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Spring Wind [Seasonal Winds Book 1]
by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Category: Erotica/Erotic Romance/Romance
Description: In a futuristic society where werewolves are the law enforcers, naïve Bailey MacKenna has run up against the biggest, baddest, burliest wolf in the pack. Sweet body trembling beneath Crevan Byrne's knowing touch, Bailey finds herself a prisoner not only of his muscular arms but his overwhelming seductive powers. Staring into amber eyes hot with uncontrollable desire, she is soon lost to the dictates of her own heart and Crevan's rock-hard body. Rating: Contains explicit sexual content and graphic language.
eBook Publisher: New Concepts Publishing, 2006
eBookwise Release Date: April 2006

eBookeBook

474 Reader Ratings:
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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [62 KB]
Words: 14188
Reading time: 40-56 min.


Chapter One

"Fucking cops," Striker grumbled as he increased his footsteps. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his scrub pants and his shoulders were hunched defensively. A scowl drew his features taut, making his eyes appear smaller than normal.

"Just keep walking," the woman at his side said in a low voice. "Don't give them any reason to suspect us."

"I hate fucking cops," Striker stated.

"Well, none of my best friends are cops, either," Bailey MacKenna said. She gave Striker a quick glance. "You look guilty, Nate. At least wipe that expression off your face."

Making an attempt to relax, Striker carefully watched the two policemen strolling along the sidewalk across the avenue. So far, neither of them had looked Striker's way. In his position as diener--the person responsible for handling, moving, and cleaning the bodies at the morgue--he rarely came into contact with the authorities and he wanted to keep it that way. He especially disliked the Portal Patrols who maintained the exits points on Vardar-7.

"Uh, oh," Bailey MacKenna whispered.

Striker looked to where she was staring and felt the blood drain from his face. "I knew it," he said. "I knew we were going to get caught." He lowered his voice. "I told you we were going to get caught!"

The tall man walking toward the policemen wore the dreaded steel gray uniform of the Modartha, the ultra-secret police responsible for the Slándáil Phoiblí, the National Security. The people of her world were terrified of the Modartha for the elite law enforcement officers were not only deadly assassins but during full moons, changed into gray wolves--the most dangerous of their kind.

"We're going to hang," Striker said with a moan. "Sure as shit, we're going to hang."

"Shut the hell up, Nate!" Bailey said. So far the Modartha agent had not looked their way. He had stopped to speak to the policemen who appeared as rattled by his appearance as did Striker.

"We're going to end up in the Doinsiún hanging by our thumbs," Striker muttered.

"We're not going to the Dungeon," Bailey hissed at him. "We've done nothing wrong."

"You don't think providing aid to the Resistance is doing anything wrong?" Striker demanded. "Bailey, if we are caught, we'll be jailed and I've no desire to be some bull's cow!"

Bailey rolled her eyes. "We haven't been aiding the Resistance and we haven't done anything to warrant being sent to the Dungeon. We've simply been attending their secret rallies just as hundreds of other people have. If every curious citizen was jailed, there wouldn't be anyone left to do their everyday jobs. There is nothing with which the Modartha could charge us."

"Not yet," Striker reminded her. "You know what they say about curiosity and the cat."

It was at that moment the Modartha agent turned his head and looked right at Bailey. She could feel her stomach do an odd little flip and she drew in a breath. Quickly, she looked away from his probing stare, lowering her head with the proper respect one showed a man of his position.

"Oh, Sweet Morrigunia, Bailey," Striker whimpered. "He's crossing the street and coming straight at us."

"Keep walking," Bailey told him. Sweat was gathering in her palms, her heart was thundering--blood pounding--and a cold finger of dread was scratching down her spine.

"Halt!"

Immediately both Bailey and Striker did as they were ordered. They stood stock still, waiting for the Modartha to reach them. With heads down, eyes on the sidewalk, they assumed the required position of hands clasped behind their backs in an attitude of subservience.

"Identify yourselves," the Modartha demanded. He came to stand directly behind Bailey and it was she who spoke first, the senior of the two.

"Cróinéir Second Class Bailey MacKenna, Milord," she said.

"Diener Class Nathan Striker, Milord," Striker replied.

"A coroner," the Modartha said with a snort. "Not a typical feminine occupation."

Bailey said nothing for she'd not been asked a direct question.

"Do you enjoy playing with dead things, wench?" he queried.

"It is my job, Milord," she answered.

"Assigned?"

"Yes, Milord." She drew in a breath for he was so close to her she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck and his body warmth radiating toward hers.

"Don't you like playing with live men?"

She didn't know how to answer that. Her knees felt as though they would give out beneath her at any moment and she was trembling violently beneath his scrutiny.

"Do you prefer playing with live women, then?"

Bailey closed her eyes. "No, Milord. I am not of that bent."

His voice was low, a sultry caress but steel-hard as she felt his lips against the column of her neck. His body made contact with hers. "Step into the alley, wench," he ordered her. He gave Striker a nasty look. "You stay right where you are, diener."

Striker was trembling too, but he managed to bob his head. "Yes, M ... milord," he stammered. He was breathing heavily and perspiring copiously with sweat glistening on his pale face. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he sensed Bailey moving away from him.

Terrified of the man behind her, Bailey walked the few feet into the shadowy alleyway that ran between two tall buildings. She stopped.

"I didn't tell you to stop, wench. Keep walking," he told her in a gruff voice.

Her mouth dry and her palms slick, she continued deeper into the alleyway until he bid her stop.

"Turn and face the wall," he said.

Bailey faced the wall.

"Put your hands above your head--palms flat to the stone, fingers spread--then lean into the wall."

She obeyed him, wincing at the cold and slimy feel of the wall.

"Spread your legs."

Her bottom lip trembling, she did as he ordered and when she felt his hands on her hips she flinched. He used his foot to move her legs further apart, his fingers tightening on her hips then put his right foot in front of hers making ankle-to-ankle contact.

Standing so his chest touched her back, he put his hands over her hands and ran his fingers between hers. His palms were dry and warm as they slowly moved down the backs of her hands and onto her wrists. He encircled those wrists for a moment then released them, dragging his palms down her forearms, over the insides of her elbows, along her upper arms then turned his hands so his fingers dipped into her armpits. He did not just pat the material covering her, he crushed it so she felt his fingers exploring under her arm.

"You're sweating," he said quietly. "I wonder why?"

His hands slid slowly down her sides then moved toward one another at her waist. The sides of his thumbs grazed the undersides of her breasts with just enough force to draw the globes together and lift them. When the base of each of his hands pivoted on her lower chest and his hands turned, she knew he was about to cup her. She bit her lip to keep from making a sound. With his palms hefting her flesh, he moved his hands back and forth under her breasts several times--his thumbs not touching her. He squeezed her breasts together--held them that way for a moment or two--then ran his thumbs down her nipples.

"Oh," Bailey said, unable to keep the groan from escaping.

"You like that, wench?" he whispered, his lips at her ear. He pushed against her and she felt the hard bulge at the front of his uniform trousers.

"Milord, please," she said, tears forming.

Through the thin material of her red government-issued thigh-high gown, he rolled her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, grinding his erection across her buttocks.

"Do you know what they do to prime sweetness like you at the Doinsiún, wench?" he asked and clamped his teeth onto her earlobe.

Bailey shuddered and sucked in a startled breath.

"Every man there gets a good, long taste of the women brought to that hellish place." He swirled his tongue into the spiral of her ear. "A good ... long ... taste that can last for hours."

Tears were sliding down Bailey's cheeks.

He pinched her nipples just hard enough to make her cry out then slid his hands down over her abdomen and ran them down her hips. He hunkered down behind her to move his palms down the outsides of her legs. Bringing his left hand to join his right, he hooked his hands around her ankle then slowly brought them up her leg.

Bailey tensed, knowing he was going to touch her intimately, shamefully, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood but he stopped just short of the junction between her legs and moved his hands to her other leg to repeat the procedure. His hands were warm and calloused as he dragged them along her flesh. As he once again neared her privates, he stopped with his hands circling her upper thigh. She could feel him looking up at her.

"Right now, there are thirty-seven men incarcerated at the Doinsiún," he told her then released her thigh. He stood up and put his hands to her hips again. "Those aren't good odds for a soft piece of fluff like you."

The moment his hands cupped her ass, Bailey quivered from head to toe. He was kneading her, crushing her flesh in his strong hands.

"You know what those men do when they get a fresh piece of cunt, wench?" he purred into her ear. He tugged up the skirt of her short gown and insinuated his fingers into the leg band of her panties. "They fuck them until they can't walk."

He touched her and Bailey thought she would scream. No man had ever touched her there and his fingers were sliding over her folds, swirling into the pubic curls, grazing something that made her jump.

"Are you virgin, little coroner?" he whispered.

"Yes," she said. Her voice broke and she whimpered.

"Then they would hurt you badly," he said. "They would thrust into you..."

His fingers slid into her so quickly, so unexpectedly she jerked against him and tried to break away, but he pushed forward, jamming his body into hers to press her tightly to the wall. He went deep inside her, his fingers twisting gently but insistently. "They'll fall on you like a hoard of ravaging dogs, baby," he said, his voice gruff and hard. "Your sweet little body will tear beneath that assault." He moved his fingers in and out of her. "They'll thrust and thrust and..." He slid a finger into her anus. "Stop!" she pleaded. "Please don't do this!"

His tone turned harder still. "Do you think they'll listen to you when you beg them to stop, Bailey?" he snarled. "You'd be down on that dirty floor with your arms and legs spread wide while man after man after man falls on you and stabs his dirty, diseased cock inside you."

"Please," she whined.

He pushed as deep into her as his finger would go. "And if you survive the fucking that night, the chances are good you might survive the next night and the next but then again, you might not."

Bailey was gasping for breath and when he snatched his finger out of her, she thought he was finished but he touched something else between her legs, plucked at something there that made her knees go weak and caused her womb to flutter.

"You won't like the Dungeon, baby," he said, worrying that part of her that was doing strange things to her insides. "By the gods you are wet! I could fuck you right here."

It was that last comment that snapped her eyes open and she twisted violently in his arms, bringing her hands up to rake his face but he moved quicker than she could have anticipated and she was slammed back against the wall, his knee wedged painfully and tightly between her thighs.

"Please, Milord, let go of me!" she said, her eyes wild now and her lips skinned back from her clenched teeth.

His body was crushing hers, his hands on her wrists as he pinned her arms above her head. The slow, merciless smile that tugged at his lips sent waves of fury through Bailey but she stamped down on that anger, knowing he could--and most likely would--hurt her badly if she fought him.

"Stay away from the shapeshifter Kona Doyle, little coroner," he said, staring into her eyes. "If you don't, you'll wind up having your sweet little cunt and your virginal little asshole stretched by men a lot less gentle than me."

He released her wrists and moved back. With one upward flick of his dark left eyebrow, he pivoted on his heel and walked casually out of the alley.

Bailey slid to the wet pavement in a heap and buried her face in her hands, sobbing hysterically. She barely felt Striker's arm around her and only dimly heard his soothing words as he tried to comfort her.


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