“No, anytime you lose control it could
happen,” he murmured, sliding down her
body.
Ava arched against him and smiled.
“Make me lose control, Landon.”
58
www.samhainpublishing.com
Serengeti Heat
Her lover laughed low against her skin
and bent his head to do just that.
www.samhainpublishing.com
59
About the Author
To learn more about Vivi Andrews,
please visit her website at
www.viviandrews.com or stop by her blog at http://viviandrews.blogspot.com.
Vivi loves to hear from readers. You can email her at
vivi@viviandrews.com.
Look for these titles by Vivi Andrews
Now Available:
The Ghost Shrink, the Accidental Gigolo
& the Poltergeist Accountant Brotherly
love? Oh hell no…
Kiss and Kin
© 2009 Kinsey W. Holley
A Shifter Dreams story.
On the surface, court reporter Lark Manning looks like the luckiest girl in
the world, blessed with great friends and
a wonderful family. Underneath, she
harbors a hopelessly unrequited love for
the sexy werewolf everyone thinks of as
her cousin. Taran rarely notices her
except to condescend or lecture. He’s
treated her the same way since she was
eight years old, and there’s no reason to
think he’ll ever change.
Taran Lloyd, a detective in the Houston
Police Department’s Shifters
Investigations Unit (SIU), lives for those
rare moments he gets to spend around
Lark, torturing himself with what he
can’t have. Kin only by marriage, she
thinks of him as her big brother. He couldn’t bear her pity—or her disgust—
if she learned he wants her for his mate.
When weres from a rival pack attack
her, Lark screams out the first name that
comes to mind—Taran.
Only this sexy alpha can keep her safe
until they find out who wants her dead,
and why. But keeping her safe means
keeping her close. And the closer they
get, the harder it gets for these not-
really-cousins to honor their commitment
to keep their paws off.
Warning: Contains a heroine with the
world’s worst poker face, a hero with
more honor than sense, and explicit
shifter sex that makes you wish werewolves really were part of the
gene pool.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Kiss
and Kin:
Lark inspected her reflection in her
antique full-length mirror. Applying final
touches to her makeup, she pursed her
lips and smudged her gloss just a bit.
She pulled her auburn chestnut hair into
a carefully messy chignon, touchable
stray wisps framing her face the way
Taran liked it.
Dressed in a purple lace bra, boyshorts
and four-inch stilettos, she struck a little
pose. Which dress to wear?
They both showed off her legs. The chic black cocktail number featured a fun
little twirly skit, and she fancied herself
a fun twirly kind of girl. On the other
hand, she liked to look like a bad girl
sometimes, which she did in the
lavender sheath with the plunging
neckline and the slit up to mid thigh.
She held up each dress beneath her chin,
one at a time, and eyed herself critically.
Lavender, black.
Lavender, black.
She heard Taran getting ready in the
bathroom, but when he suddenly
appeared behind her—a werewolf could
move so swiftly and silently it seemed
he teleported—he wore nothing but skin.
Taking a hanger in each hand, he tossed
the dresses aside. He laid a large, warm
hand on her stomach and pulled her
tightly against him while his other hand
cupped her breast. His thumb rubbed
circles around her nipple through the thin
lace.
“What are you doing here?” he growled
softly. His stubble tickled her neck as he
nuzzled. It made her laugh.
He rolled her nipple between two
fingers and she sighed, reaching back to
run her fingers through his dark gold
hair. His other hand now cupped her
mound, barely touching, and she ground
her hips, silently urging him to press harder. He chuckled.
“I’m trying to choose a dress,” she
smiled. “Which do you like?”
“Neither,” he replied. “I vote for
naked.” He nipped her shoulder and slid
his hand inside the boyshorts.
Their gazes met in the mirror, the only
way she could maintain eye contact with
him. Lust glittered in his eyes, making
them shine like emeralds. Her dark blue
eyes melted in submission. In heels, she
stood almost as tall as he did, but she
looked petite against his much larger
body.
“I can’t go to dinner like this, and neither can you,” she murmured.
“True.” He ran his tongue lightly down
the back of her neck. “Anthony’s has a
dress code.
Reservations at eight, right?”
“Yes.” She shivered.
She gasped as his middle finger sank
into her folds and stroked.
“So…” he smiled against her neck, “…
I’ve got ten minutes to make you come. I
can do that with one arm tied behind
your back.”
He took his hand out of her panties, spun her around and pinned one of her arms
behind her. She moaned in anticipation
as his mouth came down on hers, and she
woke up.
Damn it. Shit. Damn, damn, damn, shit.
Lark rolled over and slammed her head
into the pillow.
She couldn’t even manage a decent sex
dream about him—she always woke up
when it got to the good part. Her
subconscious just rolled its eyes and
said, “This is too farfetched for me to
handle, kiddo.
Dream about someone in your league—
like George Clooney, maybe. He’ll ask you out before Taran notices you’re
grown, much less shows any interest.”
She showered, trying not to think about
Taran as she did it.
***
Detective Taran Lloyd yawned with
boredom as he stood by the bar and
observed the patrons of Le Monde on a
typical Saturday night. A pricey club, it
attracted an affluent crowd, and a mixed
one: humans, werewolves and other
shifters, people who looked a little more
than a little fae. The only thing they had
in
common was a willingness to pay five bucks for a bottle of domestic beer and
seven for well drinks—or the ability to
find someone who would do it for them.
He grimaced. He’d like a drink himself,
but regulations prohibited drinking on
duty.
The intimate nightclub featured wood-
paneled walls, polished hardwood
floors and a lot of recessed lighting.
Music loud enough to dance but not too
loud to talk, waitresses pretty but not too
sexy, bartenders fast but friendly—if not
for the fact that three women reported
missing this month were last seen here, it
would’ve been a great place to bring a
date.
He tried to remember the last time he’d gone on a date.
“Detective?” Daniel Denardo, the HPD
Shifter Investigations Unit’s rookie,
interrupted Taran’s musings.
“Yeah, Danny?”
“What are we supposed to look for
here?”
Taran smiled wryly. “If we get lucky,
some guy will pick up a chick, throw her
over his shoulder and run out, and we’ll
arrest him. But I don’t think we’ll get
lucky. So we hang around and watch,
talk to people, ask if anyone saw the
women, noticed unusual behavior, that sort of thing. I’d rather no one know
we’re cops yet.”
As soon as he said it, he noticed Lark
across the room at a banquette with
another woman and four slimy-looking
wolves in suits. Taran automatically
considered any guy with Lark slimy-
looking. These wolves looked like
Eurotrash. Eastern European wolves ran
drugs and weapons in and out of the
country, and SIU suspected they’d
expanded into the sex trade. Rich
European werewolves frequented Le
Monde.
Apparently Lark did, too.
She sauntered toward the bar.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ll be back in a second. Why don’t you
mingle.”
“I can do that,” Denardo replied
cheerfully.
“What are you doing here?” he growled
softly.
Those words, that voice, just hours after
the dream, freaked Lark right the hell
out. She started so violently her
perfectly chilled Cosmopolitan sloshed
the front of her dress. Her nipples stood at attention.
He didn’t even notice.
She grabbed a handful of napkins.
“Damn it, Taran, what—”
“Quiet,” he said fiercely as he stole her
breath with a smile. He never smiled at
her like that. He rarely smiled at her at
all. She stared up at him, dumbfounded.
He clamped a meaty paw on her elbow
and dragged her away from the bar
toward an empty table.
The dark blue pinstriped suit, a fitted
European cut, and the custom-tailored,
crisp white dress shirt looked great on
his long, muscular frame. Taran didn’t live on his detective salary alone.
“Act like we’re having fun.” Irritable as
always, he still wore that stutter-
inducing smile. It stopped short of his
luminescent green eyes. “Why are you
here, and who are those wolves?”
“None of your business…” she grinned
gaily, “…and I don’t know.”
A few golden strands of hair drifted
across his eyes. He wore it halfway to
his shoulders; HPD
grooming regulations exempted
werewolves. She always itched to brush
his hair aside. One day she’d do it, just
to watch him react.
”I’m serious, Lark.”
“You’re hurting me, Taran.”
He let go instantly but continued to stare
at her, knowing she’d answer him.
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m here
with my friend Eloise, who’s into some
Euro werewolf whose name I don’t
remember, and he’s with his bros, and
they’re all creepy and boring, and one of
them keeps trying to pick me up, and
after you replace the Cosmo you made
me spill, I’m going home. This just is not
my night.”
“Are you driving?”
“No, I’m talking to you. Why? Do I look
like I’m driving?”
He didn’t laugh. He never laughed.
“El drove. I’ll take a cab home. Where’s
my cosmo?”
His sharp cheekbones and strong chin,
and the pale, thin scar scoring his left
cheek from his ear almost to his mouth,
gave him a look of menacing power.
That disappearing smile, though, made
him look like a fallen angel. A hulking,
six-foot-six fallen angel who could
change in five minutes in broad daylight
—the mark of a powerful alpha wolf.
“Don’t tell anyone you know who I am,”
he ordered. “I’m working a case.”
“What kind of case?”
No reply.
“Fine, whatever. I won’t tell anyone I
know you.”
He nodded and turned to go.
“Um. Hello?”
He turned back. “What is it?”
“You owe me a drink.”
He pulled a ten from his wallet and held
it out, staring at her eyes as he did so.
She snorted at the cheap shot power
play, but it worked—a human couldn’t
maintain eye contact with an alpha.
She looked at the bill in his hand. She
didn’t take it. Instead, fueled with
courage from her first cosmo, she put her
hand on his outstretched arm and leaned
in, her head grazing his cheek. Their
bodies almost
touched. A werewolf’s normal body
temperature was one hundred five point
three; for the millionth time in ten years,
warmth.
Her pulse hammered in her throat as she
whispered, “Taran? If you want people to think your cousin is a hooker, you
could at least pretend I’d get more than
ten bucks. Otherwise, go buy me a drink,
you lazy bastard.”
He growled low in his throat. She
peeked up at him. Taran meant “thunder”
in Welsh. It fit him when he looked like
this.
“Wait here,” he snarled before stalking
off to the bar. The crowd parted for him
by instinct, like zebras at a watering hole
when the lion drops by for a drink. He
returned with her cosmo.
“Thank you, cuz,” she cooed sweetly to
his shoulder. New drink in hand, she
steeled herself for another excruciating twenty minutes with Eloise and the Euro
cheese. Would he watch her walk away?
As if.
Three days. One wish. If the Fairy
Queen keeps her promise…
The Man of Her Dreams
© 2009 Robie Madison
A Shifting Dreams story.
Workaholic web designer Megan Jones
exudes sensible and practical by day, but
in her dreams she truly lives. Her nights
are filled with erotic trysts with a dream
lover—who also defends her against the
dangerous wild stallion of her
nightmares.
When she inherits a Victorian-era Welsh
locket, she opens it to a shocking
revelation. The tiny portrait of a black-
haired man with a sardonic smile is none
other than the man in her dreams.
There’s only one way to learn the truth
about him—head to her ancestral home
town in Wales.
A member of the ancient race of Tylwyth
Teg, Owain Deverell has spent the last
170 years suspended between man and
beast—punishment for loving a human
woman. Weary of his cursed existence,
and longing to be more than the object of
Megan’s dream desire, he strikes a
bargain with the Fairy Queen. In exchange for retaining his human form,
she grants him three days to win
Megan’s unconditional love.
Or remain the object of her nightmares.
Forever.
Warning: Contains graphic sex, dream
sex, picnic sex, magic sex, a
meddlesome Fairy Queen, and did we
mention sex?
Enjoy the following excerpt for Man of
Her Dreams:
He led her around the side of the
building and deep into the darkness. His
pace was confident, suggesting he was
familiar with the lay of the land. Less certain of her surroundings, she hesitated
slightly when they reached a line of
trees. Firm pavement gave way to the
soft crunch of leaves and twigs under her
feet. When she tripped over an exposed
root, Owain caught her easily, but
instead of holding her steady, he backed
her up against a tree.
“Owain.” She whispered the word on
the night air. But unlike all those other
nights when she’d spoken his name with
a sense of frustrated longing, this time
her voice was filled with awe. She
reached out and skimmed her fingers
across his cheek, just to make sure. His
skin was warm to the touch and slightly
rough with a five o’clock shadow. He was real all right.
Capturing her other hand, he pulled them
both behind her around the trunk of the
tree. The move forced his body closer to
hers. So close his warm breath laced
with a hint of ale fanned her face. He
groaned low in his throat and his
erection nudged her belly.
A cornucopia of sensual experiences
assaulted her—the rough bark of the tree
against her back, his hard body pressed
against her own. She inhaled and caught
a heady masculine scent that was all
Owain.
Only unlike in her dreams it was
sharper, more pungent. Oh, yeah, he was definitely the real thing.
Her own breathing grew harsher as a
primitive lust surged through her body.