Rescued & Ravished: An Alpha's Conquest (A Paranormal Ménage Romance) (30 page)

“I do!”

“Then why won’t you listen to me? I’m trying to help you!”

“I’m sorry—”

“I know it’s hard! I know you’re scared! But you have to trust me! You have to listen to me!”

“Dane, let go of—”

“What is it, Ginger?” The anger in his voice thickened. “Do you think Beaumont can protect you better? Is that why you leave me to go to him?”

“I just want answers, Dane! He talks to me!” she shot back, shouting. “You disappear and I don’t know what’s happening!”

“God damn it, Ginger! I’m doing all I can to convince these people not to take you apart!” He slammed the wall over her shoulder. “I’m trying to save you!”

“Stop, Dane!—let go of me!” Her voice cracked. Then, overwhelmed, she started to cry.

He kissed her cheek, the bridge of her nose, her neck; everywhere his lips touched, her skin prickled, burning white-hot. The pleasure of his kisses short-circuited her meltdown, and her eyes flickered open—their lashes wet—to fix on his.

His gaze was pure gold, as hot as liquid metal. For the first time she was aware of just how close their bodies were—the hard pressure of his muscular body against hers; the grip of his hands; the halo of his body heat.

“Stay in this cabin, Ginger,” he whispered roughly. “Stay in my territory. I’ll defend you. You just have to believe in me.”

She wanted to tell him
I do
.

She wanted him to kiss her on the mouth.

She wanted to run her hands down his chest, all the way to his big, heavy cock.

But instead, she swallowed thickly; her nerves were jangling back to life. “Dane…”

“Ginger—”

“I need to throw up.”

Dane had put her to bed after giving her some antiemetic pills, stroking her, calming her, kissing her hair. Even after he’d left the bedroom, he stayed for awhile—she’d heard him pacing the living room—but then there’d been voices on the porch, including his, and he’d left with whoever had come.

She was alone. She wasn’t asleep and wasn’t going to sleep.

She was getting off this island.

Sitting up, throwing back the covers, she went to get dressed and get moving.

The canoe was heavier than she remembered, and she was clumsy trying to drag it out of Hunter’s boat shed alone. It was extra difficult while wearing a heavy backpack, one pilfered from Dane’s cabin and loaded with his food.

She hit a rock, stumbled, and smacked the side of the boat into the wood of the shed. It was late, but not that late; Hunter would still be awake. She’d been as quiet as she could, but now—

Shit!
She heard his cabin door opening. She dropped the canoe’s rim, thumbed off her pack, and sped around the cabin’s side, to head him off before he could check the shed—and see what she was doing.

“Ginger?” He shone a flashlight on her face. “God, what are you doing down here? I heard what happened—everyone’s riled up—”

Distract him! Don’t let him stop you!

Stick to the plan!

She rushed him and kissed him, crushing the front of his flannel shirt in her hands. He was so surprised, with her mouth glued to his, that it was easy to press him back inside the cabin.

“Ginger, what’re—”

“I wanted to be with you,” she whispered thickly. “You’re strong, Hunter. Strong enough to protect me.”

“Ginger—”

“I like you. Is it wrong for me to say that?” It wasn’t a lie—she
did
like him. More than she should. “I like you—and I want you. Kiss me.”

His eyes were glazing over with desire—real, heavy, unfightable desire. “I am strong enough. God, Ginger, stay with me. I like you, too… I… I’ll protect you, I…”

His restraint broke; the sentence went unfinished. Crushing her close, he kissed her over and over.

They were hot, rough kisses. His facial hair was sharp, his mouth slightly chapped; his hands on her face were coarse with calluses. The harshness of it turned her on.

He tasted good: mild, with the slightest trace of salmon and juniper. When he slid his tongue into her mouth, she accepted it, sucked on it. She could feel him hardening against her, his cock trapped by denim.

She bit his bottom lip. He twisted a hand in her thick hair; squeezed the full curve of her ass. She was starting to lose her breath—the kissing was getting rawer, hungrier, more desperate; her nails bit into the back of his neck, and he growled. The heat between her legs was syrupy.

“I didn’t know you wanted me like this, Ginger,” he murmured, hoarse.

“Fuck me,” she hissed plainly.

Abruptly, he picked her up around the middle and carried her to his bed, dropping her on the mattress. She toed off her boots and shimmied out of her jeans while he pulled off his own things. His eyes were hot and smoky, single-minded; it gave her an erotic thrill just to see how lust-drunk he looked.

She reached up to help unbutton his shirt, loving how more of his hard chest was revealed with every snap; the sight dampened her panties. When it was open, she leaned forward and pressed lewd, open-mouthed kisses to his cobbled abs, the divot of his navel, the upper curve of his Apollo’s belt. He groaned.

“Ginger… I can’t… I can’t wait.” His voice was strained, half-animal. Before she knew it, he’d gotten his jeans off and she was on her back with his hard, muscular weight on top of her. He kissed along her jawline, nipped the soft hollow of her throat, licked her ear. She was gasping, rocking her hips against his, clutching his hair. She hadn’t expected to be
this
turned on, but she was—she wanted him. Badly. Really badly.

Her pussy, lushly swollen, had soaked her panties. Through the wet thinness of the fabric she could feel his rock-hard cock between her legs, drooling pre-come on her thigh.
He’s so big. So so big.

He rolled them, so she was on top and straddling his lap. His big hands slid under and lifted her bra; she let him pull it over her head and throw it across the floor.

“Fuck, Ginger,” he muttered gruffly, staring at her high, full breasts. “Gorgeous.”

“Don’t just look,” she begged, breathlessly. “Touch—
ahh
.”

Her head lolled back as he kissed the sensitive undersides of her breasts, then the dip between them. Her skin was alive, goosepimpling, flushing—and when he actually fastened his mouth on one of her hard, rose-pink nipples, sucking it, she moaned.

When he bit it, she cried out. A man had never done that.

She liked it.

“Hunter,” she whined, “more.
More
.”

“Ginger. Ginger,” he whispered, mostly to himself; he pulled her closer, stroked hair away from her flushed face, teethed her neck. She was moaning, rolling her hips.

She wanted him—
needed
him—inside her.

Leaning on his shoulders, she rose and angled her hips so he could get in, pulling aside the gusset of her panties. “Take me,” she breathed throatily by his ear.

He gripped the base of his cock, guiding it into her, and she wriggled against the fat, flared head—finding the right position, easing it inside. The hot, slick helmet pressed against and then sinking past her lips felt so good, so obscene, that her vision blurred.

He was so thick that entry was slow, but she enjoyed every inch. As she sank down on his veiny shaft, she let out a low, throaty moan; he growled.

Finally their pelvises touched. She could feel him throbbing inside her—no doubt he could feel her clenching, squeezing. It felt so fucking good, being full of him.

“Ginger, shit,” he rasped. “You’re so—soft, so—”

She started to rock on his cock, slowly, unhurriedly. His arms stayed tight around her.

“Ohhh, fuck, Hunter,” she moaned, biting her plump, kiss-swollen lower lip. “Fuck, yes.”

Warmed up, adjusted to his size, her hips worked faster.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he growled. “You feel so good, I can’t—”

Faster, firmer she rode him, hitting her stride, fucking him outright. The sound of their flesh slapping together overwhelmed the settling of the cabin and the shushing of the pines. She forgot her plan, forgot about her escape. All she cared about was enjoying this moment—the feel of him buried inside her, the sting of him biting her neck—building their fire higher and higher.

He was slamming his hips into her now, thrusting up to meet her descending pussy; his strokes were hard and deep, and she could feel the veiled power of the bear in them. That aroused her—that the animal in him was so close to the surface, so strong, so passionate. Rutting away, her tits jiggling as they fucked, she pounded against him, lost in her pleasure.

“You feel so good, so tight,” he gasped, piledriving her. “Fuck, Ginger—I’m close!”

She didn’t slow down, riding him with abandon. Gasping, moaning, she kept up the thumping of their hips, the natural rhythm of deep fucking.

“Ginger—shit—you want me to pull out?” he asked, voice gravelly, breathless.

“No!” she cried, just as raspy. “Come inside me!”

He gripped her hips, hard enough to bruise, and groaned, going rigid against her. She arched her back, brows knitting with pleasure as he felt him come.

His was a long, hard orgasm—her muscles locked down on his pulsing, firing cock, trapping him deep inside her, prolonging his climax until he was spent.

Breathing hard, he relaxed slightly beneath her, covered in sweat. “You didn’t…”

She smiled, amused. “Just don’t move,” she whispered raggedly. “Stay in me.” He was still hard—she pressed her hips down on his shaft, as deep as she could take him, and rolled them in a circle. “Mmm.”

He gasped, pumping slowly against her as she masturbated. Her fingers were a blur as they rubbed her clit, her hips rocking fast on his cock. Finally, suddenly, she came too, going stiff as a ruler. Her pussy seized on his dick, rippling and squeezing. Overstimulated, his hips bucked in jerks as her contractions sucked and pulled at him.

Panting, she eased off of him. She laughed breathlessly; he did too, squeezing the soft, hot taper of her waist. Running her fingers through her damp hair, she drew great, steadying breaths, eyes closed.

“That was so good,” he said at last.

She nodded, smiling at him. The sweat was cooling on her back as she slid down to curl up against him on the homespun bedclothes.

For awhile they said nothing; there was no sound but their slowing breathing, the creak of pinewood, and the distant rush of the ocean.

She turned toward him, into him. He put an arm over her waist and pulled her closer, into his heat; kissed her breasts, her clavicle, her neck, her mouth. She giggled.

“I liked that,” she murmured, gazing at him, at his scruffy, handsome face.

“’M glad.” His thumb stroked her hip. “I did too.”

She raised a hand to his unshaven cheek. Then she wriggled closer and kissed him deeply, slowly on the mouth. He made a low, masculine sound of pleasure.

“Are you staying here? With me?” he asked, against her mouth.

No. Not with you, and not with Dane. I never made and I won’t make any promises to either of you.

She kissed him again, softer than before. “Go to sleep. I’m right here,” she answered evasively, running a hand over his damp, hairy chest.
“In your arms.”

He tangled a hand in her drenched waves, buried his face in them. The smell of him—sweat, and sea salt, and pine—overwhelmed her.

“I really like you, Ginger,” he murmured, dozily. “Stay. Be mine.”

She didn’t say anything. Soon enough, he was asleep.

Nothing tranquilized men quite like sex.

She managed to pull the canoe all the way down to the launch. Stepping in, she poled it away from the gravel shore with her paddle.

Storm Isle whispered in the night breezes, its forest creaking. She glanced back at it, at its tall firs and spruces, at the woods where Dane’s and Hunter’s cabins were—and then she stroked away.

I’m getting the fuck out of here. Me. Right now.

I’m sorry.
She wasn’t even sure which man she was thinking of.
I’m sorry I’m leaving you. But I have to. Things are too dangerous here.

She paddled off into the black of the night.

Stranded With Shifters

(Alphas of Storm Isle: Part 3)

By Sophie Chevalier

Ginger was stranded.

It was raining—a cold rain. The hood of her jacket was up, but she was still wet and miserable, shivering. Staring out over the water toward the shorelines of other pine-forested islands, she knew it was just a matter of time until the people she was running from found her.

Man plans, God laughs
, she thought moodily.

It had really seemed like she was going to escape.

The squall had come out of nowhere. One minute she had successfully stolen Hunter’s canoe—after lulling him to sleep with sex—and was paddling furiously through the smooth, night-dark water, away from Storm Isle. She’d told herself that if she was determined enough, she could row clear across the Strait of Georgia back to mainland Canada. She’d leave the Gulf Islands—with their bear shifters and clan conflicts—behind. She’d go home.

The next minute, the waves had thickened to a chop, and the rain had started—sharp and icy and furious. Wind had buffeted the little craft and whipped the water into a dangerous, turbulent froth. She’d lost control of the canoe, lost control of everything—she’d lost the paddle, even, and had had to hold on to the gunwale for dear life.

She’d thought she was going to drown. But then the spinning canoe had come to an abrupt, sickening stop, crunched against the steep stone shoulder of some little islet. She’d dragged herself up over the surf-drenched rocks, then through a field of rain-flattened grasses, and finally collapsed under the cover of some yellow cedars. She fell asleep right there in the deer fern.

Now it was morning—a wet, gloomy morning. She was soaked through, stiff, and alone… though not alone for long, she knew.

There was no sign of her canoe on the hard, knobbled breccia shores of the islet’s south side. Its hull must have cracked; it had probably sunken in the night. Morosely, Ginger kicked a loose chunk of rock into the foamy water. Some chittering pipits sounded like they were laughing at her.