ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (142 page)

                      She hears it again now, behind a door that is similar.

                      A small push, and now there is a crack through which to view the happenings on.  At first, there is nothing but a tangle of pale flesh, joints in odd positions, hairy legs sticking out from a seeming heap, and then the image arranges itself properly.  Long moans are emanating from the two men sliding their bodies on each other, two men who are grasping each other’s cocks with their hands, their eyes locked as they stroke, over and over again, grunting out loud as only men can in the throes of something illicit, as if they are angry, but have given in to their true natures at last.

                      The door creaks a little, and both men halt.  Selema did not think it was possible, given how drunk they are on each other, but the tangle is untangling, limbs are coming straight, and suddenly, there are two forms frozen on the bed, their backs to each other.  One is reddish-hued, with freckles all over his shoulders and chest, and a fine sprinkle of light copper hair on his body, and the other has soft, dark, thick curls cropped close to his head.  There is something about both of the men that strikes Selema as just a little bit off; perhaps it is the dusky hue of the brunette’s skin or the overly full lower lip of the redhead, but she scarcely has time to dwell on these things because the men are jamming their limbs into their clothes and making fast headway to the door.

                      She stumbles backwards and since she does not know her way, bangs her calf into a small table piled with shoehorns.  She falls, and her ankle throbs with pain.  She cannot run, and before she can even think of a good escape plan, the naked men are standing before her.

                      My, but they’re glorious.  Well-conditioned muscle, a fine smattering of hair everywhere, and those manhoods—well now, they’re just simply a part of them, are they not, like a long continuation of the very essence of their virile masculine souls.  Selema’s mouth goes dry, an unlucky circumstance considering the two men have a look that speaks of a fear that lends itself to anger, a defensiveness of an animal once it is cornered.  For a moment, their eyes lock, something primitive passes between them, and nobody speaks.

                      It is Selema who breaks the tense silence.

                      “I take it the women of the house are not here,” she says, her tone glib.

                      “There have never been any women here.  Not since Ezrah’s mother died,” says the tall red-haired man, the dark bite of his gray eyes nicking at her.

                      “You must be Jeb Lee, then,” Selema says, righting herself and picking herself up from the floor.  “I’ve been looking for you.  I never did expect to meet you under these circumstances.”

                      Jeb stands with his powerful arms crossed over his chest.  “How much did you see?”

                      “Enough.”

                      “Why aren’t you running off to tell the neighbors then?”

                      “Because I know what loneliness is, and it is not my place to cast judgment on anyone.”

                      She is from Chicago.  Things don’t faze you once you’ve lived there.

                      “So you don’t care?” asks Jeb, and there is a softness in his eyes that tells her that this is the point from which there is no return, the one where she can either create a lasting relationship of trust or one that will ultimately leave them at war forever.

                      She fixes them with a steadfast look.  “I don’t care.”

                      “Then what can we help you with then, marm?” the darker one with soft brown eyes asks her.

                      Selema shoots him a sharp look.  “How ‘bout putting some pants on and offering a lady a seat and a cup of tea first?”

                      In the kitchen, the dark one busies himself putting a kettle on, although Selema can feel the resentment rising off of him in waves.  She can hardly blame him.  If someone came in and disrupted her illicit lovemaking session and then refused to leave, she’d be mighty put out, too.  Nevertheless, she settles down on one of the rough-hewn chairs and accepts the steaming cup they present her with.

                      “Your mother was the head of this household until she died you mentioned,” she says, blowing softly into the hot liquid, not meeting their wary eyes.

                      “Yes,” Jeb answers, eyeing her warily.  “I guess we clean forgot to ask who it is you are, Miss…”

                      “Jameson,” Selema says, and then quietly, without skipping a beat, “As in Jameson Plantation.”

                      Ezrah shoots her a sharp look.  “As in this plantation?”

                      Selema fixes her green eyes on the pair of men, who are now fully and totally at attention before her. “Sugar, please?” she sweetly requests.  Jeb hands it to her mutely, slamming it a little on the table in front of her.  “I know this seems a bit strange to you, gentlemen, but the fact of the matter is, I’m not truly sure how to approach the matter.  I came here to enlist your aid, and instead I found…well, truth be told, I expected a less sensationalized introduction.”

                      Jeb has the good grace to soften his expression.  “Enlist our aid how?”

                      Selema hesitates.  “Well, truth be told, I’m looking for answers.  I only discovered who I am about two months ago, and it took that long to save up for passage here from Chicago, so I’m a bit at a loss.”

                      “What exactly is your connection to this house, Miss Jameson?”

                      “Please, Selema.”

                      “What is your connection to the house, Selema?”

                      “My mother lived on this plantation some twenty odd years ago.  I knew that she came from this state, but I was never truly too sure about the extent of my history.  I suffered some memory loss as a child and never recovered what I had forgotten.  I think it was likely because it wasn’t too happy a happenstance.”

                      “Yes, times were different back then,” says Ezrah quietly, an almost-apology in his voice.

                      “Is there anything you do remember about your past?” Jeb asks, settling into one of the crude chairs across from her.

                      “Big Jim, my father, used to tell me some things, long before he was killed, about how something bad happened to my mother, but he would never say what.  Jim had some unscrupulous dealings with some unsavory gentlemen in town, and then this one day, our neighbor girl, Millie, comes running down our street yelling that Big Jim’s been shot.  So I rush over to the hospital, and he tells me, right there on his deathbed, he tells me.”

                      Selema stops, overcome by the memory.  Ezrah leans forward.  “What did he tell you?”

                      “He tells me this address.  He says he remembers it because of the man who bought him.  The one who did something bad to my mother.  And that’s when I knew, you understand?”

                      The two men shake their heads no.  Selema draws in a long breath.  “Look at me, gentlemen.  What do you see?”

                      They take her in, the narrow slope of her shoulders, the long length of her cocoa-tinged fingers.  They take in the curl of her hair, the blush on her cheeks, and finally her green eyes.  Understanding dawns, bright, sharp, and painful and Selema sees it in their eyes; it is a look she recognizes, because it is so similar to the one that was plastered over her own face when she herself realized the truth.

                      The Master of the house was her daddy.

                      Not an unusual circumstance, of course.  It was the days of hypersexualized black woman, the hips and thighs seen as those of a humanized cow, fertile and ripe for plowing into if the head of the household wanted certain needs fulfilled.  Thousands upon thousands of women conceived of as cattle, as vessels for use alone, allowed never to speak out, not understanding that they did not deserve such fates, forced to live with the children of those unions, forced to love them with a mother’s love that springs, unbidden, from some eternal, hidden source.

                      “I came to find out about my mother.”

                      Ezrah and Jeb exchange glances, and the truth beneath the truth becomes apparent.  Not only did this young woman’s mother belong to this house, but their father committed an unspeakable act, although the two men know many of their neighbors would disagree.  But if what she says is true, and there is that quality about her story, voice, and the slight tremble in her tone that makes them particularly inclined to believe her, then that means she is—

                      “Sister,” says Ezrah hoarsely.

*                    *                    *

                      “I grew in the yellow house down the way, just a mile down,” Jeb says to her, the words burbling from his mouth like a dam that’s been unstoppered.  He is bending down at Selema’s knees, tending to the ankle she twisted.  It hadn’t hurt at first, but when the blood began to trickle down to her toes, Jeb decided to pull out a medical kit.

                      They had retired to one of the rooms while Ezrah went out to round up the horses.  There was no tense silence here, although Selema found it hard to concentrate on what Jeb was saying.  The man was so damn attractive.  What a waste, she thought to herself, taking in the delicate whiteness, how his thighs spread out into broad muscle when he kneeled, and how soft his hair looked.  It was all she could do not to bend her head down until the tip of her nose brushed his reddish locks, to smell the hay she knew clung to him still, to inhale the scent of sex and desire that was fresh on him.

                      “Is that how you two met?” Selema asks, mostly to distract herself from the distraction of his looks.

                      When he turns his head to look her in the eye, she finds that her breath catches on the sweetness of his brown eyes, like the ocean after a storm, hinges on the furrow between his dense brows, latches onto that mouth like suction, like an invisible force pulling her forward.  Down, girl.

                      “Look it’s not what you think,” Jeb says, and catches his bottom lip in pure white teeth.  His shoulders, still bare and tantalizingly sculpted with little hollows along his acromion process, tense, and he drops his gaze to the floor before throwing down the cotton swabs he has been using in a fury that causes Selema to pull back away from his seeming anger.  He crosses over to the other side of the room and runs a hand through his hair, making it stand every which way like a madman’s.

                      “Ezrah was my best friend.  You know how boys are when they’re young.  Always playing, fighting.  Well, one day, it felt better to fight than it did to do anything else.  I had him pinned down to the ground in the stables, and suddenly, we were…”

                      “Kissing?” Selema queries slyly.

                      Jeb looks back at her, a flash of amusement passing over his face.  “Among other things.  Doesn’t mean we don’t like ladies, by the way.”

                      “You’re sure of that?” Selema asks, and rises gracefully from the seat, her dress swaying around her.  She crosses the room until she is standing just under Jeb’s chin, the rough stubble on it almost close enough to run a hand over.  Would her fingertips be as sensitive to it as she is to the look in his eyes right now?  She looks up at him through her eyelashes.  “Am I to your taste, then?”

                      Jeb looks down at her, taken aback, but unable to deny his instant and powerful attraction to this strong woman.  “Yes,” he says, swallowing hard, unable to meet her eye.

                      Selema wraps her arms around his powerful neck and presses her breasts against his bare chest, crushing her green gown against him.  “Then show me,” she whispers, tilting her face up, presenting her mouth as a gift.

                      For just a moment, she feels Jeb’s arms close around her, feels herself become soft and small in his arms, but the touch of his lips never comes.

                      “Ezrah’d kill me, you’re his sister,” Jeb finally croaks out, but Selema notices that he has not released his grasp on her waist.

                      “Well,” she drawls out slowly, tilting her pelvis oh- so- slightly against his, as if by accident, “I’d look at a newfound relationship as a celebration rather than a new fence, wouldn’t you?  So celebrate with me, Jeb.”  And with that, she stands on the tips of her toes and presses her mouth, warm and soft, against his, feels him groan against her and squeeze her so tight she can hardly breathe, all woman in his arms, imprinting herself on him like a duckling to its mother.

                      The clearing of a throat startles them, breaks them apart.  Ezrah is standing at the archway, looking for all the world like the master of the house that he is, bulky arms folded across a fantastically meaty chest.  The look on his face is hungry in a way that makes Selema shiver with both repulsion and interest; she has seen that look before, stamped across dozens of male faces, but this is her brother for heaven’s sake.  No matter how backwards the world may be, answering that hungry call with your siblings is sure to be frowned upon.  Selema steps away from Jeb, instantly colder when she leaves his arms, and wipes a hand over her mouth; her lips feel bruised from the ferocity of their joining.  Jeb looks abashed and hangs his head down lower than a schoolchild being scolded for a transgression.  For a full minute, nobody says anything.