Title: She Wolf
Author: Elizabeth Morgan
Series: Blood Series (Prequel)
Genre: Paranormal/Erotic Romance
Publisher: Self Published
Release Date: Aug 25 2014
Edition/Formats It Will Be Available In: eBook & Print
Blurb/Synopsis:
Dealing with the Rogue Werewolves terrorizing his Pack?
Simple.
Trying to convince his mate he does want to be with her?
Bloody impossible.
Owen MacLaren is the Alpha's son and the Pack's second, and
he has never been one to let anything get to him. So when a bunch of Rogues
begin purposely dumping mutilated bodies around the Pack Keep, he is more than
ready to deal with the Werewolves responsible.
But one night off and a trip to a local strip joint for a
colleague's stag night changes things, and Owen soon discovers he isn't immune
to everything . . . .
Being an independent Loup and travelling the world? Easy.
Having to come home and face the Werewolf who broke her
young heart? Challenging.
After five years away, Clare Walker finds herself back home
in Scotland, working in a strip club. The tips are decent, and she gets to
dance, but it isn't a place she thought she would ever be, let alone Owen, her
Pack second and the mate she has always desired.
Although Owen is determined to prove he wants to be with Clare,
things can't go smoothly between them, not when they have past issues to sort
out and a bunch of unusual 'Rogues' to deal with.
****CONTENT WARNING****
This title contains
explicit language, violence, and graphic sex. Not suitable for anyone under the
age of 18.
Excerpt
The red velvet curtains parted and the verse
started. A black iron chair slid along the stage and then stopped, perfectly in
the middle. The female strolled out of the shadows, one long leg in front of
the other, smoking her cigarette. She wore a large black hoodie, dark denim hot
pants, and black leather knee-high boots.
The
prickling sensation sharpened along my spine, causing me to shiver.
“Weird
fucking costume for a stripper,” Martin said.
Her long
black hair hung back in a high ponytail. Black and silver eye shadow framed her
eyes, the blended shades bold against her smooth, pale skin.
Smoke
rolled along the stage as she stopped before the chair. At the sound of the
singer’s voice, she flicked her cigarette to the side and stretched both her
arms above her head. She then bent forward until she pressed her hands flat on
the stage.
“What is
this shit? Bloody keep fit?” Martin grunted.
“Take your
fucking clothes off,” Karl shouted.
She pulled
herself up slowly, and as the bass guitar kicked in, her body swayed to the
right and she fell straight into a spin, which seemed to last forever.
“Looks like
the stripper knows ballet,” Robert said.
“Fuck the
stripper.” Luke laughed. “How d’ya know that’s ballet she’s doing?”
“My little
sister has studied it for years,” Robert said, his focus glued to the stage.
The woman
dropped into splits. After a moment, she brought around her right leg from
behind to join her left, and then fell backward. She pushed herself off the
floor, then jumped up and landed on her feet. A wicked grin curled the corners
of her mouth as she rolled down the zip of her hoodie, exposing inch by inch of
creamy, pale flesh.
The
familiar sweet scent touched my nose once more, growing more potent with each
second, battling against the other smells to stand apart. With a deep breath, I dragged the stuffy air
of the club deep into my lungs, cancelling out each odour until all that
remained was the aroma of . . . flowers? Not the sickly fragrance of floral
perfume, but actual flowers.
Her hips
began to sway as she shrugged off the hoodie and let it fall. The curve of her
waist, and the sight of her supple breasts in her black lace bra, made my mouth
dry. I knocked back the rest of my beer, hoping like hell it would help my
sudden thirst.
The pale
blue light caught the shimmer of her glitter-dusted skin as she brought up her
right arm and then placed her hand behind her head.
Sizzling
heat spread through my entire body as the distinct taste of wild flowers and
sea salt exploded on my tongue. The bittersweet mixture filled me, conjuring
images of the meadows bordering my father’s manor; of a young girl laughing as
I chased her across the grounds, the scent of the sea wafting from her blonde
hair.
My Wolf
groaned. My blood heated.
“Great
breasts,” Luke said.
“That’s
what I’m fucking talking about.” Karl leaned forward and banged his fists on
the table. He threw back his head and howled. Any other moment, I would have
found such a reaction hilarious, but I couldn’t pull my focus from the woman on
the stage; couldn’t move due to the heavy beat of my heart banging against my
ribcage. I knew that scent, would know it anywhere.
She made a
slow turn as she loosened her ponytail and shook her head. Her hair streamed
down her back like a glossy black waterfall. She finished her spin, then her
focus landed on me, and the air caught in my throat.
Clare.
Clare Walker. I’d know those moonlit eyes anywhere.
What in God’s name is she doing working in a
fucking strip club?
Straightening,
I tensed as my wolf skimmed the surface. My energy pulsed as his focus zoned in
on her. A moment was all it took. My Wolf settled. Satisfaction hummed through
me. Acceptance.
What the fuck?
Her jaw
tensed, chin tilted up as she stared us both down for a single moment, before
she ran and grabbed hold of the stage pole on the right. Her feet left the
floor as she wrapped her legs around the brass and spun.
I let out
the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, but the tension didn’t drain
from my body.
Her feet
hit the floor, the pole between her perfect thighs. She pulled herself upwards,
rubbing herself against the warm metal.
Every drop
of blood in my body headed south.
She swung
round and pressed her back against the pole. Her hands travelled down her
breasts, then her stomach, to stop at the waist of her hot pants.
My jeans suddenly felt too tight, and the
sound of my heartbeat drowned out the loud music.
She slid
her hot pants down her thighs and . . . .
The neck of
the beer bottle broke in my hands.
“You okay?”
Robert looked at the bottle.
I let my
gaze slip down to the broken glass and grunted. “Oops.”
Throwing
the shards on the table, my attention turned back to Clare. She crouched before
a group of men pushed up against the stage. Fire licked through me at the sight
of them slipping notes into her cleavage and the band of her knickers, their
fingers skimming her milky flesh. The sight caused a strangled snarl to break
from my throat.
Easy boy, this is Clare. It’s just Clare.
My Wolf
began to pace, hackles rising, the urge to beat the shit out of them and
protect her overwhelming me. No man had any right to touch her. I didn’t want
any other man to touch her, let alone look at her, and the sudden realization
scared the hell out of me.
She stood
and danced away from them. Every move she made was graceful; each step seemed
to have a meaning. Touched by the fake moonlight, her body shimmered with sweat
and sparkling body dust. She looked exotic, feral. She was Loup-garou. She was mine.
No. Not mine. She’s not mine.
It’s fucking Clare, for Christ’s sake!
That simple
fact didn’t stop the images filling my mind—images of her writhing across the
damp earth of the forest floor, the light of the moon bathing her pale flesh.
I’d explore every curve and crevice with my fingers and tongue until she begged
me to mark her. Claim her.
Those wants
alone had me hard as a rock, and on the border of having a panic attack.
Fuck, this is bad. Margaret Thatcher dancing
naked in the rain. Margaret Thatcher dancing naked in the rain . . . .
Hiding my hands under the table, I pulled the
small shard of glass from my right palm, ignoring the tingle of my flesh
pulling together and closing the small wound.
Five years
since I had last seen her. She’d been nineteen and preparing to go to London to
live with her mother while she studied dance at university. By the look of her
body, she had studied damn hard.
My fingers
sank into my thighs as she curled around the left brass pole.
Last time I
had seen her, she wore dungarees she could hardly fill. Now, her body looked
athletic, but she had more curves than a damn racetrack.
She turned
her back to the audience. My focus slipped to the four, tattooed paw prints
climbing up her right hip. I couldn’t stop the smile forming on my lips, nor
stop the thought of tracing those delicate designs with my tongue.
She stepped
up on the chair and spun again.
“I think
I’ve found my lap dancer.” Karl’s words came out slurred.
The urge to
punch his head through the wall rushed through me.
Clare
dropped onto the chair. Her knees spread wide, showing the audience the soft
junction of her milky thighs.
I swallowed
the groan lodged in my throat. The zip of my jeans was two seconds away from
splitting.
Applause
roared throughout the room as she struck her final pose and the music ended. Tension
wound through my entire body, and I had to fight to stay in my chair as a
string of crude comments left the mouths of the majority of men around me.
She grabbed
her clothes and made her way off stage. The hypnotic sway of her hips, and the
sight of her perky arse sitting in those lace panties, struck as painfully
uncomfortable. The blood in my veins burned; the tension in my muscles pulsed.
She
disappeared from view.
What was
this insane, ecstatic joy that she hadn’t removed her underwear in front of
these perverted bastards about? All I knew was that if she had, I would have
had to kill everyone.
Not good, Owen.
The sweet
smell of her sweat had mixed with her natural aroma which now seemed to cling
to my nostrils, teasing me. I wanted to find her, rip those knickers off her
with my teeth, and bury my head between her thighs until she came apart on my
tongue.
Not fucking good at all.
Deep
breath. What I needed to do was calm the fuck down and then talk to her. And I
really needed to talk to her. This was
Clare, for fuck’s sake. I had watched her grow up. This was wrong. So fucking
wrong.
The metal
frame of the chair dented under the pressure of my fingertips as the others
continued to talk about her.
What the
fuck was she doing here, anyway? Taking her clothes off and dancing in a shitty
strip joint?
She was
supposed to be performing on cruise ships. In clothing.
Her life is not my business. It’s not my
business. At least it wasn’t, until now.
“So, Owen,
you having a lap dance or-or not?” Karl burped, then knocked down the rest of
his beer “Going to be a bit fuck-king boring sitting ‘ere on your own. Maybe we
can find you a nice blonde.”
Fuck it! I needed to speak to her.
Places to find: She-Wolf by Elizabeth Morgan
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Smashwords
Elizabeth Morgan is a
multi-published author of urban fantasy, paranormal, erotic horror, f/f, and
contemporary; all with a degree of romance, a dose of action and a hit of
sarcasm, sizzle or blood, but you can be sure that no matter what the genre,
Elizabeth always manages to give a unique and often humorous spin to her stories.
Like her tagline says; A pick ‘n’ mix genre author. “I’m not
greedy. I just like variety.”
And that she does, author of erotic ménage horror, Creak,
paranormal erotic horror and UK, US & Australian Amazon best seller
(Gay/Lesbian, Fiction), On the Rocks, erotic romance, US, UK & Spanish
Amazon bestseller (Erotica Short Story) Truth or Dare? And sweet contemporary
romance, UK & US Amazon bestseller (British/Drama & Plays) Stepping
Stones.
She also has her hand in self-publishing. Look out for more
information on her upcoming releases at her website: www.e-morgan.com
Away from the computer, Elizabeth can be found in the garden
trying hard not to kill her plants, dancing around her little cottage with the
radio on while she cleans, watching movies or good television programmes – Dr
Who? Atlantis? The Musketeers? Heck, yes! – Or curled up with her two cats
reading a book.
For more information on
Elizabeth's work, published and upcoming, head on over to her site:
Places to Find Elizabeth Morgan:
Blog (Shared with Dianna Hardy)
Thanks for hosting me, Steven. :)
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