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Moira Rogers
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Kamikaze

Last Call, Story One
Series Info:

Digital

August, 2008

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Zoe Bennett is an inexperienced werewolf in the grip of her mating cycle. With no pack and no mate, Zoe must brave the supernatural crowds of Last Call, the bar where your drink order tells everyone what you need.

Kamikaze: Werewolf in heat, looking for a temporary mate

The chase is on, and security specialist Connor O’Malley intends to win, if only because the sweet young woman at the bar looks unprepared for what the night might bring, in and out of the bedroom. Little does he know that, when he catches her, he may not be satisfied being just a temporary mate.

Originally released in August, 2008. Reissued by the author in April 2012 with a new cover.

Read an Excerpt


Zoe Bennett needed to fuck someone.

It was a rather shocking reality, one that alarmed her as she slipped through Last Call’s crowded dance floor. Being alarmed by it didn’t make it easier to ignore, however. Goosebumps rose on her skin every time a stranger brushed against her. If that stranger happened to be a fellow werewolf — a male werewolf — her nipples tightened and she had to fight off a shudder of pure need.

She needed it tonight. Her fingers clenched around the menu she’d picked up from next to the door, creasing it as she finally broke free of the writhing mass of bodies clogging the dance floor. She needed it, and nothing — not shyness, not her natural inhibitions, nothing — could stop that need. Not now.

Three wide steps from the floor led up to the low platform that held the main attraction of Last Call: a long, slightly curved bar with fifteen stools and a wide corridor behind it. Three more bars crowded against the other walls of the large room, but this was the bar. The bar where the drinks were incidental.

The seats never stayed filled for long. Now they were empty except for the left-most stool, which held a young man with pale skin and sharp looking fangs that he flashed whenever he laughed. His companion, a duskily tanned young woman, leaned closer and ran her tongue along his ear as Zoe watched.

Zoe shivered and set her foot on the lowest step. Nervousness rose, but the need burning in her pushed her up to the second one.

By the third step she could feel the curious stares on her back. She ignored them and closed the distance between herself and the smooth mahogany of the bar. Her hands shook a little as she slapped the menu down and sought the bartender’s eyes. “I — I have an order.”

His skin was the same color as the bar, and his smooth, shaved head gleamed under the low light. A small, high-tech looking headset curved over his head, something that looked like it might serve as a microphone as well. He smiled at her and nodded to the crumpled menu in front of her. “On or off the menu?”

“On.” She smoothed the menu out and turned it over, her gaze sliding down the list of specials. Last Call house drinks, each with its own meaning. Its own message. And there was only one message she had for the men of the bar tonight. Take me if you can. “Kamikaze, please.”

He nodded and reached up to tap the side of the headset he wore. His strong, deep voice cut in over the music, filling the bar and attracting the attention of most of its patrons. “Last call for the lady in black. Kamikaze, coming up.” He released the button and winked at her as the music resumed its previous volume.

Zoe slid onto the stool at the far right of the bar and struggled not to look at the dance floor as the bartender made a show of mixing her drink, a process so impressive it bordered on performance art. It made a good distraction, one which gave her an excuse not to turn around and watch the crowd behind her. She could feel the male werewolves approaching, and their sudden, intense interest made her skin tingle.

Tradition declared that no one approach her before she had her drink. Zoe ignored the appraising stares and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of her menu again. The back was a neat list, divided into sections. Vampire, werewolf, witch, fae– Plain black type delineated the various clientele of Last Call, along with the “specials” peculiar to each kind. She slid her finger down the page, past the bold Werewolf heading until she found kamikaze.
Werewolf in heat, looking for a temporary mate.

***

Connor stared at the woman on the dais and frowned. He wasn’t exactly a Last Call regular, but he’d been in often enough to know she wasn’t the type of woman who usually patronized the bar’s more exotic services.

She was wearing blue jeans, for one thing. Not a low-riding pair of designer ones, either. Serviceable jeans, faded by wear and not fashion. Her T-shirt was similarly styled — understated and solid black except for the letters “PEBKAC” across the front. He grinned. Problem exists between keyboard and chair.

He rubbed his thumb over his beer bottle as his eyes followed the curves of her body. She wasn’t rail thin. Instead, she had the kind of body a man could wrap his hands around. The kind he had no trouble picturing bent over in front of him. And she needs a mate.

No, he told himself. You’re here to update the security software. Do it and get out.

Men were already gathering near the base of the steps, drawn by the lure of a female in the clutches of her mating instinct. They looked tense, hungry; ready to compete for the pleasure of a woman who needed sex, whose scent would be an aphrodisiac to any male werewolf.

She shifted nervously on the stool, her eyes drawn to the small knot of men who were poised, waiting for the bartender to deliver her drink. She knew she’d be pounced, he could see it in her eyes as they darted around the room. She’d be chased.

He wondered, perhaps with a bit of jealousy, who would catch her.

Her gaze clashed with his, and Connor raised his drink in salute.

She blushed. She actually blushed as she turned away and stared at the counter again. The bartender returned, her drink in hand, and Connor could see the tense set of her shoulders as she watched him place the glass in front of her. Her hands shook a little as she slid her credit card across the counter and accepted a small, magnetic key to one of the upstairs rooms in return.

More than just the werewolves were watching her now. A kamikaze almost always guaranteed a good show, no matter how shy or plain the woman. She seemed to feel the pressure as she wrapped her fingers around her drink. She lifted it to her lips and hesitated for a heartbeat.

Then she drank the entire thing in one gulp. Someone in the crowd cheered loudly enough to be heard over the music, and someone else let loose a piercing catcall.

Connor watched as she hastily shoved the key in her back pocket and shot off the dais and away from the men gathered around it, disappearing into the crowd. She was either very nervous… or she wanted the chase.

He found himself moving toward her, cursing himself with every step.

Whoever was in charge of the music had a sense of humor. He was still five feet away from her when the upbeat pop song changed, bled into a savage industrial song with a primal bass rhythm.

She was watching him when another man stepped up behind her and slid an arm around her waist. She stiffened and whipped her head to the side, her snarl just loud enough to be heard over the music.

The man backed off but another slid in beside her. She ignored him, her gaze still locked with Connor’s. Her new suitor took her lack of response as encouragement and hooked a hand over her hip.

That earned a reaction. She spun around and snarled again, taking a step back when she realized three men had gathered behind her. She might be nervous, but Connor had no doubts now that the competition excited her.

The voice in his head protested. He ignored it and reached into her pocket, plucking out her key. He held it in front of her as he bent close to her ear. “Do you want to go upstairs with one of them, or with someone who knows what the geeky slogan on your T-shirt means?”

She stepped back against him, molding her body to his. Her ass rubbed against his cock as she shimmied a little in time with the music. “Dance with me.” Her hand came up and snatched the key away, and she shoved it into her front pocket this time as she ground back against him.

He set his beer bottle on a table at the edge of the dance floor, not caring that it was occupied, and wrapped his hands around her hips. “What’s your name, Kamikaze?”

“Zoe.” She hitched in a breath and slid her hands over his, and he could feel the barely leashed need in her, already threatening to boil over. She gasped as she rubbed back against him again, and when she spoke, it was a low and breathless. “What’s your name?”

“Connor.” He thrust against her ass and she drew a sharp breath. “Do you really want to dance?” He trailed his lips over her neck and nibbled at the soft skin.

One of the men to the left growled a soft challenge. Zoe twisted in his arms and pressed against him, and he felt those gorgeous breasts rub against his chest. “Three days,” she panted in a hoarse voice. “It started three days ago. Can you make it stop?”

“Jesus, sweetheart.” Three days of the kind of clawing desire that would accompany her heat cycle? He shook his head and squeezed her ass with both hands. “Might take a miracle, but I will do my level best.”


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