The Tourist by Clare London
It isn’t a bad thing, you know, to find yourself stepping into a hot, fresh-smelling shower, stark bollock naked and sporting a decent-sized morning wood. Even if the period immediately beforehand is a bit of a blurred memory. Even if you can’t remember where the hell you are, exactly how you got there, what day it is, or even how much shampoo you’re going to need because you can’t remember if you’re bewigged, buzz-cut or bearded.
I reached for the plastic curtain, not sure how firm my grip was, tugging it back awkwardly. When I stepped forward onto the smooth tray, I stubbed my toe against the tiled wall and yelped. Seemed I couldn’t even gauge the size of my own bloody feet.
You see, visiting isn’t an exact science. Hell, it’s no science at all, at least not for me. It’s just what I do. I drift in my strange but by-now-familiar limbo, jumping in and out of human bodies for a bit of a laugh and—you must understand, I’m not going to lie about it—for sexual satisfaction. From men.
I get a thrill from it; I get off on it.
The last thing I remembered? A rewarding couple of days in the bed of two very limber athletes. Moroccan, maybe. On a work visa, staying in a tiny but over-warm bedsit, the best they could afford so close to London. I never knew whether they were legally in the country or not, and didn’t really care. I was only passing through. They were dark, with sun-salty skin, and full of youthful strength and stamina. An imaginative collection of toys, too. Delicious. But their bickering wore me ragged in the end, even though it was their idea of foreplay. And so I moved on. Took that deep breath of virtual anticipation, and jumped. Never knowing quite where I’d end up.
But, like I said, it wasn’t always a bad thing. Particularly when I found myself pressed up against the side of another body in that shower, equally naked, slick with water and warm with sexy, willing enthusiasm. How did I know “willing”? Pretty obvious, if you ask me. He had a thick, solid dick, happily nudging against my thigh. Just what I like the best. There was barely enough room to turn one person around in there, let alone two, but it didn’t seem like either of us resented getting up close and personal.
I leaned in, just to make sure, and he moaned with pleasure. Yeah, that confirmed it. I gave up worrying about shampoo and went for groping his hips instead.
“Hey, there.”
He sounded startled and I paused. I mumbled something under my breath that could have been taken as a tentative apology.
“No. It’s fine.” He twisted around to face me and that delicious dick rubbed against mine. It was long and curved up toward his belly, eager for action. Mine was no slouch, either. Looked like I had plenty of inches, and at the moment they were all standing to attention. “Just…it’s a surprise, that’s all.” He tilted his head and touched the side of my neck with his lips, quick and sloppy. “I didn’t want to wake you just yet. It’s not your fault I’m up so early.”
“Up?” My voice was low and firm. I liked the sound of it. I smirked and ran my hand along the length of his cock. It was a broad hand; looked strong, the skin tanned, fingertips calloused.
He sucked in a breath. “God. Yeah. I know you’re not so keen on the morning…”
I squeezed, not that gently, and he shut up immediately. “You think you should be telling me what I am and what I’m not?”
He stared at me. Deep brown eyes, an expression of excitement and confusion, all mixed in with the twinkle of morning lust. And something else even more promising. “I…guess not. Sorry.”
His hair must have reached just under his ears when it was dry. The water made it cling lower to his neck, creating small dark licks of sensuality. I imagined twisting one around my fingers and tugging. Hard. “So make it up to me.”
“Dan?” He laughed shakily. “What’s up with you this morning?”
“Nothing different. You feel good and I want it.”
He shuddered and his lips dragged across my jaw. I had quite a lot of morning stubble. His hand grasped my hip, his palm slippery with soap. “Well, this is a surprise, but a very pleasant one, you know?” He moaned softly and his fingers tightened on my flesh. “Very good. I think you can tell—”
I pressed against him again and he sucked the words back in. After a second’s hesitation, he stepped back, close up to the tiled wall. His heart was beating so fast I could feel the vibration in his chest. I knew then what he needed. Doesn’t take me long to know what a man’s like, not nowadays.
“I think you do far too much of that,” I said. “Thinking. I’m not a whole lot keen on it myself, at least not at this moment.” As far as I was concerned, feeling was taking up most of my attention. I knew what I wanted, I knew what my body was aching for. Good. It’s a special treat when I find a like-minded libido to host my fantasies.
I rubbed my dick against him again, this time bending my knees to get better effect. I was an inch or so taller than he was and I needed that angle so that I was sliding against his cock, not into his navel. Though that looked and felt pretty fine, too. The whole torso was nicely defined, not too muscle-bound. He was what they called hot these days, well-proportioned like one of those underwear models who were so popular in magazines. I reckoned he was younger than me, but not too young. Perfect. His skin was slightly plump, with a healthy sheen and barely tanned. I nudged again and dropped my lips to the junction of his neck and throat. His head went back and he gasped.
He wasn’t as broad as I was—I could instinctively tell from the position of our arms—and his pecs were covered with a mat of fine hair. The nipples were dark brown mounds poking up through it. Made my mouth salivate. Another thing I knew instinctively—I loved nibbling. I sucked at the skin of his neck and the little buds tightened. I felt them push against my own chest, and the excitement rippled straight down to my balls.
His treasure trail was darker, though that might just have been from the water running over his shoulders and down his front. My eyes slid downward, following its path, over the gentle mound of his belly, down to the curls at his groin, glistening, tangled, and then to our cocks, dancing their own version of a thrusting tango, seeking friction, swelling even further with eagerness.
He chuckled softly. “Dan, this is…”
“I say what it is.” I glanced back up at his face. The water pattered onto the tray at my feet and my voice had been more growl than whisper. For a second, he tensed and I wondered if I’d messed up already.
Then he relaxed, letting out a long breath. His eyes half closed. “Yes,” he murmured, delight in his tone. “You do.”
Cursed Miracles by Meg Harding
TWO HUNDRED years ago, William Mashinter the Third learned a very important life lesson. One he won’t forget—even if he lives two hundred more.
Don’t piss off a witch.
As he sits at his large oak desk, staring out at the city of Chicago with its sky-high buildings and abundance of snow flurries, he thinks back to the Christmas Eve that changed everything. The day where his life went to complete hell after being sunk partially in it for a too-long time. The events that led to it. When everything had been ripped from him because he’d dared to try and touch the stars.
He scowls.
He hates Christmas. It’s the only time of year he gets reflective. The one period of time when his pain is more present than ever. So many years later, and it’s still a raw wound. He doesn’t think it ever won’t be.
The scenery outside his window changes, his office vanishes, and he’s standing in an old Victorian room, staring at his father from across the man’s desk. His father, Lord Mashinter the Second, is an imposing man with iron-gray hair and an attitude that has people naturally bowing to him. His face is lined with age, his stomach going soft. His eyes are hard, like flint, and they’re not prone to displaying affection. This isn’t an exception. He’s staring at William like he’s talking to an underling, and for all intents and purposes, that is what William is to him.
“Lord Granger has agreed to marriage terms between you and Lady Jennifer Granger.” He says it casually, while barely looking up from the paper he’s reading.
William’s stomach feels like it plummets to his feet. The nightmare he’s avoided his whole life is finally here. Marriage. To a woman he doesn’t love. When he loves someone else. He has to reach for the chair back in front of him, grip tight to keep from falling. His world is being flipped upside down. “Father,” he says, protest on the tip of his tongue. He’s made his feelings on this matter as clear as he could without revealing the truth. He loves Lord Brady Gallagher. And he knows—is painfully aware—that their love isn’t conventional. That it won’t ever be accepted amongst these people he calls friends and family.
Human Rights by SL Armstrong
I'd had three masters in my life, and still, here I was, in the pound. I was nothing but a mutt, after all, and when one of the purebreeds they'd wanted so badly came up for sale, I was on the way out. Wouldn't want to risk having the pedigree of an expensive, beautiful bitch ruined by a mutt's seed. It didn't matter that Puan had adopted me when I was but four years old and trained me herself. I was her favorite stud until she'd landed one of the red-coated females that came from the High Breeders. Within two days, I was fifteen and foisted off on one of Puan's friends.
But Lienx wasn't as nice as Puan, and he didn't like the manners Puan had instilled in me. I wasn't allowed on the furniture. I wasn't to eat in the kitchen. I spent nights leashed to a small house outside in the yard. Lienx ruled his home with an iron fist, and when I misbehaved, I was thoroughly beaten. I learned quickly to remain invisible in Lienx's home, but then Lienx married, and his new wife, Moha, didn't like mutts. Within two weeks, Lienx had procured a purebreed. I was sent to the pound.
By the heavens, the pound. Cages. Left to wallow in our own filth because those in charge didn't want to bother. The food was tasteless. Sunlight was a treat once a week when we were taken out into the yards. Run. Play. Soak up the light until we were herded back into the large, hot buildings and locked away to be forgotten. Most pets came to the pound to die, and, at twenty-four, I resigned myself to such a fate. Two masters and well into my life, I wasn't the sort of pet a lovely master came looking for. Imagine my surprise when Kica came running through the pound, eager to find her newest pet.
Kica. Nine-years-old and the sweetest little girl. I think I loved her. She would play with me out in the yard, toss balls for me to run after, and she'd bring me scraps of her own meals. Little girls, though, grow up. For her sixteenth birthday, her father gifted her with a squealing, writhing purebreed with gorgeous, clear blue eyes. I saw her love for me die as the bawling mass in her arms demanded her attention. My heart broke when her father carted me back to the pound with not even a farewell kiss from Kica.
Thirty-one-years-old and back at the pound. I hated it. There was nothing I could do about it. I was nothing but a mutt, passed around. I would die here. I knew it in my very bones. There were younger, more beautiful pets to be found in the small cages, with bright eyes and unusual hair. I was plain. Forgettable. I was also tired. I didn't want to go home with someone else who would either abuse me or earn my trust and love only to betray me when something better, more expensive came along.
If I wore a collar and leash, I wanted it to mean something. I wanted to be wanted, needed. Heavens, perhaps even cherished, loved. Loved. I thought Kica had loved me. She'd said as much so many times as she'd brushed my hair, oiled my skin. But love, it seemed, was fickle. I was expected to give mine without pause, but my masters? They were allowed to gift it and take it back without any thought to my heart. Best to die in this sweltering hellhole of a building, thirsty and hungry and craving the sunlight, than to slowly wither as I bounced from home to home.
"What's down this hall?"
I couldn't help but lift my head as the question filtered down the dingy hallway. Was someone actually looking for an older pet? Surely not. Even if they were, I refused to allow my hopes to rise. There were two dozen other pets in this hall, all over the age of twenty-five and as tired as I was, that this person could potentially choose.
"Those are the older pets. Male. Ones that have been here more than once. You don't want any of them. They'll be taken care of when they've been here six months."
I hated that voice. Miab. He was an asshole. He liked to use the older female pets for copulation, which was—technically—against the law. Even pets knew that. We could be beaten, starved, denied water or baths, but we weren't supposed to be used sexually. Not that we weren't, but who believed a mongrel over an upstanding citizen? Miab, though, was a sick sonovabitch. He liked to hurt the females that he fucked, and none of us trusted him. I often wished to claw his eyes out.
"I want to see them. Age doesn't matter. None of your younger pets caught my attention. Maybe I need an older one."
Miab sighed, loud and annoyed. "All right. Come on."
Footsteps. None of us looked up. None of us moved. I don't think any of us wanted to go to another home. Six months, and then we'd be destroyed. Better than this indefinite hoping, and we wouldn't be a drain on the state's resources anymore.
"How old is the oldest here?" That voice was smooth, deep, and it made something in my gut flutter. "How old is the youngest?"
"Eldest is there, Henri. Has had six homes. Likes to bite. He's forty-six." Miab walked past my cage and pointed to an end cage. "Youngest is Fredrick. He's twenty-seven. Had three homes. Last home surrendered him because he attempted to seduce their youngest daughter."
The visitor walked up and down the corridor, pausing at each cage, but I didn't hear anyone move. When his shadow fell over me, I didn't bother to look up. The shadow didn't move, though, and after a moment, the visitor spoke.
"I'd like to see this one is the playroom, please. I'd also like to read his file."
Miab scoffed. "Ewan? He's had three previous homes."
"Why was he brought here?"
"The file says..." Miab flipped through paperwork, but I still didn't look up. "He was the pet to Master Dierr's daughter, but he secured her a purebreed. Ewan was no longer needed."
Sight Unseen by Hunter Raines
The stench of rot, mildew and decay jammed Danny's nasal passages. He'd tried breathing through his mouth for about a minute, but that only made him want to retch, so he returned to his original tactic. Slow, shallow breaths through his nose, taken one small whiff at a time.
If he survived this revolting trek through Phoenix's sewer system, he'd be showering for the next three days. And he'd spend every minute of those seventy-two hours inhaling the scent of fresh shampoo until his lungs went numb.
"You better be right about this, Van Doren." Detective Nick Samuels snorted, then gagged, before letting a gob of spit loose. It landed somewhere in the vicinity of Danny's feet. "If you're dragging me through shit for nothing, I'll spend the rest of my days making you pay. God as my witness."
"Right, Detective. Because this is where I always take my evening stroll."
Nick let out a groan that said he didn't give a damn if Danny walked off a cliff without bungee gear. "You just better be right. That's all I'm saying." No threat this time, but Danny heard it just the same.
Despite the fact that he'd helped the Phoenix P.D. solve six homicides in the last nine months, Nick didn't like him much. He never had, not even when he'd been married to Danny's sister. That was probably Danny's fault. They'd gotten their relationship off to a rocky start the first night he found Nick groping Elena in the front seat of his car. A decade later, Nick still hadn't forgiven him for that bloody nose.
The shape he followed flickered in the distance. She was short, maybe four foot six at best. Probably about ten years old. She ran ahead of them, but he couldn't give chase. Being blind made treading on a newly paved sidewalk as treacherous as skating on bare feet. Slogging through the sewers with the rank stench of waste sticking to his lungs and his feet sloshing through inches of foul water meant he had to shuffle rather than walk, and running was out of the question.
"Come on, honey." Danny kept his voice low, soothing, even though he had no idea whether the little girl could hear him. She pretended to, sometimes, and other times he might as well have been talking to a brick wall. A bystander watching him hold a conversation with himself would think he was doing just that. Most people who knew him already assumed he'd lost his mind along with his eyesight.
Hell, most days he thought the same.
"Right behind ya, pumpkin."
The sarcasm in Nick's voice grated on Danny's nerves. If he didn't need the man to identify the location of the body when Danny finally led him to it--and to guide him back out of this hellhole once his ethereal guide disappeared--he'd have been just as happy to leave the detective sitting in front of a box of donuts at the station.
Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. Danny wasn't stupid. Or reckless, for that matter. He needed Nick to watch his back on this ill-advised expedition, almost as much as the little girl's ghost needed him.
Two years ago, before Danny lost his sight, Nick had been tall, lean and handsome. These days, Danny liked to picture him based on his surly demeanor and gruff voice. It took some effort, but he pictured a barrel-chested, beer-gutted man with a bad comb over and a permanent snarl on thin lips crusted with powdered sugar. Danny grinned at that mental image and momentarily forgot his resolve to take small, shallow breaths. He sucked in a mouthful of the funky air before catching himself, and his stomach writhed.
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