Page 13
Author: J. D. Tyler
And that was just one of the many obstacles he faced by simply glancing in Rowan's direction. No mate of his would be allowed to place herself in jeopardy for others. Not that he wanted a mate because he didn't.
There. Issue solved.
A pathetic whine came from deep within his wolf's soul and he scowled, pushing himself off the bed. He didn't need this shit. He was in control, not the beast with its pathetic urges.
Which was why, gown flapping against his naked ass, he strode directly to Micah's room and checked to see if Rowan was inside. She wasn't, and his anxiety level rose another notch. Where was she? Why hadn't she come by to see him today? Okay, she didn't know him. But it would've been nice, since he had saved her pretty butt.
Taking a few seconds to make sure Micah was resting peacefully, he turned and stalked through the halls of the infirmary. Instantly, Noah blocked his path, eyes wide.
"Wait! Where are you going? You have to get back in bed!"
"If I get in bed it's gonna be my own. I'm leaving, which I would've told you in person if you'd bothered to answer the damned buzzer. "
The nurse frowned. "I was busy taking care of Mr. Chase. You can't go or Dr. Mallory is going to chew my ass. "
"Then she'll need a lot of salt. "
"Huh?"
"Move out of the way, squirt. "
"No. You can't-"
"Move, now. " Annoyed, Aric let his wolf loose, just a little. Enough to allow a partial change into half-man, half-wolf form. A sight he knew for a fact was scary as hell by the way the guy screeched and jumped aside, hand over his heart.
Much better. Stalking off, he let himself return to normal-if there was such a thing-and headed into one of the main hallways leading to the living quarters. God, he couldn't wait to take a shower. That was the first order of business after weeks of captivity and being forced to endure his own filth. The nurses had shaved him and given him a sponge bath, but that couldn't compare with the real thing.
Thankfully, he didn't encounter anyone and reached his door without incident or argument. Standing outside the door to his quarters, however, he had a bad moment when he realized he'd been gone so long, had endured so much, he couldn't quite recall the security code to get inside.
Such a simple, mundane action. One he wouldn't take for granted again.
Reaching out, he let his fingers trace over the keypad. After a couple of incorrect entries, the sequence came back to him and he was inside, breathing deeply and looking around.
The apartment wasn't the same as he'd left it-the place was spotless. He was sure there'd been newspapers, beer bottles, food wrappers, and a few issues of Big Tits-N-Asses scattered everywhere. He could've sworn he was in the wrong place, except the code worked.
Every surface gleamed and the scent of lemon polish hung in the air. The counter separating the bar from the kitchen had been straightened up and cleaned, and so had the counters in the kitchen itself.
Moving into the kitchen, he inspected the fridge. The milk inside, as well as sandwich meat and an assortment of condiments, was fresh. There was a covered casserole dish, too, and he suspected one of the women had baked it for his return.
And yeah, there must be lint in his eyes. He sniffed and cursed simultaneously, glad nobody was here to witness his homecoming. Closing the fridge, he turned and padded toward the bedroom, stripping off the awful gown as he went. He tossed the thing on the floor and made a beeline straight for the shower.
His bathroom sparkled as well, and he winced, thinking of the layer of grunge his friends must've tackled to help him out. He turned on the water, gave it a minute to heat, and then stepped inside into heaven.
Hot streams of water sluiced over the top of his head, wet his hair, and ran down his body. Massaged tired, abused muscles. He groaned in sheer bliss and stood under the spray for several minutes, and it hit him that he hadn't even realized until that moment how bone-cold he'd been.
After shampooing his hair twice, he squeezed some men's shower gel into his palm, sudsing his face, neck, chest, stomach. Legs and feet. He saved the glory trail for last, following it down between his thighs to soap his balls.
"Ahhh, yes. "
Too goddamned long. Felt so freakin' good to rub the slippery suds along his sac, roll them around. Thank God his balls weren't sore anymore. His cock took interest in playtime, lengthening to curve toward his belly and beg for attention. He took his sweet time, washing his balls, rinsing. Then he poured a generous amount of the liquid soap-unarguably the greatest invention ever-along his cock and took the eager member in hand.
Hissing, he gripped his shaft tighter, shivering at the pleasure flowing through his belly. He began to pump, down to the tight sac, up again to the plump head, flushed purple with need. Good, but. . .
The intensity was missing. The Oh, my God factor that made him strain to hold back from coming and sent waves of fire through his body. Concentrating, he fisted himself almost brutally, reaching for the pinnacle that remained elusive.
To his complete astonishment, his erection began to wilt.
"What the-? No fucking way!"
Leaning against the tiled wall, he gaped at his flagging dick, trying to imagine what had gone wrong. He and the rest of the Pack had the highest libidos he'd ever seen and required release on a regular basis-something they took care of with occasional trips to Las Vegas. Aric had been denied any sort of sexual contact-well, he wasn't about to jack himself in front of his stepsister or her cohorts even if he'd been able-so he should've been ready to blow the second he touched himself.
This was so not right. Thinking hard, he called to mind the last whore he'd fucked in Sin City. Problem was, she wasn't all that memorable, though he'd been in ecstasy at the time. No, only one woman interested him in the least. A gross understatement.
Rowan's face, her tall, strong body and luscious ass, invaded his mind. Arousal slammed into his gut like a sledgehammer and his cock stiffened instantly. A growl of satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he began to stroke himself, fantasizing that she was here with him. As eager to taste him as he was to slide the head between her lips. Deeper, inching all of his meat down her slender throat.
"Oh, fuck. "
That's what he'd do. Fuck that lush mouth of hers, slow and easy. Grip her thick sable hair, guide himself in and out, increasing the pace until he was giving all she could take. Fast and furious as she slurped him down.
"Shit, yes!"
His balls drew up, ribbons of electricity zinging through his groin, his thighs. Orgasm bore down on him like a freight train and his cock erupted, creamy streams of come arching into the spray of water to swirl down the drain. Shuddering, he milked the last of it and slumped.
Lord, he was tired. The exhaustion from his ordeal, followed by a refreshing shower and a great orgasm, left him hardly able to stand. Quickly, he finished and got out, drying off and toweling his long hair to get out all the moisture he could.
He fished under the sink for the blow dryer, took a brush, and went to work on getting out weeks' worth of tangles. Maybe someday he'd just hack all of it off short. He liked his long hair-and so did the women, they said-but taking care of it was a bitch. He had to blow it dry because he hated sleeping with wet hair.
As he did, he winced at his reflection in the mirror. He'd lost weight; no surprise there. His chest still sported a few bruises, but he wondered about his back since he'd yet to look. Once the long mass was reasonably dry, he put away the dryer and, taking a deep breath, turned his back to the mirror. Moving his hair out of the way, he peered over his shoulder and studied his reflection-and cursed.
His skin looked like a fucking road map.
Angry, puckered pink lines crisscrossed the entire area from his shoulder blades to his ass. The silver barbs in Beryl's favorite whip had performed just the way she'd known they would on a shifter, taking twice as lon
g to heal and leaving terrible scars when a regular whip wouldn't have.
He would be carrying these reminders of captivity for the rest of his life. However long, or short, that might be. If it took his last breath, he'd find a way to make Beryl, Chappell, and whoever was calling the shots suffer. Scream as he'd done.
As he walked out of the bathroom, a wave of dizziness nearly toppled him. He braced himself with one hand on the wall until the rocking stopped, and suddenly hoped he could make it to the bed. He was that tired.
Lurching the last few feet, he fell onto the mattress and let his body sink into the softness. He didn't have the energy to pull back the covers, but didn't care. He was home. His eyes drifted shut and his last thought was that it was kind of warm in the room.
And then sleep claimed him, and he no longer cared about that, either.
Aric knew he was dreaming.
Dreams were like that sometimes. The subconscious mind knew you were in bed, cozy and slumbering away, but the spirit was willing to go along and see where the adventure led.
His inner twenty-one-year-old loved Las Vegas. Had ever since he'd become legal and had first set foot in the city, a lifetime ago, it seemed. He'd never forget the lights at night, the city in constant motion, strangely alluring, like a gaudy lady getting a bit older, wearing too much makeup and jewelry, laughing a little too loud. Yet when she beckoned, a young man couldn't help but follow.
It made perfect sense that he found himself standing on the street downtown, gazing at the light show on the awning overhead. Crowds of people bustled in and out of Fitzgeralds, the Golden Nugget, the Horseshoe, and Union Plaza. Others strolled toward the main drag, on their way to hop buses to the Strip, to partake of shows or other pleasures.
Aric knew what sort of pleasures he sought-and they didn't involve gambling away his hard-earned cash or going to one of the adult shows. Not when he could participate in a private show of his own.
He started walking, thinking maybe he'd grab one of the flyers from the newspaper box that didn't really contain news at all but ads outlining the various escort establishments and the experienced women a man could find there. His wolf, however, growled in anger at the idea.
What the hell? It's my dream, damn it! I can do what or who I please.
Determined to ignore his furry counterpart, he reached for the handle on one of the stands.
"Will you find what you're looking for in there?"
Straightening at the familiar voice, he turned and blinked at Rowan. She stood a few feet away, wearing a pair of snug brown leather pants and a cropped black top that showed a tantalizing slice of her tanned abs. Shiny, rich brown hair tumbled around her shoulders and her bold mouth and cheekbones were accented with a hint of makeup. Truthfully, she didn't need any, but the total effect had his cock hardening in his jeans.
The woman was stunning.
"I'd thought so," he replied, stepping closer. "But now I have serious doubts. "
"Because I showed up?" Her tone was amused, teasing.
"Why did you? How are you here, with me?"
Her expression became thoughtful. "I don't know. I wasn't looking for you. "
"Then who?"
"Micah. I'd hoped to find him in our dreams, like we used to do as kids. I wanted to reach out to him, try to bring him back. " She frowned. "I tried so hard, but it didn't work. "
"Did Nick tell you everything?"
"About all of you, what the team does, and Micah's gift, yes. "
"Are you a Dreamwalker, too?" The idea fascinated him.
"I don't know. " She regarded him with hope. "If you and I both remember this dream, then maybe I am. I could still reach him. "
"I hope so," he said sincerely. "But I'm sure he'll start making progress soon. The doctors at the compound are the best. "
"Thanks. "
He gestured to her eye-catching outfit. "If you weren't expecting to find me, what's with the leather? Assuming that's not the way you'd dress to meet your brother. "