[Siren Classic ManLove: Erotic Romance, Contemporary, Alternative, Paranormal, Shape-shifters, Romantic Suspense, MM, HEA]
Twenty years after a catastrophic attack on Sage, a new generation is keeping the town alive and kicking. Murray finds his mate, Smith...who's connected to the massive strike. Murray and his adopted father, John, must find out if Smith has learned from lessons of the past or is he working with the one who helped to instigate trouble, bringing down a lethal mob on Sage. Murray invites Smith to Sage to find out what's going on, and discovers that Smith has lessons still to be learned.
Edgar T. Smith wants nothing to do with his mother, Madge, whose articles two decades before helped stir up so much trouble that Sage was sacked. Rebuilding their town, the shifters of Sage are bunkered and burning for revenge. Can Smith redeem himself and help Sage recover? Or will Madge Carmichael wreak havoc again? Can Smith convince Murray that he's changed his ways? There's only one way to find out.
A huge crater greeted Smith as the gate to Sage's forbidden city slid smoothly open. The huge doors to the left were for ornament only these days. They hadn't opened in over twenty years.
Silence echoed eerily around the wide compound lined with razor wire, reinforced concrete walls, and a watchtower standing guard, its windows mirrored. His attention focused on the crater, filled with wildflowers dancing merrily in the light breeze, a hint of summer in the air. Several small plaques adorned the circumference of the crater. He walked around it. Names he'd only read about. Legends.
Smith flinched as a door slid open, perfectly camouflaged in the stark gray stone. No one emerged. Silence reigned. Fuck it!
Edging around the crater, he bid farewell to his heroes and stepped into another world.
* * * *
"He's here," Murray yelled, leaping from the shower and into a clean set of black jeans, black T-shirt, and his favorite, well-worn running shoes, sans socks. "Edgar T. Smith just entered the building."
"Calm down, douche. He's a reporter." Murray's roomie and best friend, Sarah, wagged a finger. "Don't know whose idea it was to invite a damned reporter here. And put some underwear on. Please."
She began straightening her hair as he dashed back into his room, donned the requisite undies, and returned to see a smug smile on her face. She held his phone in one hand, the straightener dangling.
"Someone's obsessing again," she taunted.
The reporter's face was the first thing he saw as she dangled the phone. He leapt. She dodged. He shifted into a cougar shifter. She half shifted into an African lioness, bared fangs, and swatted him across the head with a sizeable, clawed paw. He went flying.
"If this goes tits up, roomie, you'll be drummed out of town."
Dropping the phone next to him, she finished straightening her hair as he untangled himself from the laundry basket, shifted back to human form, and stalked out, pouting, without a backward glance.
* * * *
Smith's second impression of Sage was...underwhelming. He'd expected hustle. Bustle. Debris from the war that had raged here for a year before Sage's nemeses hurled their final salvo, killing hundreds and maiming hundreds more.
The crater was the memorial. He'd expected another monument beyond the security clearance compound. This was a ghost town devoid of anything but a few tatty-looking buildings that wouldn't look out of place on an old-style Western movie set after a shoot-out. Complete with bullet holes, stained wood, and broken windows. He itched to scratch the surface.
A golf buggy rolled up, driverless and silent, making him jump as it slid to a halt beside him. Glancing around, he shrugged, hopped aboard, and clenched as the cart glided toward a slowly opening ramp ten meters ahead. Within seconds he and the cart were swallowed whole. The ramp closed smoothly behind him.
* * * *
Murray kept pace with Edgar T. Smith along a parallel tunnel, admitting to himself that he may be a tad obsessed as he admired the man’s lean physique. Even though he knew he shouldn’t. The man was gorgeous, however, and he intrigued Murray no end. That lean build of his and the mysterious glint in his eyes. And that mouth. Kissable.
Murray’s vehicle of choice was a reconditioned tram that had been created during Sage's second reconstruction. Badly damaged, like the rest of the town, the transport system had undergone an overhaul not dissimilar to swapping an old steam engine for a bullet train in terms of modernization and relative speed. Murray loved the tram.
Smith, as the reporter was colloquially known, was looking around, seemingly disappointed by the lack of anything juicy to write about. As inductions went, Murray loved this part the best. Those who passed the test were introduced to Sage # III. Failure meant a swift exit without getting within spitting distance of the mini metropolis.
Murray wasn't entirely sure whether Edgar T. Smith would pass, though he'd looked suitably impressed by the crater and its accompanying plaques. Murray had watched the footage of him mouthing the names of each fallen shifter. And the startlement as his transport arrived. Murray had repeated that segment several times.
Sarah thought that Smith's visit was a mistake. Murray had other plans. He wanted to know a few things about Smith before he allowed him into their hallowed halls.
Like, what the hell had he been doing sniffing around for so many months, in various guises, trying to get access? Sans invitation. Murray had learned from his dad that not everyone was to be trusted. Someone behaving like Smith needed careful monitoring. They'd had enough of his kind in the two decades since Sage had been blitzed by a coalition army of anti-shifters. Their stockpile of weapons had rivaled anything the U.S. Army could come up with. Big money. Hundreds killed. More wounded.
Sage had gone to ground. Shifters had scattered, going back to the shadows. Down. Not out.
Murray tapped a key on his wrist monitor, sending the reporter off on a tour of Sage's worst-hit areas. Perhaps Edgar T. Smith needed reminding of what his kind had done to Murray's friends and family.
Murray blushed. "I told dad I wanted to talk with you."
Smith eyed him steadily. "Talk?"
Murray linked arms with Smith. "For starters. I thought we could discuss options."
"For...?" Smith teased. He wanted to discuss their options, too.
Murray shoved him against the wall and kissed him hard on the mouth. The kiss heated up to volcanic temperatures within seconds. Smith cupped the back of Murray's head, searching every inch of Murray's lush mouth with his tongue. Murray tasted of sin, spice, and all things nice. So fucking addictive it wasn't funny.
Panting, they separated briefly then went in for a second smooch, this one a smidgen hotter than the first.
Smith couldn't think of anything but the dark recesses of Murray's mouth, his hard knee between Smith's legs. Smith rocked against his thigh, their heights similar. He keened, head thrown back, and backed off fast before he blew his load.
"Easy, tiger," he panted, blowing out a long, slow, calming breath.
"Mountain lion, not tiger," Murray said, breathing hard, though his smile was mischievous.
"Shift," Smith said. "Might take my mind off my dick."
Murray chuckled and shifted mid-leap, flooring Smith as he pounced, two big forepaws landing on Smith's shoulders, his long tail twitching hypnotically.
Smith forgot to breathe. Murray chuffed lightly, sniffing Smith's neck, then shifted again to human form. Naked, his clothing ragged now, he eyed Smith with some amusement.
"Where were we?"
"Not in the fucking corridor," John shouted from the other end, stepping off one of the multiple elevators. "Get a fucking room before I go blind."
"Did he just give us permission to...?"
Murray grabbed Smith's hand and dragged him upright. "Don't argue with the man. You know he makes sense."
They set off running, laughing like loons.
* * * *
Murray moaned as he fell to the bed with Smith on top. Their legs entwined, their lips fused, and his mind was officially blown as passion raged rampantly. He clutched at Smith's shoulders, clinging for dear life as their kisses returned to volcanic proportions, and his cock throbbed painfully in his jeans.
He'd never felt like this with anyone. He and Blue had experimented back in their younger days. But they'd decided they made better friends, and he prayed that Blue found someone as sexy as Smith. Murray figured Smith might be more than just a one-nighter.
Smith mumbled something about too many clothes. Murray ripped at Smith's T-shirt and jeans then his own, and they were soon writhing in naked abandon, rolling to the floor when they ran out of bed space. Sweat slicked their skin. Breaths came in panting gasps. Smith lifted Murray's legs higher, probing with a saliva-wet finger at Murray's nether regions. He tunneled his other hand between them grabbing Murray’s fat dick, massaging firmly. A second finger joined the first, Smith scissoring them to stretch Murray. Their kisses became desperate, hungry caresses as passion ramped up. Smith slid down Murray’s body, kissing his way toward Murray’s dick, and mouthed the plump member.
Murray gasped as he felt Smith’s throat muscles working against the head of his cock, Smith’s tongue doing crazy things to Murray’s libido as he undulated restlessly. Sucking hard, Smith had Murray’s senses in such a tizzy he didn’t know one end from the other. Just at the edge of coming, Smith popped off Murray’s dick and slid upward again, hooking Murray’s leg around his waist and tapping his dick against Murray’s portal. Murray held his breath, keening as he waited for entry.
He ached for what was to come, needed it more than he'd needed anything. He wanted Smith inside him so badly, not caring that Smith would be his first.
He heard Smith's sultry laugh, and then an extra finger was added, scissoring and stretching him gently. Their kisses grew more languid, less urgent as they enjoyed the closeness. But Murray wanted more still and moved more urgently on Smith's fingers, fucking himself to new heights of carnal bliss.
Smith murmured all the dirty things he'd like to do to Murray; fucking him into the floor; tongue fucking him until he spilled all over the carpet. He started by grabbing Murray's cock and massaging it with a skill that had Murray undulating beneath him. Finally, when Murray was about to blow his load, Smith replaced fingers with dick and slid home, so smoothly and gently that Murray took a moment to realize his cherry was well and truly popped.
Their kisses slowed, deepened, lengthened. Their movements relaxed into a sultry dance, rumba not frenetic tango. And Murray fell in love.
He cried out when Murray did something, a little twist, and nailed Murray over and over. Murray’s cries were fluid now, and he shoved back against every instroke, needing to go harder and faster. Smith obeyed, fucking Murray with abandon, their tempo increasing back to a driving rhythm until Murray's cry was one of orgasmic pleasure.