Hero: After ten months in bear form, Simon is struggling. He’s not ready to deal with anyone, let alone the bold and gorgeous Alyssa. Mine, whispers his bear. But all hell has broken loose in the Detroit shifter community, and it’s spreading to humans. Now Simon must face the darkest place of all: where bear and man become one. And the only way he can make it back to his humanity is by finding—and claiming—his mate.

Heroine: Alyssa Nelson doesn’t actually believe that Simon Gold is a shape-shifting grizzly bear—until she sees it firsthand. But Alyssa doesn’t have time to deal with the fact that her ruggedly hot, long-time secret crush is a shifter . . . not when her brother has turned into one, too.

 

“I’ll help,” she said, gesturing to the stairs. “I’ll get the plumbing working. Please tell me  I don’t need to scrub bear off your back.”

His lips curved. “The bear is inside. No amount of scrubbing will get it off.” The way he said it made her think he’d once tried to do it, but she didn’t have time to delve into that. She had to get back to Vic, and he was all the way down in Detroit.

“Whatever. Just get moving.” She fit words to action, putting her hands on him enough to push him toward the stairs. She was a strong woman, but she couldn’t have moved him if he hadn’t allowed it. And for a moment there, she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to cooperate. But something had changed from when he’d slammed the door in her face and now. Something inside this cabin that made him a little malleable.

So when she pushed, he shifted his weight and began to walk. She kept her hands on him, guiding him though he didn’t need it. But when else was she going to get her hands on a naked him? Just because he’d lived in her fantasies for years didn’t mean that he felt anything toward her. Hell, he hadn’t even remembered her at first. And wasn’t that a blow to her ego?

The upstairs was simple. Two bedrooms and a large bathroom. She pushed him in the bathroom first. Then while he narrowed his eyes at his reflection, she turned on the bathtub faucet. The water ran—good—but it was pretty cold, so he’d have to wait for it to heat up. Meanwhile, she turned back to him and watched him stroke his hand over his cheeks. “I never need to shave after a shift. And my hair is always like this.” He brushed his fingers through his short, military-style cut. “Even before I enlisted, I always came back like this.”

Well that was interesting, but she had no idea what to say about it, so she checked the water again. Toasty warm.

“Yeah. So get in. I’ll look for a towel.” There was soap and shampoo in the shower, though a fine coating of dust was on both. Pretty clear no one had used this shower in months.  He obeyed slowly, stepping in as if he were in a daze. But once the water hit him, he gasped and his eyes shuttered as his head tilted back. He was facing directly into the spray and he seemed to stretch his broad chest as if to catch the water.  

He didn’t have to say a word for her to realize that this was something important to him. Some type of visceral memory that engulfed him. He stood there, water beating at his chest, and he deeply inhaled the mist, which carried the scent of woods and man to her nostrils.

God, what a sight. She felt like she was peeking in on primal man in a moment of joyous oneness with water. It made no sense, but she felt the elemental draw all the way to her womb. Her mouth dried and she stood mesmerized as he slowly tilted his head forward and down. The water hit his face and then the top of his head, running in rivulets down his body. And he breathed. Deep inhales that expanded his shoulders and his barrel chest, while she went wet with lust.

What kind of perv stood there watching a man shower? Especially when he was deep in whatever experience was going on in his head?

Her apparently, because she couldn’t force herself to leave.

And then he reached out. The motion was automatic because he didn’t look, didn’t even open his eyes. His hand connected with the soap and he grabbed it, spinning it slowly as he created a rich lather.

Irish Spring. She remembered that scent from when he’d visited so long ago. It became permanently linked with her fantasies about him, and now she was watching one of her favorites play out right in front of her. If only she dared strip down to join him under the spray. She’d slide against his lathered chest as he pressed her against the tile wall. And when they were both thoroughly slick, he’d lift her knee and impale her. She’d come right then. And she’d keep coming while he pistoned into her. And then he’d erupt just like in her fantasies while pressing kisses into her neck and whispering words of devotion.  

Her womb pulsed at the thought, then he inhaled again. God, she’d never tire of watching his chest broaden like that. And then he began to wash. Face first as he leaned back out of the spray. He covered his head in lather, including his hair. With it cut so short, he didn’t really need shampoo. She watched the play of his muscles as he moved. Who had biceps that large? Or an abdomen so flat?

Then he tilted forward, and the white foam slid off him like melted ice cream washed away. She wanted to lick it and him, though she told herself sternly that was gross. Didn’t seem to matter to her libido. And damn it, with the shower curtain wide open, he was getting water all over the floor—and her pants—but she didn’t care. Couldn’t move. Not as he started soaping up his arms and chest next.

She watched, her mouth dry, her eyes unblinking. She didn’t want to miss a second of this display. When he rubbed the soap over his chest, her nipples tightened unbearably. And that was nothing compared to when he lifted his legs—one by one—to lather every sweet inch. She even watched when he cleaned his dick. He didn’t take any special time with it; was being efficient as he rubbed and pulled. But god, what she wouldn’t give to do that for him. And extra slow. Especially when he soaped up his ass. He couldn’t reach his back. He tried anyway, rubbing across his shoulders, stretching up behind. And when he turned around to face away from the spray, she got splashed from the movement. Droplets on her face and arms. She might have gasped. She might not. Either way, he abruptly stilled while the water pelted his back.

She froze, her breath trapped in her lungs. Hell, what if he knew she was there? She’d be mortified! But she couldn’t turn tail and run now. He’d hear her and know for sure. So she had to remain still and pray, pray, pray that he didn’t look her way. It was a losing gambit. Eventually he was going to finish, and she had no idea what she’d do then. But for now, she was frozen in indecision and lust.

Fortunately, he didn’t look her way. He stood there while the soap suds slicked down his body. And together, they breathed deep the misty scent of Irish Spring. Then, three breaths later, she saw his erection. Oh wow.

Right there in profile, his dick thickened until it was high and proud.

Her gaze shot to his face. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady and even. And while she was looking at his face, his hand moved. Oh God. He was touching himself. More than touching, he’d begun a slow, steady stroke.

Seriously? He was jerking off now? She was appalled and intrigued, and a thousand other things. But mostly she was panicked. She couldn’t watch. It was depraved.

And yet, she did. She watched as he stroked himself, fisting his impressive penis in a large, soapy hand. His tempo was steady, his breathing barely discernible, but growing faster. She watched as his ass tightened with tiny thrusts. Flex, flex, flex, —all as he punched into his fist.

This was exactly how she’d imagined he made love, how she’d fantasized his thrusts inside her would be. Steady and thick. Her belly began to contract in time with him. Her heart beat faster and faster as her breath grew short. And she stared transfixed at the curl of his fist as she imagined herself spread wide as he did that to her.

The head of his penis peaked out above his fist. It grew darker, a reddish purple that fascinated her. But no more so than the rhythmic way that he worked himself. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Like a metronome.

His nostrils flared and his breath grew louder. Hers caught as her body flushed hot. His jaw clenched and his belly seemed to ripple. Hers did, too, a perfect mirror. Faster. A little faster.  

Her toes curled into her shoes and she ached, wanting the finish.

A grunt. Guttural and yet still triumphant.

White shot from his tip. It mixed with the shower spray and the wet on the tiles. She wanted it, too. She wanted that finish, but it didn’t come. Not for her. Not from watching.

He opened his hand and his penis bobbed before him, dark red and still proudly erect. And he stood there while the water washed the evidence away while she throbbed from nipples to core. She’d never seen anything so raw before. Or so beautiful. A perfect body erupting in the most primal of ways. There’d been power and steady determination in the act. No wild jerks, no exultant crowing like a horny boy.

He was all man and she would remember the sight until the day she died.

**Please note, Smexy has not read this book yet. The scene was provided by the author.

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