WARNING: This story contains graphic sexual scenes and strong language and is not intended for readers under the age of 18.
Ian l'Argent, super-rich feral rock star, has a secret he can't reveal to his fans.
He's a werewolf -- a real werewolf. But he requires only half a transformation for his act and he needs help with that.
Claire Pomeroy left a boring social media job to work for l'Argent's abrasive manager. She has no idea that her job description will soon change, bringing her intimately close to Ian himself.
An ancient connection, buried deep in her DNA, will make Claire both Ian's lover and his salvation.
They'll never see a full moon the same way again. Because sometimes it takes more than a silver bullet to tame the beast inside.
“You like naughty things, but you want people to believe the opposite. You have a wanton, animal side.” He grins. “An animal side, like me.”
“Except that a full moon won’t transform me into a wolf.”
“You’re wild inside.” He moves toward her and traces a line with his index finger from below her chin to between her breasts. “Starting here.”
Claire’s breath grows shallow with desire and she feels dizzy. He hasn’t said anything that isn’t true, she acknowledges. She flushes as she remembers the torrid dream from last night. “I thought we were supposed to…do this…tomorrow night.”
Ian takes a step closer, slips an arm around her waist and presses her belly to him. Something round, hard and insistent, rising fast like baking bread dough, fills the space between her thighs. She doesn’t have to guess what that is. “Just a preview,” he whispers against her cheek.
Whenever he’s near her he senses something he has never found in any of the other women: a feeling, dark as an ancient cracked caldron buried deep in the loam of the l’Argent estate grounds. Is she a witch unaware of her powers? Ian smiles wryly at the thought. “Well,” he says aloud to the empty room, “the girl has certainly bewitched my cock—and that’s all that matters right now.”
The tendons all over his body give a powerful tug, the worst over his belly, and he drops to the floor, teeth clenched. The transition is beginning. He feels new follicles blooming beneath his skin, ready to push thick hairs through the darkening dermis. Instinctively, he brings a hand up before his face and watches as the nails lengthen and grow sharp and pointed.
Still staring at his changing hand, Ian uses the other to grasp his phone and dial Mal’s number. Before his manager can utter a greeting, Ian growls, “It’s begun. Fetch the girl. Now.”
He is amazing, Claire thinks as she watches Ian’s darkly furred chest writhe around the microphone stand. As he sings—shouts lyrics to a melody—Ian’s hair, dampened to black ringlets by his sweat, whips over his forehead and around his high cheekbones. Even through the television screen she sees how his icy stare cuts through the photons and bores into her own eyes. Ian is naked to the waist, wearing only jeans torn at the knees—no doubt sans underwear because she sees the bulge of his crotch wriggling like a heavy bag of fruit as he sways his narrow hips in time to the throbbing beat.
Claire closes her eyes and leans her head back. She feels the thrum of the underlying bass melding with Ian’s vocals as it travels through the floor and up her body. She starts to sway her own hips to the music. It’s as if she is participating in another ritual, separate from the one in the cell below, yet just as sensual and erotic. She fights the urge to strip off her clothes and dance around the room. She imagines that Ian must have the same power over his audience.