Wolf Tracker by Cynthia Sax

Wolf Tracker
by Cynthia Sax

Cover art: Bryan Keller
ISBN: 978-1-60521-690-4
Genre(s): Paranormal, Wildest West
Theme(s): Werewolves, Shapeshifters, Men and Women in Uniform, Alternative Universe
Series: Wolves of the Wild West
Length: Novella
Page Count: 38

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Blurb
Trace has hunted the deadliest outlaws in the Wild West, but that tracking ain't nothing compared to the dangers of courting his werewolf sweetheart, Harriet. He wrangles a deal with her brother, the alpha of her pack. Trace will wait for a year to ask Harriet to marry him, and the alpha will give them the pack's blessing.
When a rival werewolf pack takes Harriet, Trace reckons he'll do his courting with a six-shooter and a fistful of silver bullets. 'Cause no one touches Trace's woman and lives.
Excerpt
Wolf Tracker
Cynthia Sax
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2011 Cynthia Sax

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Harriet was being hunted.
She crept between the rock facings, in wolf form, dragging her tail in the red dirt. Erasing her paw prints merely delayed their confrontation.
Trace would find her. He was the best tracker in the territory.
And when he did... She wiggled her rump.
Her nostrils twitched. His scent flavored the night breeze with musk and arousal. Trace was gaining on her. Harriet dashed along the trail, moving faster and faster until her muscles ached and she panted, her tongue hanging out of her open mouth.
Boot-covered feet smacked stone. As he normally moved as silently as any shifter, the noise was a deliberate declaration of intent. He would catch her. Soon.
The path straightened, and her withers quivered with awareness. He was close enough to see her, the full moon lighting the ground, coloring the rocks gray and blue.
She shifted as she ran, her fur becoming bare flesh and her front paws becoming human hands. Trace inhaled sharply, and she smiled, smelling his frustration -- the aroma raw and poignant and exciting.
He wanted her, and despite the hurt he would soon inflict upon her, she wanted him too, her pussy moistening and her nipples tightening in anticipation. The trail widened, revealing a suitable spot for their confrontation.
Harriet stopped, glancing around her, and she backed into a recess in the rock wall, her bare ass pressed against cool stone. There she waited, hiding in the shadows.
Trace stepped into the open area, his broad shoulders blocking the moonlight, and Harriet froze, her gaze fixed on his muscular form. Her human lover exemplified all that was wild and primitive and fierce. Buckskin clung to his body, and his long, brown hair hung loose down his back. He had arrived for their rendezvous armed: a knife strapped to his narrow hips, and a rifle clutched in his big hands.
He raised his chin, displaying a profile consisting of angles and strength, and Harriet's fingers twitched, the compulsion to stroke his high, proud cheekbones nearly overwhelming her sense of self-preservation. He sniffed, his nostrils flaring.
Did he smell her warm, wet pussy? Harriet's breath hitched -- the sound obscenely loud.
His head turned. Silver glinted in his smoke-gray eyes while his grim lips curled into a smug smile. Without looking away, he propped the rifle against the wall of rock.
He had spotted her.
Harriet pushed away from the stone, launching her body into the air. She bounced off a solid wall of chest. Large, tanned hands slapped flat against the rocks, trapping her face between them, the tracker's muscular arms creating a cage around her.
"Got you." Trace's deep voice rumbled through the cool night air. Heat rose off his body, seductively reaching out toward her.
She licked her bottom lip, and his gaze followed the nervous sweep of her tongue, his face darkening ominously. "And what will you do with me?" Harriet feigned bravery. She tilted her face upward. His breath fanned her skin, caressing her eyelashes.
He leaned into her, his buckskin shirt brushing against her nipples. "This." His mouth dipped to cover hers, his lips firm and possessing as he claimed his prize. She opened to his questing tongue, allowing him to explore her softness, and he blazed a trail of fire and desire, mapping her soul with the tip of his tongue.
"Trace." Harriet moaned, reaching up to encircle his neck with her arms, holding his huge physique to her smaller form. Trace slid his callused palms around to the small of her back, his fingers resting on her spine, as they kissed like they'd never kissed before, and might never kiss again, his surges into her synchronizing to the pounding of her heart.
"She-wolf." He pulled back from her, lightning bolts of passion shooting across his stormy eyes, and Harriet took a tentative step forward, blindly following him, her bare soles connecting with cool rock.
"You tracked me." She gazed up at him.
Trace loosened the laces at his neck and tugged his buckskin shirt over his head, the action tousling his long hair and revealing a chest covered with smooth, tanned skin and ridged with muscles.
"Hunted me." Harriet examined him from under her partially lowered eyelids, want settling low in her womb.
"Yeah." Trace kicked off his worn, leather boots and removed his breeches, his legs corded with toned flesh and his cock jutting out from a base covered with brown curls. "Always."
He stood in front of her, proudly naked except for the knife strapped to his hip, and Harriet ran her hands over his pecs, circling his flat, male nipples with her fingertips, marveling that he was hers, this marvelous human male.
"Always?" It was a lie, as he was only hers for the moment. Others made demands on his time.
"Yeah." Trace wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her forward, crushing her to his hard body, driving her head back with the force of his kiss. "I need you, wolf."
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Wild Ride Collection by Willa Okati

Wild Ride (Collection)

by Willa Okati Cover art: Karen Fox

ISBN: 978-1-60521-547-1

Genre(s): Paranormal, Action Adventure/ Suspense, Dark Fantasy, Time Travel, Wildest West, History Rewritten

Theme(s): Vampires, Gay and Lesbian

Length: Collection

Page Count: 225

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Blurb:

Wild Ride -- Strange dreams tell Nikos he's meant to be more than a Secret Keeper, tracking the predatory Nightlings. Alexei, a time traveler from the past, has come to find Nikos and take him back to the year 2007. It's going to be a wild ride...
Hell at One Dark Window -- It's the end of the world as we knew it. For most folk survival is all that matters, and the only justice to be found comes at the end of a pistol or the point of a stake. Barrett, a vampire and a highwayman, gets his kicks out of stealing from robber barons. He's going to take his human lover, Nathaniel, and getting the hell out of Dodge. So to speak. All he needs is to pull off one last big job...
Blood Red -- On the coldest night of the year, Ros is cast out of a village for the sin of lying with another man. He's meant to go to his death, but stumbles instead into the enchanted garden of a Beast... a vampire Beast. Will the Beast find the salvation he's sought for so long in the arms of a wise and willing story teller?
Sidetracked -- An escort-for-hire, Devon's just been humiliated and stiffed by his patron of the evening. When the subway taking him home switches tracks, Devon finds himself alone with a man in a white mask and gloves, a man who embodies every sexual fantasy Devon's ever had. Is this a dream, or has he found himself Phantom Night Rider?

Excerpt:

Wild Ride (Collection)
Willa Okati
Copyright ©2011 Willa Okati

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight,
Though hell should bar the way!

Alfred Noyes
"The Highwayman"
"You're quiet tonight, lover."
"Am I?"
"Not a word's passed your lips except 'harder,' 'more,' and 'oh, God...' and those I recall being spoken in the heat of passion. You've not made a peep since. Being the smart type myself, despite all appearances, this tells me you've got something going on in that busy mind of yours. You care to share?"
"I don't know yet."
"Well, that's fair." Cool, strong arms wrapped around Nathaniel's waist, pulling him backwards against his lover's body. "Of course, you know I don't plan to let up until you spill the whole pot of beans."
Nathaniel gave a soft laugh despite himself. "I know you won't."
"So? Save us a little trouble, and tell me what's on your mind right now."
"Not yet." Nathaniel raised his hand and placed it palm-down on the cold window glass, where he stood staring out into the night, down to the abandoned stretch of cracked pavement running past his apartment. "There aren't words, so far."
"Hmm. Never known you to be at a loss before." Nathaniel's lover jostled him gently, playfully. "Never did meet a man who liked so much to talk about anything and everything. Apples to anthills. That's why I took a shine to you in the first place -- well, aside from an ass you could bounce quarters off and your pretty face. Sing for me."
"O figlio perdito --"
Nathaniel's lover jostled him. "Smarty-pants."
"Yeah." Nathaniel leaned into his lover's firm, gentle hold, savoring the feel of being held strong and sure by someone who'd never let him fall. Life taught gay men an early lesson: don't trust anyone unless you know for a fact they won't turn on you, and that they mean it when they say they love you. His partner had it all, did it all, said it all, and meant it all.
Nathaniel should have been able to be open about what was worrying him. Yet somehow, he found that he couldn't put his thoughts into words. Not yet.
His lover seemed to accept that. One thing about him, he did know when not to push. He simply held Nathaniel and rocked them soft and easy against one another, sexy yet comforting. "It'll be all right," he murmured after a moment. "Whatever's got you fretting, it'll be just fine."
Nathaniel's lips curved in a smile. "I know."
He reached down to lay his hands over his lover's, feeling the same mild shock as he had the first time they touched, finding them to be cool and satin-slick despite a few calluses. They held still as if carved from marble. No human could ever hold such a pose without so much as twitching.
Nathaniel had learned that there were more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, and so forth, but even he'd had a hard time accepting that the gorgeous man, all tousled hazelnut hair, twinkling blue eyes, and ready wit, was, of all things, a vampire.
Honestly, weren't vampires supposed to at least give a nod to tradition? He'd seen enough wannabes in his time to know the accepted look was unrelieved black from hair to clothes to boots. This man -- vampire -- on the other hand, gloried in wearing a soft flannel shirt, molded-on and faded blue jeans, and clean but battered sneakers. No thick, chunky jewelry, save for a cross necklace.
Yeah, a cross.
When he'd leaned back against the bar counter in the sports watering hole where they'd met, arms crossed, grinning broadly, Nathaniel had cracked up and told the man he had a hell of an imagination.
The vampire had shrugged, and asked for one night to prove himself.
Nathaniel didn't usually go for one-night stands, but this man had the look, he had the wit, and you had to admire someone with balls big enough to tell such outrageous stories.
He'd taken the vampire up on his offer.
And back in his apartment, when sharp fangs that were in no way fake pierced the soft skin of his neck, where throat met shoulder, and the vampire drank deep of his blood, Nathaniel had realized this was no lie. He'd found an honest-to-Satan vampire, and brought him home to bed.
What a bedding it had been, too! Tangled, sweaty limbs, lips and tongues fighting for dominance in wet, devouring kisses, and hands everywhere, from pinching nipples to gently rolling balls to stripping heavy, swollen cocks. Cool fingers, slick with oil, slipping inside Nathaniel, stretching him open with more patience and tenderness than any mortal had ever shown. The feel of the vampire's cock splitting him open, making him ache for more even as it was given to him, and then the blissful burn of being totally filled... well, Nathaniel hadn't minded the blood loss by then.
To his surprise, it still hadn't bothered him when he came down from his orgasm, when he and the vampire lay tangled together in a mass of sweaty sheets, stained with one another's come, marked by new-forming bruises and love bites. He'd let the vampire rest atop him, not breathing but still quaking in every muscle from the force of his climax, and thought, So, this is a vampire. If this is a creature of the night, I'll take him over a human any day.
The vampire had chuckled, as if reading Nathaniel's thoughts. He'd raised his head and grinned. "Barrett," he'd said, stroking Nathaniel's cheek. "My name's Barrett. D'you believe me now?"
Barrett. Nathaniel let himself fall into the soothing, rocking rhythm. When Barrett began to hum, some old tune by Johnny Cash that just fit his raspy voice, Nathaniel almost closed his eyes and purred with the pleasure of it.
Yes, his lover was a killer. More, he was a thief, a gambler, and an all-around bad guy. But Barrett loved Nathaniel with all his un-beating heart, would do anything for him, and that was what mattered in the end.
Soft lips brushed Nathaniel's ear. "So," Barrett murmured, "you feel ready to talk yet?"
Nathaniel stared out the window, at the lonely stretch of highway beneath them. He took in a deep breath, and nodded. "Yes," he said. "Don't leave me tonight. Promise you won't leave me."

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Dona Nobis Pacem by Willa Okati

Dona Nobis Pacem

by Willa Okati Cover art: Zuri

ISBN: 978-1-60521-704-8

Genre(s): Wildest West

Theme(s): Gay and Lesbian

Length: Novel

Page Count: 120

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Blurb:
Dona Nobis Pacem. God Grant Us Peace.
Voiceless Donnell and defrocked priest Nathan are outcasts and strangers at the turn of the century. Despite his handicap, Donnell has made a life for himself as a businessman and owner of a saloon. His heart goes out to those whom life has dealt an unhappy hand. When Nathan arrives in this former gold-rush town, horsewhipped and ill to the point of collapse, Donnell is the only one to offer help.
Barely ordained before being accused of unnatural desires, Nathan has been sent to travel a faux road to Damascus as penance. He did not expect to survive the trek, and longed for the peace he might find when his body gave up the fight.
He never expected to meet someone like Donnell. Despite his lack of voice, Donnell is the teacher Nathan has hungered for all his life, and the lover he never dared seek out. Triumphing over a lifetime's worth of threatened damnation will not be easy to overcome, but Donnell's not giving up. The passion they share is what both men have always craved, but never found. When they are discovered, standing together is the only thing will save them both.
Excerpt:
Dona Nobis Pacem
Willa Okati
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2011 Willa Okati

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.


In a fit of optimism, some enterprising settler twenty-odd years ago had named this patch of land "Shady Grove." The name hadn't stuck longer than the first summer, arid heat scorching the life out of anything the daft fellow had tried to plant, and carrying away his wife and children.
After that, or so the story went, the settler had cursed his homestead with the new name of "Hell."
When gold was found not far west in a puny stream, the name changed yet again to "El Dorado." Though that lasted no longer than the rush of miners who picked, panned and mined away most of the precious metal.
When the gold was mostly gone and civilization caught up with the roughneck men who'd blazed through in search of riches, there came bankers, lawyers and doctors, along with their pretty wives and dainty daughters. Amongst themselves, they'd formed a quaint city council, elected a mayor, nominated a marshal, and rechristened this hole in the ground as "Nazareth."
Those whose tongues weren't corseted by the niceties observed in polite society still called the former boomtown "Hell."
As for Donnell, he called it home, and had since the day he was born, a silent infant who'd opened his mouth to wail, but made almost no sound, not then and rarely ever afterward. The best he could manage was a sort of scale of breathing -- a whistle, a shush, a sigh. He'd never spoken a proper word. At least his hearing was top-notch.
Music was Donnell's voice instead, tickled out through the ivories of the old upright piano he'd paid a considerable sum in gold dust to have shipped from Chicago. Within the safe haven of Treighton's saloon, Donnell had placed that piano facing the street, where he'd have a fine view through the mosquito netting over the window when he played.
He could arrange Treighton's however he wanted, no questions asked. Owner's rules and that owner would be him.
Music wasn't his only skill. He was a favored son of Lady Luck, and the cards danced to his tune. Those who thought a mute man was simple, and an easy cheat at faro, often found themselves losing big.
He'd given up the game after winning Treighton's, though. No sense in pushing his luck too far.
A man who'd call himself satisfied with his lot in life, Donnell caressed the piano keys, a jingling tune flowing smooth and sweet as quality whiskey under his mastery of the music. He let the corner of his mouth quirk upward with dry humor. Many were they who'd claimed the son of a whore, muteness aside, would never make anything of his life. They'd been wrong, too.
Did they accept his good fortune with grace? Hell, no. The "proper" folks of Nazareth scorned him still, and always would. Too good for the likes of him and his saloon.
Thank God for sinners, eh?
* * *
A sudden clamor rose from the dusty, uneven street outside, usually quiet and deadly dull during the morning hours while laborers and leftover miners toiled, polite society occupied themselves with polite works, and gamblers slept off their night's fun. Attention captured, Donnell peered through the mosquito netting over his window.
Soon enough, the source of the commotion came into view. Donnell raised one eyebrow, intrigued. A tall, lean man, far too thin for his height. He was dressed in the tattered remnants of a once-respectable shirt, now missing its collar and cuffs, and formerly sturdy denim trousers, with no hat on his head nor shoes on his feet nor a coat on his back. Bleached-out hair stringy from lack of washing and long enough to be caught up in a queue hung over his face and tangled across his eyes.
Donnell leaned forward, instantly captivated. He'd never seen the equal of those eyes, their color distinct even at this distance. Aqua blue, the shade of summer skies, dulled by hunger and pain, but no less remarkable.
In point of fact, were he to be cleaned up and provided with a few good healthy meals, Donnell guessed this young man would easily steal anyone's heart away. Not least of all his.
Not that anyone knew about his preferences. It was safer that way. He came in for scant questioning about his lack of female companionship, as most thought if his tongue didn't work then neither would his cock.
Donnell abandoned those thoughts and focused on the beautiful -- yes, beautiful -- young man instead, a far more pleasant diversion. He'd no stubble on his cheeks or chin, both badly sunburned. Young, then. Tall and gangly enough that at a guess Donnell would have put him in his late teens, no more than twenty, not so far Donnell's junior.
A man could make quite a lot of himself in twenty years plus change. He could raise himself a fine establishment like Donnell's, or he could end up staggering filthy and starving down a dusty, badlands street with children and bad-tempered dogs jeering him every barefooted step of the way.
Donnell frowned when the young man staggered, swaying alarmingly before righting himself. That didn't seem to be clumsiness, but rather weariness. Perhaps illness?
"Drunk," Bettina sniffed, peering past Donnell. She might work in a saloon, but she had no patience with men who behaved badly when they'd had too much of the grape and grain. She didn't scold like the holy men, no, she tore strips off their hides and nailed them to the wall, and they loved her for it.
Barely hearing her, Donnell continued to track the man's progress. Seeming to ignore the rabble jeering at him, he came to a stop and stood up as straight as he could, attempting to brush dust, mud and worse off his clothes, smoothing them down. He dragged his hair out of his face with hands that shook minutely and gazed up the length of the street still to go.
The quiet despair in his eyes struck a chord in Donnell's heart, reverberating with a sense of hollow misery. Here was a man who'd fallen as far as he could go, with a trail of heartbreak behind him that stretched out for as many miles as he'd walked.
Donnell sat back and drummed his fingers on his knees. Poor bastard.
Enough kind souls had helped Donnell in his day. He owed this poor fellow no less.

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