Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel
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Authors: Ilia Bera
A SHIFTERS OF THERIA NOVEL
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This book is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious and any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidence.
Published By Honey’s Book Hut
Copyright © 2015 by Ilia Bera
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
NAVIGATOR
To my Honey.
Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.
—SIR WINSTON CHURCHILL
*
A SHIFTERS OF THERIA NOVEL
SLEEPING WITH THE DEVIL
I'm in bed with the biggest asshole in Ilium, his tongue halfway down my throat, and I'm trying to remember why.
The messenger bag next to the bed, the one filled with his money—my money—the money he stole from me. Right, that's why.
He’s a prick—a scummy douchebag. Each word that seeps out from those smirking lips fuels my hatred towards him. His ripped jeans (bought pre-ripped), and his messy, bleached hair don't help his case. Neither does his gold chain, that keeps dangling in my face whenever he takes a break from devouring my lower lip.
I’m not surprised by the clover-pattern on his boxers, nor am I surprised by the saying “Kiss me, I’m Irish!” tattooed where his pubic hair would be if he didn’t shave it off every morning. I bet he’s not even Irish; I bet he's never even been to Ireland.
And tattoos everywhere—those annoying little stick-and-poke tattoos. One of the tattoos says "courage" in big black letters. He doesn’t seem to notice me scoffing.
Courage?
Beating the shit out of someone in a fixed fight is hardly courage. I’ve seen my share of fixed fights before, but that was just pathetic. He only took one hit, early in the first round. And he still managed to whine like a baby about it, wiping the tiny cut on his eyebrow to see if he was still bleeding. He never lost more than a teaspoon of blood. Even now, inches from his face, I can hardly see the little cut. Judging by the smirk on his face, it’s safe to assume he think the cut makes him look badass.
It doesn’t.
I’m surprised he doesn’t have "Hey everyone! Look how tough I am!" tattooed around that big dumb grin on his face—the grin that never seems to go away. Though it left for that one precious moment, when Hannibal Hugo’s knuckles connected with his pretty-boy face.
His bulge grows against my leg—it's big, at least he's got that going for him. Though, given how fake the rest of him is, he might be hiding a prosthetic enhancement.
The smell of his cheap cologne burns my nostrils. Why am in this dirty motel room, again? It’s getting harder to remember. With a quick glance, I make sure his leather messenger bag is still next to the bed. It is.
He thinks he’s so charming, so handsome, so irresistible. I wish I could see the expression on his face tomorrow, when he wakes up to find the money missing. I imagine it will be the same expression he made when he took that blow to the face.
There’s something else on the floor next to the messenger bag. My bra.
My bra?
I thought my bra was on my body, covering my tits. Not anymore. Now, covering my tits are two muscular hands—and I should say, squeezing my tits. How did the sleight bastard reach around and undo my bra without me noticing? Take it from the queen of pickpocketing: that’s not an easy feat.
His bulge hardens and grows against my leg; if it’s a prosthetic, it’s a damned good one.
He bites the corner of his smirking lip and stares down at my chest, still fondling my tits. Since checking in, not once have his eyes met mine. A cold shiver runs down my spine as his hungry glare scans my body. His eyes are void of admiration. It's as if he’s planning his next naked lady tattoo (of which, I’ve already counted four).
“Hot damn, babe,” he says with his bottom lip still curled under his teeth. I still haven’t decided whether his accent is Irish, Yat, or something he’s just making up. At times it almost sounds Australian. Other times, I can’t understand a word he’s saying. “You’ve got a nice set of tits on ya.”
A nice set of tits? How romantic.
He inhales and squeezes, not realizing—or maybe not caring—that his strong grip hurts like hell. The “ouch” that escapes my lips is only a shot of adrenaline, administered straight to his cock; he likes playing rough.
Dark, bold letters tattooed on his fingers spell “Marge” on one hand and “Danny” on the other. Who are Marge and Danny? His mom and dad? Brother and sister? An ex-girlfriend and… him?
Is he Danny?
Holy shit—I don’t even know his name; I never asked. Did he mention it at some point? Maybe when we were sitting at the bar? When that angry guy held him up by the throat? Or when I caught up with him in the street? If he told me, it was probably lost in his incoherent accent.
Whatever his name is, he’s noticed my state of distraction. For once, his gaze is north of my chest, at my eyes.
“Marge and Danny are my parents,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, forcing a smile. “I never asked—”
“—Freddie,” he says before I can finish. “Don’t call me Fred. My full name’s Frederick, but everyone calls me Freddie.”
“Freddie,” I repeat aloud. Something about the name is just too perfect—too obvious, in the worst way possible.
“Fuck, your tits are perfect,” says Freddie before sinking down in one swift motion. His warm breath tickles my breast as his lips lock with my nipple. “Damn,” he mutters.
Does he even know my name? Did he ever ask? Did I ever tell him? Does he care? Of course he doesn’t care—who am I kidding? Tomorrow, he’ll be with some other woman. Why bother to learn my name? His brain is already crowded with more ladies’ names than the Vera Wang waiting list.
The bastard’s sleight of hand gets the better of me, again. Somehow, he’s slid my panties down to my knees and his sly fingers up between my legs. His fingers move with expert rhythm, drawing perfect lines and circles in perfect places. Like a puppeteer, one hand between my legs and the other on my chest, he works my body. It’s working. A warm pleasure flutters through my body.
But he has to go and say, “You could use a shave.” He presses his palm against my pubic bone.
He’d almost managed to make me forget how big of a prick he is.
Almost.
“What?” I say.
“Your hair—down here. It’s gettin’ out of control.”
“No it’s not,” I say. I try to close my legs but he keeps his hand in place. “I shaved the other day.” I may be exaggerating, but it’s been no more than a week. Two at the most. Unlike him, I don’t have time to shave every day.
“This isn’t shaved, darling,” he says with a scoff.
Darling. There’s no word in the dictionary worse than ‘darling.’ That one word is enough to raise the temperature of my blood ten degrees. It’s my biggest pet peeve, up there with the saying, ‘boys will be boys!’ Boys should be gentlemen. Boys should open car doors. Boys should surrender their coats. A boy should pull out my chair at the restaurant. A boys should—I don’t know—know my name before sticking his face between my legs.
Freddie’s tongue slides up and down, tickling my clit at the end of each practiced revolution. He nestles his nose into my apparently out-of-control pubic hair.
I want to take the cheap lamp off of the nightstand and bash him over the head. But I refrain for two reasons: one, I don’t want to go to jail for murdering the prick; and two, he may be the biggest douchebag in Ilium, but he knows how to use his tongue.
My boiling rage finally settles and my head sinks into the lumpy motel pillow.
Shit.
His tongue feels incredible. Every skilled flick and stroke sinks me lower into the bed, making me feel lighter, weightless.
“Faster,” I hear myself demand. Did I just say that aloud?
His laughter is muffled between my legs. Something about what I said amused him. And something about his laughter kills the mood. I can suddenly feel the mattress springs digging into my back, and a cold draft seeping in through the motel window.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
“You’re funny,” he says between the strokes of his tongue.
“Why?”
“You’re easy.”
“What? No I’m not.”
“You sure you’re not?” he says with another laugh. “If you were any wetter, I’d need scuba gear down ‘ere.”
My boiling rage is back.
He laughs and continues, ignoring the steam rising from my ears. That little bedside lamp is calling my name.
His tattooed fingers clench the sides of my butt cheeks and his tongue sinks inside of me. Fuck, it feels good. I grab the bed sheets and clench tight, holding back my moan’s urge to escape. I can’t let Freddie have the satisfaction. I’m not easy. I’m not some flimsy whore.
“Shit,” I mutter. I hope he didn’t hear it.
I can hear his muffled laughter again. The more I try and hold back, the harder it becomes. My limbs begin disconnecting from my brain. I’m losing control over myself.
C’mon, Olivia—don’t let him take you this easily.
I bite my lip and count out the length of each breath. The attempt to control my breathing only makes my spiralling euphoria more obvious. I finally get my moment of relief when Freddie leans back to wipe his face.
“I’ve never seen a pussy get this wet.”
The image of Freddie, splashing water on his face after his fight, enters my mind. I look down and notice him looking at me—his eyes sitting just above my pelvic horizon. Eyes locked on mine, he continues to stroke my pussy with his well-trained tongue, as if he’s waiting for a response to a question he never asked.
“What?” I ask between forced, controlled breaths.
I can’t see his big dumb grin, but I swear I can feel it. “Wanna suck my dick?” he asks.
I want to say, fuck you and fuck the money. You can keep it. I want to storm out of the little motel room and never look back. If I leave, I would at least leave with my pride.
But I don’t leave.
“Yes,” I say instead. Even my mouth isn’t listening to my brain anymore.
