walk on the wild side.”
“Yeah, well I ain’t looking.” Harley put his glass on the bar. “I’m heading out. Don’t get that tattoo wet.”
“Hey, don’t go,” Jughead moaned. “I wanted you to meet my date. She said she’d meet me here.”
“Some other time.” Harley pushed through the crowds. His mate and huge sidekick were on the other side of the room. Looking for someone fancy, Harley thought as he headed for the door. Blooming typical. Don’t know why I bother.
“Hey, you’re that tattoo artist that works over on Gordon Street, aren’t you?” Great, a friendly bouncer. But Harley made a point of never being rude to potential customers. His business couldn’t afford it.
“Yeah, that’s right, have you been in my shop?” He stopped, keeping a wary eye on his mate, who was still wandering near the stage.
“Walked past a few times,” the muscled bouncer looked cute with a blush. “I have this idea, but I can’t seem to get it down on paper.”
“You don’t need to be an artist to get a tattoo; that’s what you pay me for,” Harley smiled. Slipping his hand in his jacket he pulled out a card. “Give me a call next time you’ve got some free time. We’ll have a chat and I can draft you up some drawings and see what you think.”
“Yeah?” The bouncer put the card in his pocket. “I’ll do that, yeah, that’d be great.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Does it hurt; only I’ve never had one before.”
“Depends on where you want it,” Harley patted the man’s shoulder. “You’ve got plenty of muscle, I’m sure we’ll find somewhere less painful for your first time.”
“I hear they’re addictive.”
“You should see all mine.” With a final clap on the shoulder, Harley brushed past and out the door. The spring air still held a nip to it, and he zipped up his jacket and shoved his hands in his pocket as he walked. Breathless was in the industrial side of town, and while there was parking out front, Harley left his bike in a friend’s lock up. He hated anyone interfering with his pride and joy.
You’re nothing but a loser, running away. Harley’s father’s scornful voice rang in his head as he thought about how his mate seemed to gravitate towards the beautiful people in the club. No one will ever want you, shit they’d never even look at you twice, not with that ugly mug.
He ran a finger over the long scar on his face; a present from his old man. Shifters could usually heal from any wound, but his father threatened to beat him if he shifted. By the time his old man fell asleep, Harley’s face was permanently marked. Men still came onto him; the other side of his face had all the hard angles that some could appreciate. His lean build and tight behind made him fuckable in the dark.
But that’s all I’ll ever be. Harley dashed the tears from his eyes. Time to stop mooning over a mate who’d be horrified to be seen with me, or worse…. Yeah, there was something worse than rejection. His mate could pity him and Harley swore he never wanted to see that look in anyone’s eyes again. His mother’s sorrow was bad enough and it wasn’t as though she protected him.
One more note, Harley promised himself. One more gesture to let him know it’s not him, it’s me. Then no more. I have to let him go. His cat snarling and clawing inside of him, he quickened his steps as his friend’s garage came into view. He needed to get home and work out what he could possibly say to the man who was meant to be his forever and who he would never meet.
“Any luck?” Ronan looked up from the computer as Bronson walked into the Breathless offices. Bronson looked around for Asaph. “He had a meeting,” Ronan said with an exaggerated grimace. “Mr. Pocklington. I swear that man spends our meetings sitting there wondering what I look like naked. Asaph gets real growly around him, so I suggested I stay here. Sit down, take the weight off. He won’t be long. How goes the search for your elusive mate?”
“He’s given up on me, or her, I still don’t know, but my heart tells me it’s a him,” Bronson sighed as he sank into a chair by the desk. “I found another note, this time basically telling me he wasn’t good enough and he was going to stay away from now on. Asaph and I traced his scent to that garage down the road, but when I went back there the next day, some guy sneered at my suit and said he was the only guy working there.”
“Maybe he’s a friend or maybe he was getting work done on his vehicle or something,” Ronan suggested.
“Yeah, well the troglodyte I spoke to wasn’t giving anything away. He wouldn’t even let me in the door.” Bronson fumed. Five days and his nerves were frayed. His balls were turning blue and his nights were filled with erotic dreams about a faceless man with a body he could worship for decades. But he was no closer to finding his elusive cat than he was the day he got his first note. Worse, his wolf hadn’t noticed anyone watching them either and Bronson was worried his mate had left town. Surely, any shifter having scented their mate wouldn’t just leave?
“He must be strong willed,” Ronan observed, clicking a few keys on his keyboard. “Have you checked the surveillance tapes from the club that night? You know he was there then.”
“Four times. I went over the whole thing, tracing the walk about Asaph and I did while you were dancing and no one looked our way more than once.”
“Maybe this mystery person slipped out while you were in another part of the club.” Ronan scowled at the screen and made a note on a piece of paper next to the keyboard. “You know, if he’s worried, like maybe he’s ugly or got some deformity or something, or I don’t know, maybe he doesn’t dress well, then if he saw you looking, he could have left.”
“You’re a freaking genius,” Bronson beamed, leaping from his chair. “Is anyone in the security room?”
“Just Jensen,” Ronan said. “He’s got a new tattoo and wanted to show it off before his shift starts. He’ll help you find the footage you need.”
“I don’t need any help,” Bronson waved as he left the room. The administration side of the club was on a mezzanine floor, allowing for a larger floor area for dancing and entertainment. He could see Jeff and Marcos practicing on the stage below, their third lover, Enzo watching with a critical eye. He smirked as Enzo yelled at one of them for being too slow. From experience, Bronson knew it would only be a matter of seconds before those three were making out again. Hopefully, they made it to the dressing room first. They never seemed to mind an audience and with Bronson’s current state, he wasn’t sure he could watch without making a fool of himself.
Just as Ronan said, Jensen was sitting at the bank of computer monitors that almost filled one wall. The tall, open-faced bouncer smiled as Bronson walked in. He was friendly, kind, but had a right hook that felled most people it connected with. But it wasn’t Jensen’s smile that stopped Bronson in his tracks.
“Hi, Mr. Cunningham, was there something you needed?”
Bronson shook himself but the scent wouldn’t leave his nose. “Er, yeah, I was going to have a look at the tapes from four nights ago. Ronan tells me you got a new tattoo. Did you just get it done?”
“Yes, sir,” Jensen grinned, rolling up his shirtsleeve. “See there, my first ever tattoo. It’s in memory of my friend who died at Pulse.”
Bronson stepped forward, hardly containing his excitement. The tattoo was still inflamed and red around the edges but it was beautiful work. A bunch of intricately detailed spring flowers, tears as though resembling a light shower and the name etched in elegant calligraphy underneath with the date.
“Who did it? It’s beautiful.” Bronson wanted to touch. The scent wafting from Jensen’s side was driving him crazy. He kept blinking, hoping his wolf eyes weren’t showing.
“Some guy over on Gordon Street, Harley his name is,” Jensen laughed. “He’s like Cher, doesn’t have a last name, but he owns the joint. Does amazing work. You can’t miss him.”
“What do you mean, can’t miss him?” Bronson had been missing him for over a week.
“He keeps to himself, you know. Never says much. But he’s got a huge following among tattooists which is why I wanted him to do my memorial tattoo. I was thrilled when I saw him here the other night. That’s only the second time I’ve seen him in the place.”
He was here. He was here when I was looking for him. I fucking knew it.
“Maybe he’s just not a sociable person,” Bronson managed to say casually.
“It’ll be because of his scar, I reckon,” Jenson confided. “Someone really messed with his face. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not a freak or anything. The other side of his face is lovely if you like that sort of thing, but between you and me, I think that’s why he hides. Some guy was giving him grief about not going out with them while he was working on my arm and he snarled at him. Could’ve sworn it was an animal there for a moment,” Jensen laughed again.
My precious cat is hurting and I know why. Bronson returned the smile. “Where did you say you got this done again, Gordon Street?”
“Yeah, right down the end. Not really your type of place, Mr. Cunningham, if you don’t mind me saying. Your suit will get you mugged if you’re not careful. I don’t have to worry about that sort of thing, but yeah….”
“Appreciate the concern,” Bronson nodded. “I’ll make sure I change my clothes first.”
“Didn’t know you were interested in tattoos,” Jenson said as Bronson headed out the door.
“I’m getting more interested all the time,” Bronson called back. Very interested. All the pieces of the mating puzzle were finally coming together. Why his mate hid from him – Gods, how hard it must be for my poor little kitty, scenting a mate but being too ashamed to come close. Well don’t you worry, I’m going to save you and if I ever get my hands on the man who scarred you, I swear he’ll choke on his own blood. Yeah, Bronson was feeling positively feral as he headed out of the club to find his car.
“We’re closed,” Harley yelled as the door chimed. “Come back and make an appointment tomorrow.” He was tired, heartsick and fed up after dealing with drunken dummies that goaded their friends into getting a tattoo. More than one man left once he realized the slim owner was stronger than he looked. Harley had a strict no drunks’ policy and Friday nights brought out the worst of them.
“Actually,” a smooth low voice set Harley’s cock twitching, “I was hoping to catch you before you went home. Maybe you’d share a late dinner with me?”
It can’t be, no, but of course, there was only one man in existence who could harden his cock with a few simple words. Harley gripped his work bench to stop himself from turning around.
“You shouldn’t be here. I thought we’d settled this.”
“You might have thought you’d settled it,” the voice came closer and Harley bit his lip. “But I don’t recall you asking me for my opinion.”
“I’ve seen the people you fancy, remember,” Harley forced some harshness in his tone. “I hardly stack up, so do us both a favor and leave.”
“I can’t do that, kitty,” How on earth can a wolf purr? Not that Harley’s animal side was doing him any favors. The closer the man got, and by the heavens, Harley could feel his body heat, the more his cat wanted out. “Why don’t you turn around and let me see what all the fuss is about?”
“So you can laugh at me, you mean. Fine, seeing as you’re being so damn persistent. Look and reject me to my damned face.”
Harley didn’t want to; by the Fates, he didn’t want to see his mate’s expression. But one thing a harsh upbringing taught him was that it never paid to be a coward. And Harley was no coward. Pleased his long hair was still caught back in its braid, he turned, almost gasping at how close Bronson was. Tilting his chin, he met Bronson’s eyes. “Don’t you dare pity me,” he warned. “Hate me, walk away, I can even handle disgust, but don’t you dare pity me.”
Bronson couldn’t stop his grin from spreading. He didn’t care if he looked like a looney tune, but honestly, he could never have imagined a mate as perfect as Harley. Sure, there was a wicked white scar that skewed the perfectly tanned features, running from the corner of his eye to the left-hand side of a luscious full mouth. Yes, those emerald green eyes were hard but brilliant in the way they shined, but it was the combination that set Bronson’s heart pumping. Harley was a hard, beautiful looking man and he couldn’t stop his grin if he tried.
“You look amazing,” he said, his fingers itching to touch.
“I should have mentioned don’t make fun of me either,” Harley growled, but Bronson could smell arousal and that was something he knew how to cope with.
“You’re worried about your scar,” Bronson lifted his hand and watching Harley closely, he slowly laid it over the offending mark. “Don’t be. I don’t know what you know about mates, but believe me, I see that as a mark of strength, not something to be disgusted about.”
“All those people I saw you with,” Harley muttered, but Bronson noticed he leaned slightly into his hand. “They’re all model perfect, they dress right, make lots of money. I’m not like them.”
“From what I hear, you have quite a reputation yourself, and my friend told me you own this place. That’s nothing to be sneezed at.”
“I’ll never fit with your friends.” Bronson could see Harley’s exquisite hands opening and closing by his hips.
“Can I tell you a secret, something no one else knows, not even my closest friends?”
Harley nodded and Bronson used the excuse of whispering to lean closer. “I’m lonely. Those people were just a diversion. Since my best friend found his mate, I’m struggling as a lone wolf. You have no idea how happy I am now I’ve found you.”
“I recommend Netflix,” Harley said, but Bronson saw his lips twitch. “There’s nothing like a zombie marathon to keep loneliness at bay.”
“Zombies, right.” Bronson tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn’t. His chuckles just bubbled out even as he tried to create the puppy-eyes look that had Asaph caving into Ronan’s demands no matter what they were. “Have dinner with me, please. Take pity on this poor lonely man and share a meal with me at least.”
“There’s nothing poor about you,” Harley said firmly. He looked down at his clothing. “I’m not really dressed to go out. I could meet you somewhere.”
“You’re fine as you are.” Now Bronson was face to face with his mate, he wasn’t letting him out of his sight until that man wore another scar. “I’m wearing jeans and a jacket too and I’m sure there’s somewhere handy you can recommend that does a good burger.”
“Your jeans still have creases; I bet you only took the price tags off them today.” But Harley smiled and despite the way his scar messed with his cheek, Bronson was entranced. “You know the rips in mine are because they’re old. I didn’t buy them that way.”
“They could have a few more by the end of the evening,” Bronson growled taking in Harley’s slender frame and the definite bulge in his skinny jeans. “I promise I’m good for a new pair.”
“I’ve only promised dinner,” Harley said, shaking his head. “Let me get my keys and we can get out of here.”
To be continued...
A Tiger's Tale
Arrowtown Series #1
(M/M, Shifters, true mate, MPREG, HEA)
Seth Carmichael never did anything wrong, but instead of working at the local library, he was running for his life. His herd was hunting him and with few resources, Seth's options were fading fast. Until, that is, he heard the rumble of a motorcycle. Peeking through the tree he was hiding in, he couldn't believe his eyes. Had salvation come in the form of a badass biker?
Ra (no last name and proud of it) was a tiger on a mission. He'd scented his mate and then the little rabbit ran away before his teeth could engage. Ra heard the gossip around Arrowtown; he knew his mate was a hunted man. But if the sweet man was on the run, he needed someone to look after him; Ra figured he was the right man for the job.
A meeting, a mating and yet another meeting. What should have been a straight forward relationship turned into so much more on their very first outing as a mated couple. Now Ra has to count on the strength of his mate and the help of his friends, if he and Seth are ever to have the HEA they'd planned for. And what was with all these Fae turning up out of the blue?
Warning: Contains a tiger who keeps putting his foot in it; a tiny lop-eared rabbit who is stronger than he looks and a bunch of friends who’ll hide a body, no questions asked.
About the Author
Lisa Oliver had been writing non-fiction books for years when visions of half dressed, buff men started invading her dreams. Unable to resist the lure of her stories, Lisa decided to switch to fiction books, and now stories about her men clamor to get out from under her fingertips.
When Lisa is not writing, she is usually reading with a cup of tea always at hand. Her grown children and grandchildren sometimes try and pry her away from the computer and have found that the best way to do it, is to promise her chocolate. Lisa will do anything for chocolate.
Lisa loves to hear from her readers and other writers. You can friend her on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/lisaoliverauthor), catch up on what’s happening at her blog (http://www.supernaturalsmut.com) or email her directly at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Amazon Author page: http://www.amazon.com/author/lisaoliver