book cover of Caged Heat

Caged Heat

Bred By the Wolf
A Novella by

The last thing that Celeste was looking for from her archeological trip to Chile was romance. But when local myths about werewolves come vividly to life, Celeste is drawn into a world of supernatural intrigue. What is the true nature of her new Chilean lover, and can she really fall in love with someone so monstrous?

Read on for a small taste of what's inside:

Katherine lay sprawled on the bed with her mouth open, watching his movements. As he came down to rest on top of her, her arms naturally encircled him and her leg crooked to slide around onto his. He felt, literally, hotter than normal under her hands, and she could detect individual muscles in his back and arms shift as he rested his weight lightly on top of her. The man, breathing heavily now, almost panting, dragged her hair to one side, bending his head to kiss her neck roughly, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin and moving down towards her collarbone and around the other side. His rough chin and cheeks with heavy five o’clock shadow dragged against her skin as he did so.

Katherine moaned suddenly and tilted her head to allow him easier access. No longer wary, she had quickly abandoned any reason or concerns. She felt shockingly drawn to him, almost drugged. Besides, he obviously had her own enjoyment in mind; and while his entrance might have been unorthodox, she was rapidly more and more willing to overlook that for his present actions.

He seemed to appreciate her acquiescence and redoubled his efforts on the other side of her neck until she repeated the moan. Satisfied, his mouth moved lower, meeting the collar of her night shirt. Undeterred, he merely paused to sit up, rip the shirt down its front entirely, and throw it open, baring her body to his gaze. Katherine was so shocked she didn’t even react for a moment, but then as he began to lean back over her, she put her hands up to his chest, intending to do the same (or something similar) to his shirt. Only one problem, there. He wasn’t wearing one. Her palms and fingers met only his bare chest, and she started for a second. No shirt? In this weather? Was he crazy?

The man held himself above her with his arms and lightly rocked his pelvis against her, in an unmistakable urge for her to continue. And curious, she did, running her fingers through the heavy and curling hair on his chest to his abs—ridiculously hard and defined, but covered in that same, overly hot skin, and then trailing her fingers back up to his shoulders and down his arms. He was heavily muscled, obviously very strong. She detected from his build a tangible athleticism though, honed by rough living, rather than weights and careful meals. And he was, perhaps, a bit hairier then she would have expected—his forearms felt almost like they were covered in light fur—but not in an unattractive way. Not unattractive at all.

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