Memphis, Tennessee. One of the top ten poorest big cities in the U.S. Where there's poverty, there's crime. The Russian Mob's moving in. And where there are criminals, there are cops. One just happens to be a werewolf.
Jarod took a bullet to the chest. But he didn't die. And since he woke up, nothing's been the same. Because while he was lying there bleeding out, he was bitten. By a werewolf. And that thing about silver bullets? Myth. Shoot anything in the mouth, spill its brains all over the sidewalk, and it dies. Jarod's got no pack, and his bite didn't come with instructions. What Jarod doesn't know about being a werewolf would fill a book.
He can smell his partner's sexual attraction -- she might as well be in heat. But if he lets Belle have what she wants, will she wake up with a strong desire for raw meat? Not knowing means trying to talk her out of the sex she's determined to have with him, because he's not told her he has a furry side.
Yeah. Two partners who always have each other's backs and can share anything -- and everything -- but the one thing they need to share the most.
ExcerptMemphis Heat 1: Stakeout
Marteeka Karland and Shelby Morgen
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2012 Marteeka Karland and Shelby Morgen
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"You're a real asshole, you know that, don't you?"
"Yes, dear," Jarod answered with a suppressed chuckle in his tone.
She was going to smack him any moment now. "That. That right there. That's the reason you're paying alimony to two ex-wives. Fuck you and your yes, dear. I've had shorter dry spells between engagements. I. Need. To. Fuck. Now!"
"You're just bored."
Belle squirmed in her chair, practically grinding her pussy against the worn upholstery. "No shit. What gave it away?"
"Told you not to come. ADD and stakeouts don't go well together."
She pointed the butt of her service revolver at him, resisting the urge to throw it. "Somebody has to watch your back. Besides. You used to be better at keeping me distracted."
A sideways grin quirked his face. "We used to have... interesting... ways of keeping ourselves entertained, didn't we? Not exactly professional, but..."
"Used to being the operative phrase here. What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?"
"Wrong with me? I got shot, remember?"
As if she could forget. "Yeah. And by all reports you should have died. But you didn't. And ever since you've been treating me like..."
"I'm trying to act like a professional. I've been treating you like a cop. Like my partner."
He attempted to look offended at that. Nearly pulled it off. Professional, my ass. "We were a hell of a lot more than just partners, Jarod. You can't deny that."
"Yeah, well, maybe if I'd been acting a little more like a cop and a lot less like your lover, we wouldn't have been in a position where you could have gotten killed." The bitterness in his tone surprised her.
She kept her voice low and steady, bottling up the frustrated anger that threatened to overwhelm her. "I wasn't the one who got shot, Jarod."
"Could have. Could have been you first up that alley, just as easy as me. And it would have been my fault."
This argument was getting them nowhere. Damn it, she was horny as hell and he was right there! "Shut up and fuck me --" she reached for her police baton -- "Or I'll do it myself."
Binoculars focused on the dilapidated warehouse across the street, he didn't even glance her way. "Go ahead."
Did he think she wouldn't? Staring at Jarod's lovely backside, Belle unzipped her jeans and shimmied them down her hips enough to give herself access to her pussy lips. It was his own fault. He was tall, handsome, built and reasonably single, if you didn't count the excess baggage, but she still might have resisted -- if he didn't smell like liquid sex poured into a cop suit. She wanted to reach over, undo his belt, and suck his cock right down to the root. Then they'd see how professional he could be. Fuckhead.
With that thought Belle kicked the jeans the rest of the way off and switched the baton around so the handle lined up with her pussy. With one thrust she impaled herself right down to the crossbar.
Fucker. If he didn't get off on that, he was gay.
"Shit, Belle! What the hell are you doing?"
"We're undercover. Normal people do not sit in sleazy, run-down motels next to vacant buildings for hours at a time and stare at locked doors. Only reason to be here is to fuck."
As if he'd suddenly gotten into the spirit of things, Jarod reached out and grabbed her shoulders, throwing her against the window. His mouth found the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and he bit down with more aggression that she was used to from him, but she was so horny, she didn't give a shit.
He yanked her head back, and his mouth found hers in a jaw-breaking kiss before he broke away, pushing her back. "You wanna play? Fine. Your turn to watch the Russians." He pulled her closer and spun her around. She braced her hands on the dirty plate glass window...