Part three for thee…
The Beast of Bodmin Moor
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be…concentrating. The results are rarely worth the worry. Unless…I just focus on things that aren’t…”
How would Phin ever get it right if he was supposed to sift through stuff and choose what to concentrate on? He never did choosing, Phin just knew what he wanted. Or did not. If he didn’t, then he never would, simple.
If he was asked: ‘would you rather do this or that?’ his brain had a fit of the fizzies. He couldn’t decide between two things he’d rather not do. He would already be on his way if he’d fancied doing either…and yet, he mustn’t say that, it was rude. Selecting one was the considerate thing to do.That seemed a bit rich to Phin, when making him choose wasn’t very considerate, was it? So many rules to follow. It was exhausting, which is why he preferred being on his own—except for today, of course—it was ‘the exception that proves the rule’.
Now that was just plain loopy. How could a not-rule prove a rule? Barmy. Phin was convinced these things were made up on purpose to fox him. Speaking of which…he sure wasn’t wishing away his newfound foxy friend. It had been kind of him to bring Phin home, especially when he seemed a bit of a scoundrel. A snaffling one, at that, so it was a wonder he hadn’t just ‘borrowed’ some clothes and scarpered.
Oh dear. Phin may have wafted off with the faeries again. “Pardon?”
“I said: I should get off and leave you in peace, now I know you’re alright.”
“Oh…have you changed your mind?” He tried not to sound sad. People seemed to do changing theirs a lot, as if was a jumper. Phin was stuck with his. “About being thirsty,” he clarified, when Foxy looked puzzled.
“No…I just…thought you’d rather I left, I wasn’t exactly invited,” Foxy grimaced.
“I don’t—want you to go—I mean. I’m glad you’re here, which is oddsome. Tea…?” Phin threw back the blanket and sprang to his feet, which wasn’t the best plan he’d ever had. Oouch. Worth it though; if switching the kettle on sharpish qualified as tea-in-progress and thus, an impolite time to leave. Ow…Phin’s spine felt like a length of rope, knotted at intervals. Stretching might help, while he waited, not least cos he felt too skittish to stand still.
“Are you okay?” Phin wondered, upon hearing the strangest noise after planting his palms on the roof of the van. It sounded like rusty indigestion.
“Yeah…” Foxy fibbed with a wince. “Sorry, I…cricked my neck. Tea would be great.”
“Ouch, that hurts. That’s why I’m stretching my back—I’m all kinky—are you sure you’re alright?”
“M’fine,” he insisted, between strangled cat sounds.
“’Kay, if you’re sure,” Phin sighed, letting his arms fall to his sides. It was rude to point out porkies, unless the lie was likely to be lethal or something such. “Four sugars. I’m on it.”
Phin still seemed to be wearing his coat—inside—which was a bit daft, so he shrugged it off. Urgh, he niffed to high heaven. Typical…his first ever foxy visitor and Phin reeked like his grandad’s slippers.
“Do I smell?” he wondered (worried) aloud.
“Huh?” Foxy frowned, for all the world as if sleeping in a trench coat was a surefire way to smell as fresh as a daisy.
“Oh, you’re being polite, aren’t you? Is it shocking horrible? I don’t usually go to bed in my coat, honest,” Phin promised.
“You don’t smell…bad,” Foxy flat out lied, attempting to smother a smirk.
“Ah…I know that one. You’re being kind, so you told a white lie. It’s alright to tell those, mostly when a girl asks if her bum looks big in this. My sister told me.”
“She was right.” Foxy grinned—it made his eyes gleam cerulean and shiny— like a coconut eclair in a box of Quality Street. A thought that made Phin’s fingers twitch. Magpies had nothing on him. “Are you hungry?”
Now that was true. Foxy damn near growled it.
“What d’you fancy?”
Duh. Phin hadn’t offered him any options. “Why don’t you have a mooch and help yourself while I get changed? The whiff won’t put you off your breakfast then. I went to the shops yesterday, so there’s lots to snaffle.”
Phin was gifted another coconut eclair smile as Foxy raked a hand through his hair. Quite why he bothered when it slithered straight back down to dangle in far too tempting tendrils, Phin knew not. It was excessively sexy hair.
Someone is allowed to touch those silken strands whenever they wish. As thoughts went, that one was about as welcome as a second visitor. Get changed, make tea, rustle up some breakfast and stop driving yourself doolally. That seemed excellent advice, despite its source, so Phin whipped his jumper off and tugged his jeans down to puddle at his ankles. He was wearing boxers, which was not always a given, so he didn’t think twice about stripping off. He was still decent, Foxy was a fella, and his undies were his favourite whitey tightys. Phin might stink something chronic, but at least he was sporting posh pants.
Foxy abruptly shot off his seat and…yanked open the fridge door to stick his head inside. Blimey, he’d shifted himself as fast as a ferret up a trouser leg, he must be starving.
“Ahhh…bacon,” he groaned.
The latter was a husky rumble that sounded as if Foxy was gargling gravel. Oh help…nooo. Tight pants. White pants. Fucketyfuck. He was staring at them in horror when a sharp inhalation shattered the silence. A split second later Phin found himself plastered to the cupboard door by a body forged from steel and feverish heat. He’d barely registered a firm pressure at his nape before his mouth crashed down onto lips that promptly snatched his breath away. Plump, glistening like glace cherries, paired with blue curaçao eyes…’twas akin to being clobbered by an exotic cocktail. When he’d never so much as sipped a cup of flat cider. Before breakfast, t’boot. Phin’s brain damn near dissolved. The rest of him froze.
Every sense was bombarded, bedazzled, by a torrent of heat, taste, touch; engulfed in husky, musky scent. A too much avalanche of never, ever, enough. Fingers tangled into Phin’s hair as those lips continued their plunder. It was…incredible. Intoxicating. It was impossible to worry about whether he was doing it right, responding as he should, while whisked away on a torrent of Foxy intensity. A whirlwind of want so consuming, Phin could scarce catch his breath, let alone fret about failing his oh, so foxy friend. He had never imagined it could feel this way, as if every fibre of his being was aflame, blowtorched within and without. Foxy was all fire; the brush of his fingers sizzled along Phin’s skin like a spark scarfing a trail of gunpowder as grappling hooks of need tugged at his guts.
The most sublime, staggering onslaught of Too Much he’d ever experienced in his life.
“Ah…bacon.” It was all Jake could do to force himself to place it on the counter after retrieving it from the fridge. Rather than shred the packet with his teeth and cram it in his mouth.
Fuck…a sudden, sharp spike of white-hot want and cinnamon spice assaulted Jake’s senses. Blazing a trail through his system like molten molasses. Need so intense he could barely breathe. His heart reacted as if seized by a huge fist and squeezed, forcing the blood through his veins in a scorching trip south. A scent so persuasive, it propelled Jake forwards in a surge of sheer instinct and inhuman speed. Irresistible, as if it had been brewed to wreak havoc on a soul starved of sustenance, concocted by an alchemist hell-bent on blowing his mind. Pure, unsullied sex, too potent to resist, the most intoxicating elixir on Earth.
Jake had to answer it. Had to. It was a compulsion, beyond comprehension—let alone control—a desire too consuming to deny. They couldn’t deny him. Anything. A knowledge that might’ve been as devastating as he was deranged if Jake hadn’t been too delirious to care. That was his last conscious thought for a while. Jackal instincts took over, obliterating all else.
Jack didn’t burst out of his body, but some bone-deep certainty understood why. Jake didn’t fight him, there was no battle for Jack to win. No reluctance to refute, or refusal to override. Jake went willingly, obliterating a chasm of space in a heartbeat. Flinging himself into the flames of a need he could no longer negate. What should have been a tentative brush of lips—more query than kiss—was a melding of mouths so incendiary, Jake may not have noticed if he’d burst into flames. It was a clash of lips, teeth, tongue; far from rebuffed. For about a snatched-off breath, it seemed He was stunned to stillness… before melting into Jake’s arms as if he’d waited a lifetime for Jake to succumb to the inevitable.
A sentiment that just might’ve prompted an inner rolling of eyes, if his shadow self had been in any fit state for snarky asides. Very fine impressions of furry hearth rugs did not count, despite claims to the contrary.
Mine…whispered like a cool breeze through Jake’s body, holding his human self together. Taking the place of the frantic scramble to surface he’d feared. Never, had Jake felt so certain that he wouldn’t explode in a frenzy of fur and frustration.
Jake tightened his arms, fusing them closer still; there was no close enough. A helpless groan rattled in his throat when a searing fact blow-torched his consciousness, blazing its way to his lust-glazed brain: There was a ridge of hard heat branding his lower belly. Scalding through flimsy cotton and soft fleece, too insistent to ignore. Dragging his own hips back in order to slip a hand between their bodies would have been too cruel to contemplate…had Jake not accomplished it, before he caught on. Christ.
A sharp intake of breath shattered the kiss when he cupped ruffled warmth; a heady weight that thrilled through Jake’s veins as liquid lust. A soft whimper slipped free; distinct from his own, the single most erotic sound he’d ever been gifted. Nothing, no one—not even Jake—could make him relinquish the right to earn himself an entire symphony of sighs. A flight of fancy hijacked by an abrupt snap of lean hips, urging him on. Fuck. The racket that rumbled in Jake’s throat when he recaptured ripe lips wasn’t far from a growl, it sounded half feral. More animal than human.
Mine… The source of that was uncertain, Jake could only hope it hadn’t made a bid for freedom. A repetition was a very close thing when he finally closed his fingers around feverish flesh.
“Ahhhhh!” His head snapped back, breaking the kiss when his hips jerked reflexively.
A loss that suggested a gain far too tempting to resist. Jake had dropped to his knees before he could consider the wisdom of this cunning plan.
“Jack…” he cautioned.
“Huh?” floated out on a bewildered breath. Crap…he’d said that. Out loud. It had been intended as whispered word of warning to gentle the jackal.
“Er…Jack. My…name,” Jake managed to stammer—the only fudge that seemed feasible.
“Hmm…it suits you.” That creamy smile was sin itself. “Phin.”
Phin… Was a sigh of sublime satisfaction so smug, Jake might have smirked. If he’d had a leg to stand on.
A feat in itself, y’must admit. Considering.