When they were young together back in their werecat pride, Bowie and Channing experimented with love and sex, as well as flirting with a threesome with their best friend Emma. Channing and Emma both ran from their needs, leaving Bowie to break away and find his own life. Now a confident Dom, Bowie discovers Channing again through a video of a consummate sub, one Bowie knows he needs to find once more.When Bowie shows up on his doorstep, Channing feels like a teenager again, all confusion and need. He doesn’t date his own kind, only humans, and he’s not in the market for a full-time Master. Bowie is impossible to deny, a force of nature, and while both men know they’ll have to think about Emma eventually, now is the time to see if they can get to know and love each other all over again.
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An Excerpt From: DECONSTRUCTING CHANNING
Copyright © BA TORTUGA, 2014
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.
Bowie took the train to L.A. There was something so decadent about the Coast Starlight, especially when he got a private sleeper. The steady bub-bub-bub of the wheels on the track was oddly musical and he found himself nodding along with it at the oddest times. He only ventured out to eat in the dining car at first, before boredom took him and he wandered around and played solitaire in the club car.
The trip was designed to give him time. Time to figure out what he was going to say to Channing Lanier when he saw the sorry son of a bitch again.
He could start with “Hey, you rat bastard. Amazing how you came out after you dropped me like a hot rock”. That would be fun. Or maybe “I thought you weren’t into spanking and bondage, and your precious asshole was sacrosanct, but now you’re a bottom in the underground BDSM scene” would work better.
Bowie wouldn’t even be going to see said bottoming asshole if it wasn’t for the flyer tucked neatly away in his briefcase.
Tawny Catnip.
Seriously?
Their Emma was a fucking stripper?
A Vegas stripper? The revue was touted as a classy burlesque show and topless nightclub called Catnip Crazy.
Hell, the crazy thing was that both of his ex-lovers had called him a goddamn perv.
Him. Because he’d wanted them both. Because he’d wanted Emma over his lap. Because he’d wanted to see Channing bound and on his knees between the both of them.
Fuckers.
Bowie guessed he’d been lucky, to be so damn young and know what he wanted, who he was. Emma had been the spark that set him alight, his alpha female, the one who would stand beside him forever and love him. And Channing—their beta male—was caring and real and nurturing and…
Right.
He’d bared his soul one night after an evening of beer and firelight and awkward, desperate kisses, wild humping under rough blankets, Emma caught between them. He’d told them what he’d seen in the depths of the flames during his initiation into the pride, what his heart had told him. Channing had been the first to go, shifting into the lean golden cougar that Bowie had loved since he was a child, spitting and hissing, refusing them.
Emma had left next, in the dull gray of early morning, tears streaking her face.
A triad couldn’t survive with just two, she’d said. Better to be alone than fight. She wasn’t into kink anyway. She wanted her own life.
Bowie groaned, the pain from that night still fresh and raw.
He should have followed them both, but he hadn’t. He’d roared and screamed and then spent an entire summer in a bottle until the pride’s dominant male had run him off.
He’d gone north, found a life, found wealth and pleasure and control. Even a kind of happiness.
The thought dulled the anger, put out the fire of fury like water on a candle. They’d been kids and scared, and he’d been sure that he could fix everything he didn’t understand with a paddle and a pair of cuffs. He’d been just as stupid as they had. Maybe more.
He wasn’t going to be stupid this time, though. He was going to get his beta and then, once he’d torn up that sweet little ass, they were going to see Emma. She could take off her clothes for other folks as much as she wanted, but she belonged with them.
He knew it, nose to tail.
After all, wolves weren’t the only beasts that mated for life.
He stretched, pleased with the little sleeper cabin. He’d been able to spread out and groom himself once he’d locked the door. You could never do that on a plane. His paws deserved special attention. He lapped at his claws, carefully groomed his whiskers. Soon they would bring him warm milk and he’d have to be human then and wear a robe.
For now, though, he could let his tail go wherever it wanted.
He let his mind wander, let his imagination remember the information he’d seen on the internet. Channing, lean and blond and lovely, bound in leather, bare ass crisscrossed with evidence of blows. He’d had to fight a fit of anger and hurt the first time he’d seen it. That was supposed to be his job, after all, beating that ass rosy.
Then Bowie had decided he was grateful. Now he could find Channing and show the man what a really good beating felt like.
His cock filled and he groaned, his toes curling at the thought. Yes. His body shivered, his tail disappeared and he let his human form come. That was so much better when he was having daydreams like this one.
Bowie would hear Channing yowl for him, would have that tiny, tight little hole. He’d make Channing beg for it, though, first, beg to be taken. He’d remind the man how damn wrong he’d been to leave, make him crazy with need, maybe bind that fine cock and plug that tight, tight ass.
His cock ached and he wrapped his hand around it, moaning as he imagined Emma’s hand touching him.
It had been so long. Oh he had plenty of subs who would do whatever he asked, but that was training—something he got paid for. He missed having lovers.
Having his mates.
Emma’s scent… By the stars, he longed for that. She had this spicy, deep, yet utterly feminine smell that made him hard as a rock. Her nipples were sensitive too. He’d made her come once, manipulating those sweet, pink buds alone.
Then there was Channing. That skin was such a pale gold, so wonderfully pliant. Long, perfectly sized prick, lips meant for cock sucking, and an ass… He growled. That ass made him want to write odes, and he was way more an action man than a word slinger.
He stroked himself, base to tip, tugging his cock. His belly tightened, his balls aching a little in the best way. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears.
He could see them, kneeling before him, kissing over the tip of his cock. They would be so beautiful—Emma’s mouth candy pink, Channing’s a deeper red. They would turn to him, licking and sucking between kisses.
Teeth gritted, he jacked faster, working himself hard. He needed to come, needed to release the pressure deep in his belly. Bowie grunted, imagining fucking Channing while his boy licked Emma, tongue pushing deep into her cunt.
He’d be able to see Emma’s green eyes. Watch her come.
He wanted to watch her face when she came, feel the way Channing’s ass clamped down on him when he came. Fuck, that was good. Damn. His fingers brushed over the tip of his cock, rubbing the slit, working it.
That tiny electric shock was what he needed to send him over the edge. Bowie growled, his cock jerking as he came, his lovers’ names on his lips.
When the fantasy disappeared, he was left with memories, an address and a flyer.
Suddenly Bowie wished he’d taken a quick commuter flight. He needed to see Channing as soon as possible. Thank God for the knock on the sleeper-cabin door. Time for breakfast.
Soon he’d figure this shit out. Soon he’d have his mates in one room and he would remind them who the fucking dominant male was, damn it.
He couldn’t wait.
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