Rejected Mate (Feral Shifters 1)

While she slaps my drink together, I take a moment to peruse the wares. Lots of groups here tonight: a few college-age kids looking for a good time; a group of construction workers in dusty boots and Carhartt jackets; a couple tables holding out-of-towners. I can always tell when they aren’t from around here. They have a different smell, for one thing. And they alway

s look confused, like they aren’t clear on how they ended up in the middle of nowhere Montana. This state could swallow you, if you let it.

Barb slides my glass across the smooth, sticky bar in front of me then bustles off to the next customer. She’ll start me a tab. She always does.

I sip my gin and tonic slowly, scanning the room with my best “bored but approachable” look. It’s never let me down before, and this time is no different.

One of the construction workers catches my eye and raises his glass in a toast to me. He’s not exactly a male model, but he’s cute enough. Boots muddy from the worksite, a plaid shirt peeking out from beneath the open khaki jacket. He’s deeply tanned, a little aged from his work in the sun, but his lips are nice.

I raise my glass too, returning his gesture.

He says something to his buddies and grins, then leaves the table to come join me.

“Can’t help but see that you’re all alone,” he drawls, leaning an elbow on the bar between me and the occupied chair beside me.

“Noticed that, did you?” I cock my head, laying on the teasing in my tone. I know the buttons to push. The secret looks to use. The way to pitch my words so that he knows I’m interested.

I came here looking to blow off some steam, and this guy will do just fine.

“Can’t imagine why a woman as beautiful as you would be alone on a night like this,” the man says, his gaze sweeping my face. “What’s your name, sugar?”

Before I can decide whether to give him one of my patented fake names or just play coy, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Goosebumps race over my skin a split second before a cool breeze rushes through the bar from the open door.

I glance over at the newcomer and my heart ceases beating.

He takes up the entire doorway—tall, massive, tattooed, hotter than the Montana sun in August. Everything about him screams danger and sex, from the way his dark hair looks like he’s run his hands through it a few times to the tattoos that climb his neck and arms from beneath his white t-shirt. I can see the shadow of more tattoos beneath the thin cotton and my mouth waters because I want to fucking lick every inch of that hidden skin.

His gaze moves over the crowded bar looking as bored as I feel, and then his eyes lock onto mine.

Thick lashes cradle deep brown eyes with an intense ring of gold around the pupils. I’ve never seen anything like them.

The noise in the bar.

The music.

The laughter.

All of it fades away the moment our eyes meet. Desire unfurls in me just from the way he looks at me, and I press my knees together as my greedy imagination feeds me images of what he might look like naked.

He walks into the bar, and the door slams shut behind him. But the cool breeze doesn’t fade away—it follows him into the room, blowing his scent toward me.

Whiskey and woodsmoke. Jack on the rocks and a campfire and my fingers on his bare skin.

A dull ache starts between my legs, and I throb with every step he takes. His gaze remains locked on mine like he can see right through me, like he can smell my lust, and fuck if I don’t want to bend over the bar and demand he take me right here.

The first guy, the construction worker, is a distant memory. He seems to notice something is up too, because he steps away from the bar, glances between me and the stranger, and cuts out back to his party.

It’s fine, buddy. I wouldn’t want to tangle with a giant, either.

The tattooed stranger takes his time reaching the bar. He steps up beside me and taps my neighbor on the shoulder. The guy sitting on the stool to my right is an older, accountant-looking dude in wire-rimmed glasses, and the poor man takes one look at the sinful Adonis standing behind him and skitters off like a startled cockroach.

Up close, this gorgeous, tattooed hunk of man is almost overwhelming. His whiskey and smoke scent is intoxicating. It covers up the stale beer and fried food scent of the bar until I feel like I’m drowning in his presence.

He’s hardly settled on the stool before Barb shuffles down the bar. “What’ll it be, Rambo?”

The man flashes an amused grin that’s almost feral. “Whiskey. Neat. Top shelf.”

I fight the urge to moan. Fucking hell. A man after my own tastes. He has a deep rumbling voice that sends my desire into overdrive.