Blazing Bedtime Stories (8 page)

N
O WAY WAS HE A WEREWOLF
.
Or a vampire. Or some weird cross between the two.

No
way
.

That’s what Shay told herself when she opened her eyes a little while later to find herself tucked safely in her bed, with Matt nowhere in sight.

Things like that…They just didn’t exist.

Even so, she kicked off the covers, pulled off her sweats and spent fifteen minutes doing a frantic search over her naked body for bites. She didn’t find any. A discovery that sent her straight to the fridge for a pint of Chunky Monkey.

Not that she was disappointed.

Hardly.

The last thing she needed was to turn into some guy’s chew toy. A crazy, disturbed, warped guy who actually thought he was a bonafide
werewolf
. Even worse, he was convinced he was a werewolf who’d been bitten by a
vampire.

And she thought she’d reached her lowest moment whipping a bunch of meatballs at what’s his name? Talk about a headline waiting to happen:
My Hot Night with a Werewolf.

Forget losing her customers. They’d cart her off to the funny farm for damned sure.

Forget it. Forget him.

She tried. She really did. She gave up the ice cream and headed into the shop the next morning. She spent Saturday doing inventory and sending out post-cards to her client list. But no amount of work could make her forget the night before. It played over and over in her head like a broken record, taunting her, reminding her until she finally admitted the truth to herself—he was a werewolf, all right.

A werewolf hellbent on finding his one and only.

She’d seen the sincerity in his eyes and heard the conviction in his voice.

He
loved
her.

Even more, she loved him.

The realization hit her later that evening as she locked up the salon and headed home. She stood in her living room and stared at the stack of journals on her bookshelf and her heart lodged in her chest.

He’d taken one.

While that fact should have made her incredible uptight and insecure, it didn’t bother her now. She wanted him to read her stories. She wanted him, period.

It didn’t matter that they hadn’t dated for months, taken long walks in the park or gone on romantic picnics. Deep in her heart, she
knew
. She’d known the moment their eyes had met outside of the Piggly Wiggly. It had been an attraction more intense than anything she’d ever felt before.

Because it was more than attraction.

It was the real thing. Deep down, ’til death do us part
love
.

She loved his strength and his passion and the fact that he knew her every thought, her every weakness, and loved her in spite of them.

And it was high time she showed him just how much.

M
ATT WAS STANDING ON THE FRONT
porch when Shay pulled up in front of the cabin. She knew the moment she saw the expectant look in his eyes that he’d been waiting for her, his senses tuned to the surrounding forest.

Because he was more than a man.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel for a brief moment as a wave of hesitation swept through her. She had to be crazy to be doing this. At the same time, she’d waited her entire life for just this moment. This man. And no way was she letting her inhibitions get the best of her.

Leaving the lights on, she killed the engine. She gathered her courage, took a deep breath and opened the door. A few seconds later, she stepped into the blaze of headlights. Her gaze locked with his and she reached for the hem of her T-shirt, pulling it up and over her head. Trembling fingers worked at the catch of her bra, freeing
her straining breasts. The scrap of lace landed at her feet. Her jeans followed until she stood in nothing but her panties and a slick layer of perspiration. She hooked her thumbs at the waistband and pushed them down. The silk slithered down her legs and she stepped free.

The warm night air whispered over her bare shoulders and breasts and she fought the instinct to cover herself. She was determined to show Matt the real woman just as he’d shown her his true self.

“I love you, Matt,” she murmured. “I still have a zillion questions about all of this, about you, and I’m scared to death, but I love you anyway.”

She barely managed to blink before he reached her. Strong, muscled arms wrapped around her and drew her close as his mouth captured hers in a deep, thorough kiss that sucked the air from her lungs and made her legs tremble.

She clutched at his shoulders. Denim rasped her sensitive breasts and thighs in a delicious friction that made her tremble and clutch at the hard muscles of his arms.

Strong hands slid down her back, cupped her bottom and urged her legs up on either side of him. Then he lifted her. He cradled and kneaded her buttocks as she wrapped her legs around his waist and settled over the straining bulge in his jeans.

As anxious as Matt was to sate the beast that lived and breathed inside of him, he’d been waiting for this moment—for her—far too long to have it over at the flick of a zipper. He wouldn’t scare her off and risk losing her.

He
wouldn’t
.

He gathered his control and his body shook from the effort. “I want you so much,” he murmured. “I don’t know if I can hold back.”

“I don’t want you to hold back. I want all of you. Werewolf. Vampire. It doesn’t matter. I love you both.”

Her words whispered through his head and sent a rush of joy through him. An emotion that quickly faded into a wave of passion when she rubbed herself against him.

“Please.”

He carried her inside to the bedroom, stretched her out on the bed and flipped on the bedside lamp. “I want to see you this time. I want you to see me.”

And then he kissed her, hard and deep and urgently. His tongue
tangled with hers, stroking and coaxing until she whimpered and tugged at the waistband of his jeans. He shed the denim, slid on a condom and settled between her legs. His weight pressed her back into the mattress. His erection slid along her damp cleft, making her shudder and moan and arch toward him. And then he plunged, fast and sure and deep, burying himself to the hilt in one luscious thrust that tore a cry from her lungs.

She wrapped her legs around him, the motion lifting her body so that he could slide more fully inside of her. He started to move, building the pressure, pushing them both higher, higher, until her climax hit her. Sweet, dizzying energy rushed through her and into him, feeding the hunger.

She milked him and he closed his eyes against the incredible sensation. But it wasn’t enough. The more she gave, the more he wanted. Hunger gnawed at him, pushing and pulling inside of him until he felt her fingertips on his face.

He stared at her through a rich purple haze, seeing every feature so clearly. Her lush mouth. Her heavy-lidded gaze. Her flushed cheeks.

“All of you,” she murmured and she arched her neck in silent invitation.

He dipped his head and sank his fangs deep. The red heat filled his mouth and desire speared him.

Her fingers plunged into his hair and she held him close as her lifeblood pulsed through his body. His own orgasm hit him hard and fast and he bucked, spilling himself inside the woman beneath him.

When he finally pulled away and collapsed next to her, she snuggled up against his body, happy and content and his.

His woman.

His mate.

“That was pretty incredible,” she murmured into his shoulder. “Is it always that intense?”

“I don’t know. You’re my first bite.”

She raised her head and stared down at him, into him, and if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn she could see his every thought just as he saw hers.

“Your last bite,” she told him, love shining in her gaze.

He grinned. “Possessive, aren’t we?”

“And demanding. I want my journal back.”

“Is that so?” He touched her nipple, rasping the edge until she caught her bottom lip. “Maybe we can work out a little trade.” And then he dipped his head and captured her lips in another deep, seductive kiss.

I
T WAS STILL DARK WHEN
S
HAY
opened her eyes to find Matt sleeping soundly next to her. She touched the prick points at her neck and a rush of desire bolted through her. When he’d drank from her, it had been the most erotic thing she’d ever felt. And the most intimate. She felt connected to him now. Really and truly connected, as if they were one. His heart beating in her chest. Her blood flowing through his veins.
One
.

She barely resisted the urge to snuggle up next to him. There would be plenty of time for that. An entire future, she realized. But she had something much more important nagging at her at that particular moment.

She pressed a kiss on his shoulder, climbed from the bed and walked into the living room. After rummaging in her purse, she found a pen and notepad and settled on Matt’s couch. And then she started to write.

“W
HAT’S THIS
?” S
UE
A
NN ASKED
when Shay showed up on her doorstep later Sunday morning and handed her a small spiral notebook.

“Something sweet, sexy and romantic,” she told the newspaper editor. “It’s for tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day feature.” And then she turned on her heel and headed back to Matt’s place for the first day of the rest of her life.

Her future.

M
Y
H
OT
N
IGHT WITH A
W
EREWOLF
by Shay Briggs.

Shay stood on Matt’s front porch early Monday morning and stared at the front page headline.

“I thought you said you wrote a fictitious piece for the paper.” Matt came up behind her and slid an arm around her waist. He wore nothing but a pair of jeans and a smile as he nuzzled her neck.

“What can I say? I was inspired by true-life events.” Not that anyone in town realized that. They thought Shay had written a sexy piece of fiction. At least that had been Sue Ann’s take when she’d
called Sunday afternoon gushing about the story. She’d ran with it for the Valentine’s issue and Shay had gone from columnist to feature writer just like that.

She thought of her empty schedule at the salon and the uncertainty of her future as the resident beauty expert. Particularly since she’d heard a rumor yesterday that half her clients were gravitating toward the hair salon which had started offering waxes and facials. The piece of FYI hadn’t bothered her near as much as she’d expected it to.

Because she didn’t love the citrus scrubs and the peanut butter wraps half as much as she loved writing. And while she hadn’t managed to save her career, perhaps she’d found a new one. One that made her as happy as the man standing beside her.

“Nice pic,” Matt murmured, drawing her attention to the photo at the far corner of the page that featured Shay in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly the day she’d spotted Matt for the first time. Her eyes sparkled and her face glowed. She looked happy.

“I don’t remember anyone taking a picture.” Her gaze zeroed in on the credit.
Photo by U.R. Luckyday
.

A smile tugged at her lips as she remembered Ulysses and his timely entrance into her salon the morning she’d been moaning to Sue Ann. He’d been the one to spark her interest in Matt’s hair secret in the first place.

U.R. Luckyday.

The truth crystalized as she looked at the by-line. She knew then that Ulysses wasn’t an ordinary photographer. There was something special about him. Not that she was speculating on what the something special was. She wasn’t questioning fate. She was accepting it. Relishing it. Loving it.

She was loving Matt.

“It’s the happiest Valentine’s Day of my life, too,” he murmured, reading the thoughts that whispered through her head. And then he gathered her close and kissed her.

And they lived sexily ever after…

O
NCE UPON A BITE
, in a small Texas town, there lived a beautiful maiden to whom beauty meant everything. Until the day she met the savage beast. He was ferocious and deadly and did his best to
scare her away. She fell head over heels in love with him despite his fanged and furry status and they settled down together and lived happily ever after.

To Kim and Rhonda, two fabulous authors
and two wonderful women—I’ve loved
working with you both.

And to Brenda Chin—thanks for giving me
the chance to!

C
ONSIDERING
Scarlett Templeton wrote children’s books for a living, she probably shouldn’t have let herself get caught on camera telling someone to kiss her ass. Then again, since it was Cupid she’d told, and that half-naked little bastard with the arrows had screwed up her life more than once, she didn’t feel too bad.

Her last breakup, which had been public and ugly, had occurred four months ago, as the smarmy reporter she’d run into at a recent media event
must
have known. So when he’d asked whether Cupid had set his sights on her for Valentine’s Day, she’d told him what Cupid could do. The quip had ended up all over the Internet, eventually landing on some site called kissmyasscupid.com. She’d become a finalist for the “least romantic woman on the planet” award and a poster child for the anti-romance movement.

Ahh, well, it could be worse. She could be the poster child for the evil-authors-who-are-corrupting-our-children movement.

Oh, wait, she
was
. At least to
some
people, who didn’t appreciate her seriously twisted humor and dark streak.

That would include her mother. The woman couldn’t decide whether she was proud or horrified at Scarlett’s success. She’d wanted Scarlett—named after her favorite literary heroine—to write romance novels or sweet, little-girls’ books.

Yeah, right
.

Having grown up hearing her too-romantic mother weave tales of gallant knights and damsels fair, Scarlett had hit the world with her head in a cloud and glass slippers on her feet.

Talk about a hard landing. It was a wonder she didn’t still have shards of glass in her toes.

At thirty, after a dozen years of
realistic
life, love, sex and relationships, she was
over
the happily-ever-afters. So the kids’ books
she wrote weren’t exactly Mother Goose rhymes or whimsical fairy tales. They were more like dark, twisted fables where Mother Goose could end up in a pot, and the princess would find out her Prince Charming was a two-timing scum-bucket. Most important of all, the princess wouldn’t wait for anybody to save her, she’d get off her butt and do it herself. Or else get eaten by the wolf.

That was something Scarlett had learned long ago. Save yourself…or get eaten by the wolf.

“My children just love your books Ms. Templeton,” said the customer in line at Scarlett’s latest never-ending book signing. The tightness of her mouth indicated the woman wasn’t finished. “Though I really don’t understand
why
.”

Being a
New York Times
bestselling writer…wow, what a great job. “Thank you,” Scarlett said, not thrown by the reaction. She focused on the smiling faces of the girls at the woman’s side. “Lady Bethany kicks some serious troll tail in this one!”

Both girls burst into a cacophony of excited chatter, all of which Scarlett genuinely appreciated. She didn’t write for the parents, she did it for the kids. Her reader was the girl who didn’t look like Rapunzel, the one who had enough brains to chop her damn hair off and climb down out of that tower herself.

“I saw you on YouTube,” the older of the girls said in a whisper, trying to avoid being overheard by her mother. “And I voted for you in the contest on the kissmyyouknowwhatcupid site.”

Oh, joy. She was well on her way to being crowned queen of stone-hearted bitches, helped along by adoring little girls.

“You know,” she said, wondering if it was too late for damage control, “I was in a bad mood when I said that. You should probably take it as more of a warning of what happens when you don’t watch what you say and when you say it. Especially in front of a camera.”

The girl nodded. “Oh, sure.” But the sparkle in her eye said she was still titillated. Then, when their mother harrumphed in impatience, the girl and her sister hurried away.

“You okay?” asked the owner of the quaint French Quarter shop where Scarlett always did signings for her new releases.

Scarlett shook her right hand and flexed her fingers. “If my hand can hold out, I guess the rest of me can.”

The book-signing was only scheduled to last until four. It was
now almost six. But Scarlett would never get up and leave when her young fans had waited patiently to speak to her.

“Well, it has to end soon. We’re almost out of books,” said the middle-aged woman who probably didn’t understand Scarlett’s stories, either. But she definitely understood the cha-
ching
of the cash register. “We have only two copies of your newest release left and we’ve sold out of all your backlist titles, too.”

“Great, thanks again,” Scarlett said as a customer handed her one of those last two books to sign. She did, then watched the man leave and waited for the next person. But there was no one else. Four hours and two hundred books later, she was done.

Rising, she stretched her back, which ached from sitting in the same position for so long. As she glanced at her watch, she realized she was running very late. Having decided to pay a surprise visit to her elderly grandmother for the weekend, she’d hoped to arrive before dark.

Granny lived in the middle of the bayou and swore she wouldn’t leave until she was hauled out in her coffin. The route ran through miles of swamp, with roads only a few yards from ’gator-and-snake-filled water. Scarlett
really
didn’t like driving out there at night. She needed to hustle if she was going to pick up the tabloids and junk food Granny always demanded and hit the road before it got too late.

Before she could hop to it, though, a voice interrupted. “I see I have procured the very last copy.”

Startled, she glanced over and saw a stranger standing on the opposite side of the table.

It was all she could do not to stare because he was such an
odd-
looking man. She’d written a book once that turned the Rumpelstiltskin story upside-down. In it, a clever milkmaid and her gnome-like friend conspire to trick an evil king out of his ill-gotten gains by pulling off a straw-into-gold scam. This guy could play
her
Rumpel in the movie.

Slight and diminutive, he probably stood as high as the base of Scarlett’s throat, and she was five-six. His slumped shoulders further reduced his height and were emphasized by the long, thin gray hair that hung past them.

It got better. His protruding eyes were a murky grayish-green,
and a hairy mole dominated one cheek. He boasted the most unusual nose she had ever seen. It curved down like a spotty, flesh-colored banana, the tip almost reaching his upper lip.

His clothes were old-fashioned—a navy worsted-wool three-piece suit, a walking stick, and a bowler hat. And he wore on his lapel a small pin—a beautiful, highly crafted set of wings that almost appeared to be made out of straw-spun gold.

He was, without doubt, the strangest-looking person she had ever seen. And she adored him at once. “Fantastic! I don’t have any say in casting, but oh, wow, I will make a recommendation.”

One brow went up over a rheumy eye. “I beg your pardon? I came simply to buy a book.”

She hesitated, wondering if she’d really made a mistake. Leaning over to take the book from his hand, she got close enough to check for cosmetics, spirit gum on the prosthetic nose, or the line of a wig.

There was nothing. Either the man had a makeup artist to rival any in Hollywood, or he wasn’t wearing a costume.

“I, uh…sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

“I sometimes am,” he replied, with a smile so enigmatic, Scarlett could only stare in confusion. “I do like your books. They’re oddly shaped and eccentric…like me.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle along with him.

“There is, of course, a definite lack of romance in them.”

“Yes, there is.”

“You’re not a romantic? You don’t believe in true love?”

She bent over to the book, opening it to the flyleaf. “Romance and true love belong in fairy tales. I don’t believe in any of it, which is why my books are dark and realistic.”

He tsked and shook his head, as if she’d disappointed him. “Ah, well, I’m sure you have your reasons. Now, will you please inscribe the book to C? Just the letter will do.”

Embarrassed to have mistaken him for an actor, Scarlett signed the man’s copy. “You got here just in time. I was about to leave.”

“Going out of town, are you?”

Surprised that he hadn’t assumed she was going home, since she was a well-known author living right here in New Orleans, she mumbled, “I’m off to visit my grandmother, actually.”

“Ah. A visit to Granny. Are you bringing her sweeties?”

Sweeties?
Had this guy stepped out of a time machine or what? “She’s a chocoholic,” she admitted, “and a potato-chip junkie. If I show up empty-handed, I’ll be in big trouble.”

He laughed softly. “We old ones do like our treats.” He reached for the book, and their fingers brushed. For such a frail-looking old man, his skin gave off a strong, almost electric vibe. As crazy as it seemed, the contact left her hand tingling. Her thoughts snapped and sizzled in her head.

“I suppose Granny told you not to stray from the path.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I mean, to remain on the main road through the forest.”

“It’s a bayou,” she said, wondering why she felt as though she’d just been injected with an overdose of caffeine.

“Sometimes
straying
from the path can lead to adventure.”

Paths and adventure, forests and sweeties. The images jumbled. She suddenly wanted to get out of there, away from the odd man and into the refreshing air outside. “I have to go.”

He smiled and extended his hand. “I so enjoyed our chat.”

She really didn’t want to touch him again, but courtesy demanded it. Slowly reaching out, she braced for more of that strange reaction—not revulsion, in any way, despite his appearance. On the contrary, she expected—and
got
—more of that strange, sizzling energy.

Then, with a tip of his hat and a tiny smile, he was gone.

The feeling, however, didn’t go away. The intensity increased. Her back pain was gone, any fatigue forgotten. Even the rainy weather didn’t bother her. She merely flipped up the hood of her trendy red raincoat and walked to a local shop for the latest rag sheets and junk food.

Armed and ready to meet even Granny’s exacting standards, she got into her car for the drive out of New Orleans. Night had definitely fallen, and she had second thoughts about driving that route after dark. The trip was a surprise, so Granny wasn’t expecting her, and she could easily have waited until morning.

But the darkness didn’t intimidate her. Instead, she whistled as she drove, tapping her fingers on the padded leather steering wheel of her convertible.

Stray from the path…stray…

The strange words whispered into her subconscious for some reason, though she tried to focus on Granny’s delight at seeing her, her next book, on not killing that reporter for asking her about Valentine’s Day.

She almost missed the road sign. Dark green with sloping cursive lettering, unlike any sign she’d ever seen; it appeared a good five miles before the exit she normally took. She couldn’t remember ever having noticed it before. It listed the name of the town closest to Granny’s—Hastings.

Well, sort of. “Hastings
Towen
?” she mused.

Somebody needed to fire their sign painter.

She considered exiting. The sign claimed the distance to be much shorter than the route she usually took. Fewer miles through the swamp was a good thing. But it seemed so strange that she hadn’t seen the marker before, and her senses went on alert, telling her not to.

The exit wasn’t so much an off-ramp as a quick veering away from the highway. She
almost
drove past it. Almost listened to her sixth sense and continued on her way, not comfortable with trying out an unfamiliar road at night.

Stray.

At the last possible moment, though, she veered. The car’s tires skidded on the gravelled surface but quickly regained traction as the highway became a pitted road. Ahead of her lay a winding, narrow thoroughfare overhung with sagging willows and skeletons of dead trees looped with tangled Spanish moss. It was dark and deep and unfamiliar.

In her stories, when the heroine was confronted with two paths, one bright and sunny and the other scary and full of mystery, she always went to the dark side.

Too bad Scarlett wasn’t one of her heroines.

She decided to swerve right back out onto the highway, because, though lined with marsh on either side, the regular route was still a solid, well-maintained river of blacktop. Unlike this version of hell’s Yellow Brick Road.

Stray.

She intended to go back. Really. But instead, she kept driving. And driving. Straight into the woods, almost into another world, a primeval
one far from civilization. Soon the haunted trees seemed to close in behind her and she lost sight of the lights from the highway.

The curved canopy of trees nearly blocked out the sky, obscuring the bright, full moon overhead. The forest—it suddenly felt like a dense wilderness more than a typical marsh—crept closer to the road, until it seemed to hug her car in its green embrace. The throughway narrowed to the width of her single vehicle, meant for only
her
to drive.

A voice kept telling her to turn around. A louder one—
stray
—refused to allow it.

The electric tension that had driven her out of the store earlier didn’t diminish. Instead, with each mile she drove, it built, making her heart beat faster and her breathing more ragged.

“What is happening to me?” she asked, wondering where the sensible, no-nonsense, no-romance Scarlett had gotten to. Why was she so excited? Why hadn’t she turned around while she still had the chance?
Why didn’t she care?