Rejected Mate (Feral Shifters 1)

“In a sense,” I hedge. I want to fuck the guy, not give him my backstory. So I redirect the conversation. “What brings you to town?”

“Business,” Kian says, his eyes flashing. One corner of his lips turns up. “And a little adventure.”

A deaf and blind woman would have gotten the hint. I lean into him, pressing my breasts against his arm as I whisper, “I’m always up for adventure.”

Another waft of his whiskey and woodsmoke scent swirls around me. I want to roll around in that smell and mark my body with him. It’s an odd reaction—I’ve never wanted to mark myself with a sexual partner’s scent before. It’s a very… wolfish response.

Could Kian be a shifter? It might explain why I was ready to climb his body to the highest peaks the second he walked in here.

Maybe. I’m not the best at picking up hints when someone is an expert at hiding their true nature.

His gold-rimmed gaze searches my face for a long moment. He slides an arm around my waist, and his fingers on my back are searing, even through the fabric. With his other hand, he dips a finger in his drink. Then he presses his wet finger to my collarbone and begins to trace a path down my skin.

“Baby, I’m starting to think you’re more adventure than I know how to handle,” he says,

his voice thick and his eyes hooded.

My heart rate kicks up a notch as his finger crests over the swell of my breast. I’m drowning in whiskey—the scent of him and the scent of the alcohol wetting my skin, both meshing with devastating consequences. I watch his finger as it slides over the top of my dress. We’re both watching it, and I know he can see the way my nipples are straining against the thin fabric. His thumb brushes over one pebble. I shudder like he’s slipped his fingers inside me.

A crowd of twenty-somethings starts cheering across the room, snapping us both out of our private moment. I glance over to see they’re egging on a guy who’s chugging a thirty-two ounce beer, and wrap my hands around my glass to anchor myself.

I’m shaking with need. Holy fuck. I’ve never felt like this before.

Kian drains his whiskey and holds up a finger to get Barb’s attention. “Another round.”

A third drink is the last thing I want, but considering I just lost myself enough to let a man fondle me in public, maybe it’s what I need. Barb makes my drink first, and it gives me something to do with my mouth while I watch Kian. I didn’t notice at first, but he has a scar above his right eye that cuts through his thick eyebrow. It adds to his devil-may-care allure.

“How’d you get the scar?” I ask, motioning to his eyebrow with my glass.

Barb gives Kian his drink, and he takes a sip before he answers. “Got it during a hunt.”

Ah. Shifter confirmed.

He wouldn’t have outed himself if he thought I was human, which means he’s already guessed right about me.

“I almost took a hoof to the face during a hunt tonight,” I tell him, then immediately flush.

I have no idea what made me say that. Maybe because for the first time ever, I’m sitting with a male shifter I didn’t grow up with, and I already feel a deep connection to him. I want to connect more.

But could I have picked a more embarrassing story if I tried? Shit.

Kian chuckles. “Been there, done that.”

The sound of his laugh is as smooth as the whiskey in his glass. It pours through me like a drug, making my fingers tingle with the need to touch him and feel that sound inside my body.

Feel him inside me.

I lift my gin and tonic to take another drink and realize the glass is empty. Again. I barely remember drinking it, but the alcohol buzzes through my veins, reminding me it's there. I’m not drunk—shifter metabolism is a little too strong for that. But it’s enough of a buzz to heighten all my senses and deepen my arousal.

There’s not a chance in hell he can’t smell how much I want him.

Kian cuts his gaze to my empty glass. “Do you want another?”

No. I want you.

Instead of answering with words, I set my glass down decisively and slide off my stool. We lock gazes again, and I hold there for a moment before I walk away toward the back of the bar.

I don’t need to look back to know he’s following me.