Adjusting his cock and sac, Diskant shook his head and took a deep breath, attempting to cool the fire raging in his blood. The last few weeks had been hell. The wet dreams started the first night following his introduction to his mate—images of Pinkie on her knees, taking his cock between her lips while he pumped into the back of her throat until he came like a geyser—and damn if waking each morning covered in sticky spunk with a newly formed hard-on wasn’t beginning to piss him off. He was in a constant state of arousal, and even worse, he was unable to do jack-fuck about it.
He frowned at the grease smears along the knob of the door and announced his presence by kicking on the repulsive entrance instead of knocking. Individual fingerprints were spread all over the place, and a few of them looked like they were enhanced by a sprinkling of brown flakes.
Christ. Is that breading?
“What the hell do you want?” someone bellowed through the thick metal barrier.
“Chavez!” he snarled and waited, annoyed by the growling of his stomach brought on by the heady aroma of food.
“Hold on!” Diskant heard the head chef order before he thundered, “Damn it, Torino! Get the fuck out of my way before I put you on dish duty!”
The door opened outward and Diskant used the heel of his boot to heft it wide before he stepped inside. The succulence of the artery-clogging oil was laced with the mouthwatering scent of Chavez’s freshly made fare, or more specifically, the metallic scent of a freshly cut steak. The VIP section served only the choicest hors d’oeuvres and dishes consisting of meats, seafood and pasta.
“What the hell are you doing here? I didn’t get the receipt for an order.”
Chavez was scowling but Diskant was sure the honor wasn’t entirely because of him and his presence in the club. The aging chef was getting wily and didn’t tolerate any bullshit. The only reason he allowed Diskant so much leeway was the obscene amount of cash he plunked down when forced to order out for pack meetings. Not to mention Chavez’s very human daughter was bloodbonded to a wereleopard in Brooklyn, meaning Short-and-Pudgy was in the know.
“I’m meeting someone,” Diskant answered evasively. “Do you think you can fire me up a steak or two to take home? I’m not staying long.”
A nod was the only answer he received but Diskant took the response at face value. Chavez didn’t like to be bothered when he was on the clock but he always delivered.
Weaving through the would-be line cooks in his path, Diskant made his way through the kitchen and into the hallway where the restrooms were located. The scents of freshly prepared foods were too strong to allow a good sniff of the club just around the corner, but he knew the moment he cleared the small walkway his nose would guide the way.
Oddly enough, his ears were able to distinguish the catcalls from beyond. The music wasn’t the usual techno punk garbage most of the patrons preferred.
It sounded almost like…
Well, tickle his hairy ass silly. The DJ was playing the fucking blues. The song was familiar, slow and soulful, the voice radiating pain and longing along with the distinctive whine of an electric guitar.
Trey’s Beta, Nathan, appeared in front of Diskant before he’d cleared the corner, the werewolf’s hazel irises glowing peridot. Nathan lifted a hand and intentionally placed his body in front of Diskant, a very dip-fuck thing to do.
“Wait, D.”
“Careful, pup,” he snarled, meeting Nathan’s flashing eyes with his own. It was impossible not to. The Alpha in him wouldn’t back down from another male—couldn’t—and everyone knew how short his fuse was lately.
Nathan lowered his gaze in a display of respect and submission but didn’t move. “I need to tell you something before you go into the club. It’s about Trey—”
Diskant’s ears stopped functioning at that point.
It was all about the fucking nose.
The scent he caught was one he’d dreamed about, luscious and sweet, honey and musk, cinnamon and sugar. This time she was sweating, and the heady scent caused his entire body to erupt into tremors. He could almost taste those tiny beads of perspiration on his tongue—salty, wet and oh so fucking female.
He was dimly aware of shoving Nathan roughly aside and forcing random bystanders out of the way. His heart was beating a tattoo in his chest, the tempo steady but increasing. The room shifted as his vision changed and morphed. All sides of him wanted to make sure they weren’t being deceived. He allowed them to rise to the surface, contained only by the barrier of his skin. A steady purr radiated from his chest, followed immediately by a throaty growl.
The large spotlight above the stage shone down on her hair, highlighting the random strands of bright pink. She was straddling a chair, swaying those luscious hips from side to side. She ground and rotated, left then right, front then back. Her ass was a thing of beauty, round and ripe, full and soft. The thought of pumping into the tight heat sent a spasm down his spine. The animal in him wanted to separate those lush cheeks, find the tiny rosette within and dominate her in the most primal way imaginable.
Bowing her head, she arched her shoulders as if she were offering her breasts to a lover, and his attention shifted. He groaned, picturing those pert pink nipples that teased him beneath black lace. He wouldn’t neglect them a second time and couldn’t wait to nip at the small pearls with his teeth before soothing the sting with his tongue.
The men surrounding the stage expressed their approval, growling and hammering for more. He didn’t mind, in fact, he got off on it. Shifters were very sexual creatures, and had no problem with nudity, voyeurism or any other kind of kink. The crowd had every right to admire his mate, and he wanted them to look their fill. Because with or without an audience she belonged to one male, and he would be the only one who would ever touch her, taste her or fuck her into oblivion.
When the music ended with one last soulful guitar note, she lifted her left leg and swung away from the chair. Diskant’s eyes settled on the body that had been hidden until now and he nearly roared in fury. Trey was in the seat, hands clasped to the back legs. His eyes were clouded by desire and his cock was obviously eager to reciprocate the attention as it was tenting the front of his fucking leathers in an approving salute.
As if he got jive to Diskant’s presence, Trey turned those passion-laced eyes and looked directly at him. The room was suddenly covered in a dark red haze as the fury of a mated male rose within. Never had he experienced such a murderous rage. He didn’t want to hurt, disarm and disable. He needed to attack, demolish and destroy.
“Son of a bitch!” Diskant leapt onto the stage and tackled both Trey and the chair in a single swoop. The thin, insubstantial metal folded beneath the combined weight of their bodies and went scattering to the left before falling off the stage with an ear-splitting crack. “I’ll rip out your goddamn spine!”
“D, listen—” Trey’s explanation was interrupted when Diskant’s knuckles met his teeth. Trey’s lower lip split and the rusty bitterness of blood suffused the air.
Livid, Diskant punched Trey again and wrapped his free hand around his throat. If Trey had been a human and not a shifter, the pressure of Diskant’s fingers would have snapped his best friend’s neck. Instead it cut off Trey’s oxygen supply.
“God…damn…it…D,” Trey choked as he struggled to break free. “Listen…to…me…”
Diskant lifted his arm up for a second time, intending to respond to the request with more of the same, when trembling fingers grasped his wrist and a soft voice whispered, “Stop.”