White Wolf Women : The Call of a Soul
Great News!
White Wolf Women : The Call of a Soul, the first book in my prequel to White Wolf was signed and contracted yesterday – doing a happy dance.
Here’s a tiny preview:
Would Dodge Pincer, the county sheriff, even bother to investigate the bears slaughter?
Melanie White shuddered. She hated Dodge Pincer. Hated that until Papa died she’d had to bail her parents out of jail most Monday mornings. Hated having to face the sheriff’s smug smile, hated that when she handed him the envelope with the money he took a second too long to take it, and hated it when he licked his fingers before counting each bill aloud.
“I apologize. I was totally out of line.”
Her heartbeat went viral. Melanie clutched her chest. Anger came to the rescue. She spun around. “Apology not accepted. You were plain mean and nasty. Just because you’re worth a fortune doesn’t give you the right to treat people like that.”
“I only ever apologize once, Melanie. And I never say anything I don’t mean.” Mike folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.
So not what Melanie needed. Or wanted. Mike Dorland driving her to the reservation and seeing the broken-down two-bedroom shack the White family occupied. Poor and proud and shunned, even by the rest of the tribe, Melanie straightened her shoulders. Tough titties. She was what she was and ain’t nothin’ no-how, going to change that.
“I’ll call a cab.” She made to move around him and he caught her hand, and drew close.
Too close.
He smelled like paradise. Like a warm sea so blue and clear and sparkling it hurt to breathe. Like equatorial sun baking her skin and raising a hot sweat. Like a tropical breeze whipping exotic aphrodisiacs every which way and creaming her sex.
“Little idiot. I bet you intend to walk the fifteen miles. You always did act as if I stunk up your air.”
Had the floor turned liquid? No, her knees had. She grabbed the counter, and tried to shake off the thick fingers circling her wrist in a steely but somehow gentle grip. “Stunk up my air?”
“Half-breed not good enough for a full-blooded Ojibwa? For the daughter of a Ska Awhi? For the granddaughter of Ixota Migziwa?” His nose was so close she had to blink to get his features in focus.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. She licked her suddenly dry lips.
“That’s it.” He picked her up and jammed her against the wall. Her face was level with his. Then he kissed her and the world turned upside down and inside out. He tasted of all her pumpkin-coach dreams, of all her tortured teenaged visions of knights, rescue, and happy every after, of every single, furtive pleasuring of herself during the last three years. Smoky, citrusy, and stomach-clenching delicious.
Hope you enjoy - cheers.