Under Covers

LEIGH ELLWOOD

Under Covers a novella of erotic paranormal romance by

Leigh Ellwood

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Under Covers

Phaze 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN 1-59426-945-9 Under Covers © 2006 by Leigh Ellwood Originally published in 2006 All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover art © 2007 by Kathryn Lively Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

www.Phaze.com

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Also by Leigh Ellwood A Winter's Dare Dare Me Daring Young Man Double Dare Dulce Jack of Diamonds Jack of Hearts Jilted Muse Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 1 The Healing The Stars Look Down Truth or Dare Voyeur

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One The scent of the cinnamon candy offered to me hadn't the strength to pervade the room and mask the aroma of the obvious afternoon delight my editor, Yale Barnes, had enjoyed with his secretary. The notion of those two—she the poster child for Goth Chicks Anonymous and he the twin brother of Jabba the Hutt—bumping uglies amused as much as it disgusted me. Yale was at least twice her age to boot; proof of God's existence, or not, depending on your view of how things work. I closed the office door behind me and had to stifle a laugh at the image conjured in my head of Yale's hairy ass bobbing in coitus, Alissa's spindly fishnet legs trying to hook together at the ankles. No, I've not seen the boss' tush myself, but it had to be shaggier than carpet; there certainly wasn't much on his head. Yale popped three tiny red pellets into his mouth. I could hear them clacking against his teeth in a disjointed melody. "What's so damn funny?" he demanded. "Nothing." The word came out singsong through twisted lips. Yale grunted and snapped the proffered tin shut. He gestured me to the free chair before his desk with the other hand. It was going to take more than three mints to mask the flavor of Goth pussy from his wife, but I elected not to be a smartass and suggest that. Snickering in his presence was close enough of a career killer, and for all I knew he was about to give me a raise. Instead, the first two words out of his mouth were, "Ellyn Grizzard." Then came the smirk, the Cheshire grin of a cat with a speck of feather caught between his fangs. This was the look that precluded an exclusive for the paper—pure, unadulterated trash. "No." Not Ellyn Grizzard. Getting a raise would be preferable to digging up dirt and using it to bury Ellyn Grizzard. Getting fired would be preferable. I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach. Ellyn Grizzard is a revered name in my parents' household. Ellyn Grizzard hosts a daily Christian

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worship program that is syndicated nationally, though her ministry headquarters is located not far from here. Her devotional books and tapes are reported to sell into the millions. Imagine Oprah genetically spliced with Mother Teresa, add a pink Chanel suit and matching heels, then top the whole thing with a pouf of silver cotton candy for hair. Ellyn Grizzard. It isn't all a facade, either. Despite the aesthetics, Ellyn Grizzard comes off as very sincere, and I suppose it is possible for some people to look sincere and drive a Mercedes. Ellyn Grizzard collects canned goods and shoes for poor people. Ellyn Grizzard once sang "The Old Rugged Cross" with Johnny Cash, and used to have lunch with Billy Graham whenever he was in town. Far as the world was concerned, Ellyn Grizzard walked on water. The devious gleam in Yale's eye insinuated that he wanted me, or rather Libby Hoffman, to grab Ellyn Grizzard by the ankles and pull. Yale wouldn't ask anyone of such a thing, either, if there weren't something concrete to prove. I cringed. Not Ellyn Grizzard. Scandalous behavior was only supposed to be indicative of male ministers, the Bakkers and Swaggarts of this world. My mother would die to think that one of her idols might be hiding skeletons. "Ellyn Grizzard," Yale continued, his head tilting at a confident angle, "is a great big bull dyke." And maybe fucking them, too. Fucking butch, lesbo skeletons. "No." That I could not believe. I had only seen the woman's show one time, not by choice, and was subjected to a tearful thirty-minute explanation of why all homosexuals were doomed to wade without flotation devices in the Lake of Fire for all eternity unless they rejected temptations of the flesh. Her voice had such conviction; she quoted Scripture to back her claims, and actually thumped the damn Bible she was holding in time to the blinking phone number on the bottom of the screen. "Yes," Yale insisted. "No," I said vehemently. Yale nodded. "She's a lesbo. A queer. A butch bitch. A friend of Dorothy." "My mother goes to her church." "She's a breast woman, a carpet muncher, a sister of Sappho. Probably spells woman with a y and has a Melissa Etheridge CD in the

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Under Covers

dash of that Mercedes she bought with the tithes of a hundred little old ladies." Did I mention Yale is an atheist? I doubt God believes in him either. "I don't believe it." I slumped further into the chair. "Believe it, girlie." Yale stuck his fat hand into an open drawer and produced a tattered envelope. "Got a hot tip that Miss Holier Than All of Us has been slumming the local dyke bars looking for the love that dare not speak its name." "She better hope nobody speaks it on her show. It's live, you know, they can't edit it out," I muttered. This was something I could not picture. Ellyn Grizzard could have been one of the Golden Girls, if any of them had developed a habit of punctuating their speech with Praise Jesus in every other sentence. To hear this bit of alleged news was akin to learning that my eighty-year-old grandmother liked eating pussy. I shivered at the unbidden image burning in the back of my skull. "I hope not, either. If this lead pans out, I want the Spectator to scoop it before anyone else." He upturned the envelope and three thin matchbooks fell to the desk. One was black and embossed in gold with a profile of a naked woman, not unlike she of the truck mud flap variety. "Your cell has a camera feature, right?" "Yeah, but—" "Check the batteries and hit the bars. Try not to look conspicuous," Yale said. I rolled my eyes. I only made my living as an undercover reporter, yet Yale never failed to coach me on a job I could do better than he had ever done. This is why Yale is the editor—he sits behind his desk and dictates. Then he shifts in his chair to allow Alissa deeper access when she's kneeling underneath to suck his cock. "Good thing I had my khakis pressed," I muttered, but he wasn't listening. "I'd like to have seven inches of copy before we go to press. Get to it." I waited for the inevitable joke about Ellyn Grizzard needing a good seven inches herself, but Yale simply folded his hands on the desk. No jokes, that meant business. I slid the matchbooks toward me and turned them in my palm. In three days I had to patronize such aptly named establishments as the Grecian Urn, Club Virgo, and Uncle Marge's, all because of a tip claiming that maybe some senior citizen evangelist was grazing on the

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other side of the fence, fields in which I had never thought to step. Surely our readership would be more interested in seeing pictures of a sweet potato that looked like Paris Hilton. We had three leads submitted just this morning. The look on Yale's face, the silent, urgent command that I take my assignment and get the hell out of his office, told me different. He was a man of few words, preferring to reserve his energy for the computer keyboard, and apparently for whatever he did with Alissa. My rebuttal went unspoken as his chubby finger pointed the way out his door to these greener pastures inhabited by women with crew cuts and Birkenstock sandals.

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Two My name is not Libby Hoffman. I picked that name out of the air. Actually, I have television to thank—in thinking of potential pseudonyms to use for my column, I found myself one day flipping channels with abandon, eventually ricocheting between Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie and a documentary on 70s television advertising. Three years later, the Libby's jingle still rings in my ears at the most inopportune of times. I am an investigative reporter for the Weekly Spectator, a statewide tabloid founded upon the premise of printing all the juicy, borderline libelous stuff one would not expect to find in a respected publication. My readers know me through my nom de plume, undercover whistleblower extraordinaire. Like I'd ever put my real name on some of the stuff I've written for this rag. You've heard of the movie Fletch, with Chevy Chase? That's me, with tits. Plus, I like to think I'm intentionally funny. Despite an impressive circulation of over two million readers, half of whom are subscribers, I might add, the offices of the Spectator hardly look representative of the money it makes. The air conditioning system, clearly installed by Satan himself, decided on that peak, balmy July afternoon to fail, leaving me sweating at my desk with barely the strength to pluck enough keys on my computer to update my resume. To the credit of the Spectator's bigwigs, casual dress was not taboo, so at least nobody was sweltering in a three-piece suit. Mark Grimes, seated at the desk next to mine, certainly was feeling no pain with his portable fan turned on high and aimed at his chest. In lieu of lunch, he used the gym in the building's ground floor reserved for all building clients. It was clearly an arrangement that benefited the both of us—Mark's dedication to exercise resulted in a gorgeous body over which I could drool. That he had not changed from his tight, orange Miami Dolphins shirt and green shorts, allowing a grand view of the bulge underneath, only fueled further my fantasies of him.

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Spread-eagled on my desk, Mark kneeling before me with his tongue wrapped around my clit, fingering my pussy…the thought easily doubled the room temperature. And, as Mark would point out, it did little for my computer skills. He scooted his chair towards mine to read over my shoulder, a smile lighting his blue eyes as he shook his full mane of black hair. "Nobody's going to hire a journalist who can't even spell the name of the school that bestowed her degree." He laughed. "Huh?" My gaze returned to the screen, which was filled with numerous spelling errors. My own name, for one. McDonald's would not hire the person submitting this. I closed the document and sighed. Damn Mark's bulging cock and silver tongue, and the sweat of a hard workout glistening on his rippled arm muscles. He looked good enough to eat, even all sticky and sweaty. I shook my head. True, I was lolling through some downtime, but I needed to focus on work. "You turn in your piece yet?" I asked. Mark's latest assignment was an interview with a woman claiming to be pregnant by a vampire. Bullshit, of course, but thanks to Buffy and her TV cohorts, this kind of bullshit sold papers, which in turn tempted enough advertisers to contract with us for years. We, in turn, are kept out of the unemployment line. "Just turned it in." Mark drove the point home by rolling back to his desk and pressing the send command to transport his story via e-mail to Yale. He leaned back in his chair. "I think it's best one yet." I laughed. "Come on! Two more articles like that, and you can compile them into a science fiction novel." Mark shrugged "Well, it's at least as entertaining as my pieces about the body snatchers living underneath the mall...oh, and the shape shifters secretly plotting with the governor." "Yes, we can't forget them," I said dryly. The Weekly Spectator maintains a strict equal-time policy for all spooks. "How about you? What irons smolder in your fire?" I nodded toward Yale's closed office door. Alissa had been summoned a few minutes ago. Mark and I watched their two silhouettes tangle on the frosted glass. Quite a bit of activity going on in there, and it hardly looked journalistic. "He gave me my assignment, hence my desire to jump ship." Mark winced. "More celebrity sweet potatoes? A rutabaga, even?"

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I shook my head, already picturing the disappointment on my mother's face upon learning her idol walked not on water, but with feet of clay. Big, lesbian clay. "No, what he gave me...was big." "His cock, he wishes," Mark snorted, and as I looked at him he laughed. "Oh, wait," he rejoined quickly. "That's probably the topic of his meeting with Alissa right now." I raised an eyebrow, but that was as far as I got before Alissa burst from Yale's office wearing a grin that could only have resulted from a quaking orgasm. It had been so long since I grinned like that. I wanted to grin like that right now. I wanted Mark to make me grin like that. Instead I had to troll lesbian bars and fend off every Tonya, Dick, and Mary in a quest to out Ellyn Grizzard. Then a sobering thought surfaced. What if nobody hit on me? To be rejected by both sexes...what could be more humiliating than that? "Having a photo taken of you French kissing a sweet potato in a wig," Mark supplied. I blinked; I hadn't realized I asked that question out loud. Mark patted my shoulder. The mere touch rippled my insides; I twitched down below, as if my pussy demanded equal time as well. "You'll do fine," he said, as I finally revealed the assignment. "Besides, it's not as if Yale asked you to investigate the bar scene in general. You don't even like girls." "No," I agreed, "but it's the principal of the thing. Wouldn't you feel bad if a gay man told you that you hold no sexual appeal?" "I'll let you know if it happens." I propped my elbow on my desk and rested my chin on my knuckles. "I wish I had your confidence." And your hands squeezing my tits. "And your knack for finding stories." And your cock in my pussy. "You ever gonna let me in on your secrets?" "No," Mark said with mock haughtiness. "I want out of here as much as you, and you know that a good reporter never reveals his sources." Too true, and Mark certainly had the best sources in the state. The vampire baby piece notwithstanding, Mark's work with the Spectator was good, quality journalism. In the past three months, his investigative reports on corruption in the state college system and corporate embezzlements had garnered national attention. A real newspaper would snatch him up soon.

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I looked at my computer screen and closed the resume. Perhaps, too, Ellyn Grizzard could be my ticket to a better job if I wrote it correctly. Although, a part of me still wanted the accusations against her to be false. With a heavy sigh I rose and started for the vending machines, allowing myself a glance at sexy Mark to sustain me during the short trip. His strong legs were propped up on his desk, the shirt pulled tightly across his chest. "You leaving early?" I asked him. He shrugged. "Maybe. I still need to go downstairs and shower." Up went the room temperature again. **** Alissa, our office manager, is a pixie of a Goth girl with dyed black hair, favoring red, red lipstick and nails which appeared all the more brighter against her powder-doughnut skin. She must have noticed my forlorn expression as I padded past her desk. She reached out and cuffed my forearm with a red-tipped hand. "You all right?" she asked, her brown eyes liquid and concerned underneath mascara-thick lashes. "He didn't fire you, did he?" She smelled like cinnamon cum. Now there's a taste treat. "Worse." My palm uncurled to reveal the matchbooks. "He's making me switch teams to boost our readership." Alissa leaned over my hand and tapped the green cover emblazoned with a funky-looking symbol—it resembled a lower case m and p fused together. Club Virgo. It occurred to me then that I was a Virgo, having a late August birthday. I held up the matchbook. Next time somebody asked me what my sign was, I could give him this. Course, that didn't seem likely to happen unless I found a time machine to take me back to 1973. Alissa's chatter brought me out of my self-imposed misery. "Ooh, you should go there tonight," she said. "Two for one drinks after eleven, and they have live music tonight. And park on the curb near the gas station, there's always glass in the gravel lot out front. I cut a tire there once." "Wha—?" She snapped her fingers. "Oh, and watch out for Lana. Tall, short blond hair, looks like Wesley from The Princess Bride, mustache and everything. Make eye contact and you'll never get rid of her."

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Humming, she turned back to her paperwork, unaware that my jaw had dropped to my chest in disbelief. How would Alissa know a thing like that? Walking away, the thought came to me that if Alissa was indeed dabbling in the Sapphic arts herself; it was probably her way of cleansing the palate before each future "meeting" with Yale. If that were true, would I meet any of Yale's other lady friends at Club Virgo tonight?

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Three I needed to clear my head and work out my frustrations over my job. I was learning to hate it with a passion. Writing for the Spectator made me feel like I needed to scrub myself raw with Brillo pads every night. I was above reporting this kind of pulp; this was beyond yellow journalism, this was neon, industrial yellow. Blinding, macaroni and cheese yellow. Big Bird was never so yellow. I graduated summa cum laude from journalism school, interned at the Miami Herald, and once stood in an elevator with a Pulitzer winner. He wouldn't give me the time of day, but we shared the same stale air— that had to account for something. I only took the job at the Spectator three years ago because it was available and I was desperate to set out on my own, away from the constant vigilance of my pious parents. It was meant to be a springboard job until something more respectable became available. Three years is too long to be temporary, and I hadn't realized at the time of my hiring that the jobs at the good papers would be clung onto with vice grips, their keepers carried out in caskets. That's probably the one thing they don't teach you in school; it's something you realize later in life when you're pouring coffee for your regular customers, the journalists. Deciding I had spent enough time exaggerating my skills and achievements on paper, I quit the office for the day. Taking the elevator to the ground floor, I lumbered past the closed doors of dentist and law offices to the end of one hall, where there stood a thick, solid door. One quick swipe of my card key through the slot by the knob, and I was granted entrance to the gym. Gym...heh. It's really a small room with yawning gray walls, floored with black rubber mats. Two treadmills line one wall, facing a television bolted to the ceiling. The set is always tuned to a muted, close-captioned CNN—the remote having been lost or stolen months ago. An all-purpose Nautilus with all the bells, whistles, and weights sits in the opposite

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corner. Each gender has a small bathroom area with the bare necessities: toilet, shower, and a wooden bench. No lockers—leave your duffel unattended at your own risk. I had no duffel, just the clothes I was wearing, and my sandals seemed hardly appropriate for a round on the treadmill. My feet would be blistered and raw within five minutes, I knew, and the idea of lifting weights proved less appealing. I was ready to chuck the idea of exercise and head home when something caught my eye. I leaned to one side and peered at the tiled area lining the entrance to both bathrooms. There I spotted the corner of Mark's duffel sagging from one bench, zipped open and revealing swatches of shorts and underwear. Yes, he had mentioned he was going to take a shower; my meeting with Yale and the anticipation of playing Libby Lesbo had clouded my other memories of the day. Yet, Mark wasn't here. I heard no faint whoosh of a showerhead running full blast, no off-key singing bouncing against the tile. The room was small, and there was nowhere to hide. I didn't know where Mark was, but I could easily eliminate finding him butt naked in the shower. To think, too, that I had refreshed the batteries in my camera phone. Damn it! I found a note resting on the bag, along with a fresh towel and an unused bar of soap. Cleanse your body, and don't let the job pollute your soul. We'll celebrate your front page news with curly fries and martinis, it read. I had to laugh; only Mark appreciated my fondness for alcohol and spiral cut potatoes. It nowhere near surpassed my fondness for cock, but I conceded to the bar of unscented soap he left for me. Hell of a reporter, he is, to have anticipated my being here. I let the steam fill my lungs as I soaped myself, or at least tried to. This soap was rather peculiar in that it didn't lather, no matter how furiously I rubbed it against my bare chest in circular motion. I slid the bar up and down my bare arms then my legs. Nothing—not a bubble. The bar bore no indentations of a familiar brand. Smooth, white, and thick it was, and defective. Mark needed to be here to give me instructions. I could only imagine what his body looked like wet. Water droplets beading on his ripped, tanned skin...thick white lather from a good bar of soap, sliding down the tight cords of his legs to circle the drain...drool. I needed him to be here standing behind me, cupping my breasts and

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squeezing my nipples underneath the spray. Just thinking about it caused the sensitive flesh to pucker and tighten on its own. It was all I could do to keep from barging out of the stall, naked, to look for him. Of course, I stayed put. I didn't want to give anybody in the building a heart attack, much less myself a cold. Besides, what good would he be to satisfy my sexual cravings if I were locked up for indecent exposure, photographed leaving the building for a future issue of the Spectator? Yale would do it, too. Whatever sells papers. So, under the spray I remained, convinced the soap in my hands was a prank bar of some sort. A spot check of skin and crevices confirmed that it hadn't turned me blue, so I couldn't imagine why Mark left it for me. Tired, I swiped the bar across my breast one last time...then I felt the vibration. The bar buzzed in my hand, low, like a pager. Odd. The bar had the feel and texture of soap. Apparently Mark had left behind some kind of high-tech shower massage device for my use, and as there were no visible buttons or switches, I had no idea what I did to trigger it. But I did know what to do with it. I skimmed the bar across my breasts again, feeling both nipples tingle in response. Between the valley, up and around my neck and across the top of my back, the massage bar left a light, prickling trail that could easily keep me in the shower until I crumpled to the tiled floor as a human prune. When I delved my hand between my thighs and pressed the bar to my pussy, the vibrations kicked up significantly. A special trigger designed for erogenous zones, perhaps? Fine by me if science wants to build a better orgasm. The stall had no grips for support, so I planted my feet as firmly as I could against the one wall and shower floor rim, and pressed one corner of the bar between my folds. The vibes hit my clit perfectly, much better than any of the arsenal of toys I kept under my bed. Wave after wave of pleasure rippled up my abdomen and burned through my thighs. It was almost as if the bar was specifically tailored for my desires. This, this, was Pulitzer material—Nobel, even. That Mark would let me have access to this super toy rather than write a piece about it himself, bewildered me. A bit of research, and much, much more testing for quality control, and I could have a byline in Time or Cosmo.

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Only, I know I'd never be able to write the story because I'd be spending the rest of my life in the shower. I'd conduct all my business from the stall, and buy stock in whatever company made the bar. Perhaps that had been Mark's true motive, getting me out of the way so he could snag all the good stories. Hell, he could have them. Work hardly gave me this much satisfaction. A shift in the proper spot left me clawing with my free hand at the damp shower wall. My cunt constricted, my pussy swelled, the buildup of pleasure rumbled in my clit and spread the good feeling up my belly. The orgasm caused my knees to buckle, and my cries bounced from wall to wall and echoed in my ears. The bar continued to vibrate as I rubbed it roughly over my pussy, trying to prolong the good feeling. I swiped the broad side up my pussy lips, and could have sworn I felt the texture change. Holding it at eye level, I squeezed the bar gently. Perhaps the water made it malleable; as it responded to my touch I shaped the material into a long, thick rod. Slowly, cautiously, I teased my pussy's moist opening with one end. The vibrations picked up again, and soon I was bent in a more comfortable position. I leaned against the wall and rammed the soap vibrator in and out of my pussy, tightening my channel around its smooth exterior. It seems to fit my body with every thrust, as if morphing to suit every curve and sensitive area. One long pull out of my pussy revealed that it had curved on its own, presumably for G-spot leverage. Incredible, and addictive. Much as I wanted to explore further the possibilities of my new favorite toy, however, I had a story to research and write. I'd thank Mark later for the gift, regardless of whether or not he intended for it to aid in the sabotage of my career and skin, and perhaps to ruin all men for me. With much reluctance, I yanked the shower handle and stepped back as the last of the water splattered to the tile floor. I dried off, dressed, and slipped the magic shower mate in my purse. I had a date with Ellyn Grizzard at Club Virgo, and I had to wonder if she would likely be interested in such a toy herself. I'd have to think of an alternate conversation opener, just in case.

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Four When I pulled into the nearly empty gravel lot behind Club Virgo, I still had no idea how I was going to write this story. Usually when given an assignment, I immediately jot down a few staccato sentences in my pocket notebook. But, given the nature of this topic, I couldn't bring myself to think of anything. Not an introductory passage, not even a proper, sensational headline to serve a seventy-two-point font. I wondered if I even had the correct address for Club Virgo. Friday night, and the place was dead judging from the silence that greeted me. What else did lesbians do in this town to kick off the weekend, aside from the obvious? No streetlamps lighted my way to the non-descript concrete building perched between a dirt lot littered with burnt lumber, and an auto parts garage lined with a barbed wire fence. Club Virgo, I'd learned, was something of an institution among the city's gay and lesbian population, having operated in the days before Stonewall, when people of alternative sexual preferences were forced to socialize in the undercover of night and industrial camouflage. In a time when the Ricardos and Mertzes slept in separate beds on national television, this was a haven for people who risked physical and professional harm were their true selves revealed in the outside world. Made sense to me. If straight people back then had a thing about seeing straight people in bed together... Decades later, Lucy and Ricky gave way to Will and Grace, yet Virgo remained in her original location, forsaking mainstream acceptance for sentimentality. Or perhaps equity. As I rounded the building, I caught sight of the paint-chipped wooden sign bearing the image of Maisie Maple, the femme lumberjackcostumed mascot of a maple syrup company long since folded. The black, curlicue mustache painted on her upper lip by an anonymous jokester remained bold, as if touched up to serve as a beacon to newcomers.

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Right now, I seemed to be the only person heeding that call. Ellyn Grizzard's Mercedes was nowhere in sight, but of course I didn't expect to see it. It was early, and her car—which I knew bore the license plate GDSVES—might look a tad conspicuous next to the Jeep covered in rainbow stickers. Inside was a different story. Maisie must pay a hefty electricity bill for all the colored strobes and neon tubing blinking throughout the club's interior like an epileptic's nightmare. Heavy bass and synthesizers thudded through unseen speakers, vibrating the floor and humming an addictive beat through my bones. Once my eyes adjusted to the chaos, I noticed the place was packed. A tall, shorn woman with arms thick as tree trunks barked over the din for my ID. "Did everybody come in one car?" I shouted back, handing her a fake license. Her answer was a head shake that easily implied my club virginity. That's when it hit me—Maisie Maple may now be out and proud, but the neighbors didn't have to like it. For all I knew, Virgo offered shuttle service from a safe area. I offered a silent prayer to the patron of starving journalists that my Chevy POS remained untouched by vandals come time to leave. Legal age confirmed and cover charge paid, I took a step into the club but Maisie's minion snatched me back. "Not so fast," she growled, and like lightning she pressed a rubber stamp to the back of my right hand. The black light overhead revealed a smudged, glowing green Virgo symbol. "One would think the mark of the beast might look more sinister than this," I remarked to the bouncer. Her response was a leering eye roll as she crooked her neck toward the bar. "Try not to choke on any beer nuts." "Well, damn. I guess I missed the tacos." When she didn't respond to my lame reference, I shrugged and left the incoming patrons crowding the entranceway to her mercy. A quick survey of the bar and dance area revealed no sign the older preacher, or of anyone trying to conceal normal appearance with a widebrimmed hat or some other disguise. Disappointment numbed my heart as the constant thumping of house-mixed disco filled my ears. There seemed to be no escape from the noise. I couldn't think straight for the overabundance of stimuli.

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I slowly paced the perimeter of the dance floor to watch women of all sizes, races, and piercings grind body parts together in a sensual, rhythmic mating ritual. Having never acknowledged an attraction to my own gender in the past, it surprised me to feel an increase in my heart rate as I watched various scenes of seduction unfold before me. I swallowed hard and shifted in place to stall the aching sensation in my pussy that always signals when I'm about to become very wet. I was there already; arousal rarely came this quickly when presented with stimuli of the male persuasion. Was I in the closet? Now, that would be an exclusive! One couple in particular caught my eye. Blonde and brunette, matching slim bodies with full breasts, both wearing tight jeans and loose peasant blouses. Flowing sleeves and long nails bound them together as hips and thighs twined and undulated, merging flesh to flesh. Hands cupped pert backsides, hardened nipples rubbed against each other, lips and tongues mated. The lovers carried on, oblivious to the surrounding melee, and to the investigative reporter who suddenly yearned to be held and kissed in similar fashion. The scene got to me, and these women were hot! I could easily picture either of them, maybe both, relaxed in my embrace. I could feel their hands seeking their pleasure, fondling my breasts or stroking my pussy, which was now flooded with want for attention. But when unseen pinholes shot forth a cloud of vanilla air freshener over the lighted floor, the fantasy faded in the mist, and I retreated, coughing, to the bar. A Cosmopolitan mixed with generic vodka did little to improve my discomfort. The thought of having to sit here for hours waiting for Ellyn Grizzard, assuming she'd bother to show, also weighed heavily on my vanilla-laced senses. As if that didn't annoy me to no end, I had yet to be hit on! I'm hardly a supermodel, but I'd like to think that if I were a lesbian I wouldn't have to pay for it. Sitting ramrod straight on a barstool in a clingy, low-cut pink blouse and a black miniskirt, my ample cleavage thrust so far I could brush my nipples against the opposite wall, I elicited no interest from passersby. I had to be content for a while studying the mating patterns of Maisie's friends. I watched older women pair off according to stereotype—the solid, short-haired butch wrapped protectively around her shapely femme lover, both dressed formally to suit their personalities. The younger women in tighter, more casual outfits seemed to favor each other,

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attracted to contemporary femininity. Like my fantasy ladies, they openly kissed and caressed to booming ballads on the dance floor, and embraced while tucked in secluded booths in corners of the bar the neon lights couldn't reach. Love and lust hung in the air, heavily scented and distorted by cheap vodka. This left me alone at the bar with dwindling prospects for a headliner story, and zero opportunity to boost my sense of self-worth with at least a smattering of attention from the lesbian set. Even the mythical, desperate Lana proved a no-show, apparently, as I spotted nobody matching Alissa's earlier description. Just when I thought the evening couldn't get any worse, my dance floor nymphs sidled onto the stool next to mine, jean-clad thighs sliding over each other in an attempt to fit both bodies on the round, cushioned seat. Lips smacked and low-throated giggling penetrated the airspace around me. "Let's go home," whined the blonde. "Fifteen more minutes, 'kay?" insisted her dark-haired lover. "I just want to dance a bit more, let off some steam." The blonde writhed until she straddled and faced her lover, her thighs clamped around the other woman's waist. The increasing blatancy of their mutual affections made it easier for me to turn away. I'd never seen straight people act like this in public at their horniest, and for a brief moment, I could understand the general resistance to equal rights for gays and lesbians. Of course, I kept telling myself that these two were likely not representative of the entire population. A look of disapproval from the bartender in their direction confirmed that. Their kisses were louder, sloppier, if I could discern by their increasing volume. Smack, smack. "So we'll let off steam at home," panted the blonde. "I want to go home so I can suck your pussy." More moaning, more groaning...I pressed a hand to my stomach. More threatened retching. Smack, smack, slurp. "You have a delicious pussy." I don't know who said that. The kissing and gasping faded quickly in the distance as I bolted for safety, urged on by rotgut alcohol burning the inner walls of my intestines. To my relief, the ladies' room was empty. To my surprise, it was clean. Bright, pastel walls lined with framed movie posters greeted me, and a small lounge area faced the stalls. The comfortable plush sofa,

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wingback chair, and coffee table littered with entertainment magazines provided the perfect escape from the noise. The floor wasn't sticky, and no stench of stale urine encouraged further ill sensations. I checked the soap dispensers and paper towel machines—all filled and functioning. At least the evening would end on a more positive note, I decided as I did my business. Tomorrow night, after a long shower with my new toy to wash away this experience, I would try another club and hope for better luck. The sooner I could spot Ellyn Grizzard offering her unique blessing on a Sapphic sister, the sooner I could go back to interviewing housewives convinced the aliens are sending decoded messages through reality TV shows. I stared at my purse, which hung from the hook on the stall door. The toy was still inside, and it took every bit of willpower not to get it out and use it, if only to bring myself to a quick orgasm and satisfy the ache. I had no way of knowing whether or not bringing a phallus-shaped object was verboten in a place like this. At least the diesel truck checking IDs at the door hadn't searched the purse to confiscate it. Not that it would have mattered if I did use it in the stall, because I wouldn't have been heard over the crashing din that occurred outside as the toilet's flush dissolved into the silence. I was just about to slide open the deadbolt on my stall door when I peered through the slit to see two bodies, joined at the tits, tumbling to the couch. Terrific. Blondie and her lover had decided to blow off their steam, and each other, right here. No doubt the sofa had weathered more explicit use over the years, but this was the not the kind of spying I was being paid to do. I could take pictures of the tryst, yes, but the result would more than likely end up as printouts tacked to the bulletin board in the break room than on the front page. And I wouldn't get credit, or a raise. So there I stood, like a perverted idiot, watching these two women kiss and paw at each other. Soon a flash of white covered my vision, and I realized the blouse had come flying off of Blondie. Her back was to me, obscuring the other woman, whose nimble fingers tapped a happy beat along the back bra strap before undoing the hooks. Lace cups slid away, and Blondie's back arched to accommodate her lover's face between her ample, heaving breasts. And I looked down at myself to discover that my hand somehow slipped under my skirt and now stroked my pussy. My forefinger breached the crotch of my panties and scraped at my slick labia.

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Then came that all-too familiar commercial jingle, pounding in my ears. Libby's, Libby's, Libby's, on the something something something... Shit! What was wrong with me? This kind of shit wasn't supposed to turn me on at all. I fast-forward the obligatory girl-on-girl scenes in porn, so why was this happening? Muffled endearments interrupted me, and I tried to right myself. I adjusted my skirt and wiped my fingers clean across my backside. I had to get the hell out of here. Question was, should I make myself known, or try to slip away unnoticed? Various reactive scenarios rotated in my mind. It should be simple to just leave the stall, wash my hands, and walk away without saying anything. I didn't know if stuff like this happened all the time at Club Virgo, but I hoped there was some precedent set as far as bathroom protocol was concerned. I hoped for another patron to happen upon the scene and provide me with some guidance, or even a disruption, so I could leave. Of course, if a third person did arrive and decide to join in on the fun, then what? Don't mind me, just passing through. Oh, if you use that stall, you need to jiggle the handle... On the couch, the darker woman's head lolled back and forth, eyes closed, the corner of her smile barely visible as she nipped at Blondie's breasts. A faint zipping sound told me neither was in a rush to leave, but as Blondie stood to allow her jeans to slide to the floor, I was told something else entirely, something that kept me quiet and rooted to the spot. This Blondie was a different woman, as was her partner. Her partner, though shadowed in the dim of the lounge area, was not a young, raven-haired woman. This woman was older than most patrons I'd seen tonight, and definitely not a butch. This woman was Ellyn Grizzard.

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Five She must have come in just as I entered the ladies' room, which was situated on the far end of the building, past the dance floor and away from the entrance. Entirely possible to show up in the brief time I had my gaze turned away, especially if she had enough clout to bypass the bouncer or come in through some private back entrance reserved for celebrities. Who knew? She wasn't one to waste time, either. Ellyn and her playmate attacked each other with all the enthusiasm of drunken participants in an exploitation video advertised on cable television at one in the morning. I caught a flash of silver hues as Ellyn's head bobbed briefly forward under the lights; her partner raked eager fingers through the pouf, bouncing as Ellyn's tongue flicked at a nipple. Squeamish to witness, yes, but strangely erotic at the same time. Ellyn hardly looked the amateur, the coquettish older woman seeking the pleasure of a first lesbian experience. Here she was a master, playing the young blonde's body like a finely tuned violin. She plucked at the strings of her lover's thong with one hand while the other disappeared before the blonde's abdomen, presumably to strum a melody on her clit. Given the way the blonde's face contorted and her body tensed, I could easily discern that Ellyn hit all the right notes. My blood pulsed and quickened in my veins, my hands twitched and my pussy contracted. Every nerve screamed silently in envy, so rapt with voyeurism that it was a wonder I didn't expire from a heart attack when I felt a hand brush across my waist. Wha—? I nearly orgasmed by default. My skin erupted fresh goose flesh. Dry lips brushed my cheek, and Mark's voice tickled. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," he whispered. "Wha...?" How in the hell did he get into this stall without my knowing? The building had no windows, and I know I didn't see him slip into the ladies room, period. How did he get into the club, for that matter? Surely a testosterone alarm would have sounded.

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But his right hand snaked around to clamp my mouth before I could ask. "I'll explain later," he said. "Don't blow our cover." Our cover? Like hell was he getting credit for this story. Of course, I hadn't planned on making noise. I was a seasoned enough reporter to keep my cool, even in the presence of people who could allegedly materialize out of thin air. But, one story at a time. Thankfully Mark hadn't restrained me, so I could reach for my purse... But Mark swatted my arm away. "Not yet," he whispered. His voice caressed my ear. The heat shot straight down my chest and radiated through my limbs, pooling in my belly and spilling into my pussy. I threatened to melt right there and mess this club's nice clean bathroom floor. Ellyn and her playmate carried on, oblivious. As I wavered side to side in Mark's loose grip, I caught snatches of the scene through the slit separating the door and stall. "What do you see?" he asked. I tested my voice in the confines of the stall with a light gasp. When Ellyn and the blonde didn't cease, I turned to speak directly into Mark's ear. He smelled of soap and mint gum, and his touch was pure fire that I didn't want extinguished. "Ellyn Grizzard's making out with some chick," I hissed. "I need to take a picture so I can get this over with." "No, wait." Mark gripped my waist and pulled me closer to him. I fell against hard muscle, and pointed rock nipples brushed my shoulder blades. I shivered. The way his hand felt, sliding up and down my waist, made it difficult to protest. What I couldn't understand was why Mark was holding me back. Despite our good-natured rivalry at the paper, he supported my writing, and as such should have wanted me to reel in these fish. He did well enough on his own landing stories. I couldn't see him trying to take this byline from me. "No." Every nerve in my body cried for more attention, every shred of common sense fought the desire. Amazing that a simple stroke to the arm could render it useless. I hadn't the strength to lift my hand and get my purse. So I waited, and watched. At least, I tried to watch but my eyes misted over with unshed tears. I couldn't decide if they were borne of misery, watching what could have been the beginning of a legitimate career in journalism dissolve as Ellyn tapered off her passionate kisses. I

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had to admit the ache of sexual want was also a possibility for my clouded vision. Hormones quickly usurped common sense. I should have been fighting Mark, and reaching for my cell to take pictures. Instead, all I could think about was that deliciously hard cock rubbing against my ass as Mark shifted behind me. All I could think about was whether or not there was enough room for me to lift my skirt, brace the stall, and have Mark fuck me from behind. Well, I could add extra-sensory perception to the growing list of his otherworldly talents. His fingers stretched and spanned my abdomen, then slid slowly down the front panel of my miniskirt. "Like what you see?" Mark's low, husky tone grazed the outer shell of my ear, and his tongue quickly followed. It dabbed my earlobe and traced the inner curves. I felt the sensation pool in my belly and swell in my pussy. Thankfully, Mark quietly slid his hand under my skirt to rub away the throbbing ache. "Like what I feel," I murmured back. The scene inside the stall trumped anything happening elsewhere in Club Virgo. Let the old preacher lady get her jollies, it couldn't be entirely unbiblical. If the Lord helped those who help themselves, He'd have to be extra generous to Ellyn, who sounded as though she was helping herself to her lover's pussy, if the other woman's orgasmic cries were any indication. A thick finger breached the tight elastic of my panties and gently stroked my inner pussy lips. I spread my legs further apart to allow him better access. Mark, exhibiting that great journalistic instinct, delved deep to scrape my spot. What little I could see through the slit in the door faded to white as the orgasm hit. Good thing I had Mark's free hand to muffle my cry. I bit down so hard I thought my teeth might meet and take away a good chunk of flesh. It surprised me to hear no cries of pain from Mark. Either he was a pain slut of the highest order or a master of restraint. Blondie Two, clearly, was not. Her hollow moaning rang throughout the ladies' room and faded quickly into the quieter squeaking of the sofa springs underneath the two women. Spent, I closed one eye on the slit and caught the last bounce, the last wave of orgasm, and a sticky yet satisfied grin on the preacher's face. Blondie Two righted herself—clothing, hair, and shoes—and wobbled to a standing position as Ellyn merely crossed her legs and straightened her posture. The older woman took on a sudden professional air, as if she had been merely counseling the girl.

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"How about a drink?" the blonde purred. "Give me a second," Ellyn said politely, "order whatever you want on my tab." She reached for her purse and plucked from it a wrinkled cigarette pack. Lighting one, she waved the girl away with it. Wispy gray lines of smoke circled Ellyn like a fallen halo as she enjoyed a few good post-coital puffs. Damn it. No point in taking pictures now. Ellyn Grizzard with a cigarette pinched between her lips was hardly as news making as a stranger's pussy half-obscuring her face. I leaned back and settled myself in Mark's embrace, hoping the old woman's afterglow would end quickly so I could leave undetected. Mark bent close to my ear and whispered, "She's waiting for you." What? I looked down at my shoes. Shit. All this time, I hadn't given thought to crouching on the toilet so I couldn't be seen. Surely the woman wasn't expecting me to come skulking out of the stall like a guilty child finishing confession. Now there was an image, considering... Mark nudged my neck, and indication to keep quiet. I did, and soon Ellyn enjoyed a last long drag, ground the cigarette into the coffee table, and left. I watched the tiny glowing pinpricks disappear into the dim. "Now that wasn't very nice," I said. "Did you see how Ellyn tilted her head back, to be better seen under the lights?" Mark asked. I turned as he released his hold on me. I still couldn't believe he had managed to slip into the stall without my knowing. I checked the wall behind him. True, it was possible he could have been hiding in another stall and slipped underneath to catch me, but how would he have known I was in here. Had he been hiding out in this bathroom since before it opened? The questions echoed in my head, but my heart didn't seem to want them answered. The smoldering look on Mark's face was hypnotic, turning the questions into jumbled nonsense, rearranging the words in my mind to ask instead when he was going to touch me again. "Did you see?" Mark repeated, urgent this time. "I'm lucky I can see you right now. My head is spinning." Mark tilted his head back in demonstration. "She wanted to be seen by you, Lib."

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"Really?" I couldn't stifle the smirk. "So she's into being watched." Made sense. A woman on national television probably couldn't shake the desire for an audience. Mark wasn't as amused. "Not exactly. She wanted to be seen by you in particular." "What?" "Observe." And Mark led me by the hand toward the exit. "Observe," I snorted. "I've done plenty of that for one night." Another thing I observed was the overall lack of reaction among Club Virgo's patrons upon seeing a man threading through the crowd toward the front door. Even the pit bull guarding the door didn't flinch. "Later, Diane," he told her. "Uh, sure, Mark," she said, sounding uneasy. "You know her?" I asked, bewildered. "Yeah, I've been here before with Alissa." He turned back to me with a smile. "Research." Uh-huh. Maybe he knew Lana, too. That would explain the possibility of sneaking through a back door so he wouldn't be seen. Maybe a girl as desperate as the mythical Lana would switch teams if the opportunity came along. The parking lot was now bumper to bumper with parked cars, yet nearly empty of people. A lone figure beat a hasty retreat toward the back, her head bowed. Her familiar pouf of silver hair glowed in the stale light of the few surrounding lampposts. I tried to quicken our forward pace, but Mark's lead was too strong. He pulled me to one side and we circumnavigated the lot, crouching behind cars until we found the perfect shield in a minivan. Ellyn Grizzard stood five cars away alongside a sedan that was not her signature ride, fumbling inside her purse. She produced a cell phone, punched a few buttons, and stared up into the nearest lamppost as she waited for the other end to acknowledge. Her words were inaudible, but I could detect a change in her voice that definitely wasn't affected by the weather. I turned to Mark to say something but he put a finger to his lips. With his other hand he pointed at my purse, slung around my shoulder. Cell phone, he mouthed. I got out my phone. "Just watch her," he hissed. "And record everything."

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I did as Mark requested. I held the camera before me and through the lens I watched Ellyn hang up her phone and take a deep breath. What breath I had in my lungs escaped in shocked silence as the reed-thin woman wavered then expanded in form. She was morphing into another shape, another person! Gone was the pouf of silver cotton candy, the stickly fingers and pointed features. In their place were the pudgier digits and balding melon of Yale Barnes. "Fu—" I had to cup my free hand underneath the phone to keep it from falling to the ground, I nearly dropped it in freight. How in the hell did that happen, Ellyn Grizzard turning into my boss like she was some kind of alien. My jaw remained locked in place, gaping wide open as Yale calmly slipped inside the car and puttered away. Neither Mark nor I said a word until Yale's car turned a corner and disappeared. "Did you get it?" Mark asked. "Oh, yeah." "The shift," Mark urged, "did you record the actual shift?" "Huh?" I checked my phone and there it was, playing back like a blockbuster movie trailer downloaded from the Internet. I hadn't imagined it. Gently, Mark approached and took the cell phone from me. Good thing, too, as I think I truly would have dropped it and lost the evidence. "I'll send copies to my private e-mail just in case. This doesn't get to the Spectator's servers because we don't need Yale finding it," he explained. "Sure. Can't have that." Soon, though, Mark was going to have to explain much more. My eyes narrowed. "How did you get into the club?" I asked. "The bouncer might know you, but she was really surprised to see you tonight. So you couldn't possibly have entered past Checkpoint Charlize." Mark flashed a goofy smile and crooked his head to where Yale's car had been. "I told you that everything you saw was meant to be shown, for you." "You did. You're saying I was set up?" "Exactly. What Yale Barnes wanted you to see was a well-respected nationality in a compromising position, so you could discredit and embarrass her. What I showed you was Yale Barnes' attempt to discredit Ellyn Grizzard by pretending to be her. He's a shifter, Lib." "A what-er?" How was it that I was having this conversation?

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"A shape shifter. He can assume any form he wants, to suit his needs." I felt numb. That made no sense. If Yale Barnes could shift into any shape, why choose to go through life looking the way he does? Why not assume a permanent set of washboard abs and Brad Pitt's chiseled features? Mark correctly read my skepticism. "I know what you're thinking. Shifters can only hold shapes for so long before having to change back to normal. I'm sure Yale doesn't choose to be Jabba's twin, but that's just how it is." I kept my eyes on him. I could only imagine that Yale shifted certain parts of his body to suit certain needs. "So, he's from outer space?" Mark shrugged and handed back the phone. "Far as I know, he's from New York. Shifters are everywhere, Lib. Every bit as human as you are, just a bit...ah, gifted, is all." Gifted, right. I attended gifted classes in high school. Taking on forms of famous people was never on the curriculum. "Every bit as human as me," I echoed. "What about you?" A burst of laughter, and the crunch of gravel startled me. I ducked low behind the minivan's hood and peered slowly past the antenna to see two women heading toward us. Arms wound tightly around each other, the couple stumbled to the car next to the spot vacated by Yale, shrank inside, and took off. I turned back to Mark, but he had disappeared. Where he had been standing I saw instead a thick rod. Closer inspection revealed it to be the same one I had shaped from what I had thought was the scientific, orgasmic wonder soap Mark had left in the exercise room for me to enjoy. Apparently, Mark was the scientific, orgasmic wonder. Every bit as human as me. I tossed 'Mark' the vibrator into my bag. "Son of a bitch," I muttered.

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Six Idling at the red light at First and Euclid, I watched a metalliccolored ooze rise and expand from my purse. When the light turned, Mark was sitting calmly in shotgun, my purse in his lap, as if he had always been there. I nearly popped the clutch, but recovered without having to restart the engine. "Who are you?" I demanded. "Mark Grimes, ace reporter for the Spectator," he said with a smile. "Really, Lib, there's no reason to be jumpy. I'm not the enemy." "Sure." Tell that to my body. My nerves danced the twist, my stomach knotted, and my heart beat a rapid tattoo against my rib cage. As long as I'd known and lusted after Mark, I never expected to hear or see anything like what had just happened. What else did I not know about that man? That he feasted on human blood to survive, perhaps? "Do you?" I wanted to know, and Mark frowned at me. "Do you drink blood to survive?" "Those are vampires, Lib. Get your paranormal creatures straight. Anyway, they're more prevalent up north. It's colder, and people keep better up there." "People keep..." I nearly missed my turn and had to hit the brakes hard as I swerved to the right. "So vampires exist, too?" Mark was nonchalant. "Vampires, werewolves, shifters, faeries...you name it, you've probably seen them at Starbucks and just didn't realize it. You'd be surprised how much of what is printed in the Spectator really is true." "You're a shifter?" "You know the answer to that." "I shudder to think what Alissa is." Mark chuckled. "Alissa is normal, believe it or not." "All those stories you wrote, how you were able to sneak into restricted areas and get exclusives...it's because you shifted and spied, right?"

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"Yep." Mark leaned back, smug. "Perfect job for a shifter, being an investigative reporter. I can be the literal fly on the wall." "Why couldn't you be honest with me then?" I wanted to know. "Why don't any of these, these...things make themselves known?" My mind quickly calculated the possibilities. How many people did I come into contact with on a daily basis? My apartment building's super, the teenager who delivers my Chinese food, the homeless man I see in the park when I take my power walks...could they scale walls without rope, or render themselves invisible? "Look in the rearview mirror and you'll have your answer, Lib." I checked. Nobody was behind us. "Are we being followed?" "No," Mark cried. "The panic on your face. You're freaking out right now. Imagine how the rest of the world would react when we start coming out. We're talking major chaos, Lib. Major." True. In a way, too, we were also talking major exclusive. Once I got stills of that clip made... Mark broke into my thoughts again. I really need to improve upon my poker face. "No, Lib." I slowed into my building's parking lot. "What? I didn't say anything. You can read minds, too?" "No, but I can read you. Lib, that clip can never be made public. You can't write the story." Right. This story was a winning lottery ticket, my ticket to a better job with a real newspaper or even the AP. I could kiss the Spectator and Yale Barnes' shifting ass goodbye...assuming he'd be able to keep his job. Yale wrote the occasional article as needed, and nobody would want to trust the man with deep, dark secrets once his ability to blend became news. I parked in my spot in front of my apartment and snatched my purse when I saw Mark dip his fingers inside, presumably for my cell. "Nice try," I said, and palmed the thin device. "How do I know you're not going to try to erase the clip?" "How do you know I didn't already do it?" Mark challenged. "I was in your purse. Doesn't take much for a vibrator to bump against a phone and hit a button." "Dumbass. A vibrator can't unfold a cell phone." Mark grinned and waggled his fingers in front of me. I felt sick.

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A vibrator with fingers could. Tiny, shape shifting, scary fingers. Of course, he could have done it earlier when I let him take my phone. Duh. My own fingers trembling now, I pried open the cell and surveyed the contents. Clean slate, and I hadn't e-mailed a copy to myself. "Fuck." "Okay." With one last glare in Mark's direction, I pushed out of the car and slammed the door. To think I had him pressed against my clit and loved it, dreamed of it happening in other more intimate ways. "You can go fuck off! Turn yourself into the snake that you are and slither away." "Lib, wait." I took the steps to my second-floor abode two at a time. I felt like an idiot, so overwhelmed by the chain of events that I had forgotten one of journalism's cardinal rules: never, never give another reporter a hot tip. Mark had my future in his hands, and e-mailed it right to his account! Inside, I threw every lock and stalked into my room, stripping as I went. I needed to wash away Club Virgo and the image of Ellyn Grizzard's horny doppelganger humping some blonde. I needed to wash away sticky Maisie Maple and her bodyguard, mute the chainsaw disco music still pounding in my ears, and cease wondering if I might have had a shot at the elusive Lana. I cranked the shower to hot and stepped under the spray, tilting my pinched face into the water as it matted my hair to my skull. Most of all, I needed to wash away Mark and the feelings of pleasure that had remained on my skin. Yet, for as hard as I ground my bar of lavender soap against my arms and breasts, the memory only resurfaced. White suds bubbled over my nipples as I recalled how Mark, in vibrator form, brushed against me and made me come alive. Made me come. I cringed and pressed my thighs together, but the throbbing in my pussy couldn't be quelled. When a series of soft knocks rained outside the bathroom door, I thought I might spill. "Lib," Mark called. "I'm coming in." "How did you get this far?" Yet, I knew the answer as I asked. Idiot, I was. What locks could hold a shapeshifter capable of slithering underneath a door? Sure enough, I peered around the shower curtain to see a pool of metallic ooze slide across the tile and over the shag throw rug by the sink. Rising up into a reflecting obelisk, the thing shaded into flesh and

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hair, and there stood Mark with his arms folded across his chest. A raised brow crowned the eye silently appraising my vulnerability. I clutched the curtain for support and fought to regain my bravado. "You know, the door was unlocked," I said, impressed with the nonchalant tone of my voice. Mark shrugged. "More dramatic this way, don't you agree?" "Get out of my apartment." I leaned back into the shower. "Go write your exclusive and get rich and famous. I know that's why you transferred the clip to your e-mail, you thief." "I didn't take that clip," the sharp, shining noise of metals hooks scraping against the curtain rod broke Mark's speech as he tore back the plastic drape, "because I wanted to steal the story from you, Lib. I took it for protection." "What, to protect Yale Barnes? He's a creep. He'll deserve what's coming to him once it's revealed that he's a—" "A what, Lib? A freak, a monster?" Mark held out his hand and I flinched. He looked as though he might grab me, and when the hand quickly morphed into a large, snapping lobster claw, I squealed. Just as quickly, however, the hand return to normal and Mark raked the fingers through his shock of hair with a hint of exasperation. "People find out Yale is a shifter he won't just be outcast, dear, he'll be strapped to an operating table and dissected. Poked, prodded, pricked with wires and jumper cables and shot up with a million different drugs to test their effectiveness on him. He'll be treated no better than that pack of bunnies we rescued from the cosmetics lab. Remember?" I did recall the story Mark had written about the corrupt testing practices of a local laboratory, he won an award for it. I had to wonder now if his abilities aided in obtaining the evidence needed to put the bunny torturers away. Had he posed as a beaker full of amber cologne that was force fed to the poor dears? The picture conjured in my head morphed itself into that of Yale Barnes' hindquarters being shaved and tattooed with mascara. I smiled. "I do remember," I said finally. "Why is that so bad to comprehend?" "Because if I know Yale, he'll talk. If the government can't learn what they want from him, Yale will morph into a canary and sing. Add the inevitable panic that's bound to ensue when normal folks learn of our existence, and..." His pleading eyes hinted at the rest of the scenario.

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"Of course," I whispered. I had a major story in Yale, but also the potential for major disaster of the torch and pitchfork variety. Never mind what could happen to Mark. "So," I posed, "why keep the clip then? Why not erase it in good faith?" "Because Yale has no faith. Think about it, Lib. If you don't deliver shots of Ellyn Grizzard in another woman's embrace he'll find a way to make it happen, then move on to another unsuspecting celebrity and do the same thing to him." Mark pointed toward the door. "Yale gets an anonymous e-mail with that clip, and the harassment will stop, I guarantee it. We need that clip to protect people like Ellyn Grizzard, and people like me." That did make sense. Certainly if Yale knew somebody had dirt on the guy dishing the dirt, he'd do what he could to save face. To say nothing of his enormous gut. "So, does Yale know about you being a shifter? Won't he think you had something to do with this?" "Actually, no, and he doesn't know that I know about him. I only found out because I happened to be in his office one day, posing as a stapler, while he was with Alissa," he cleared his throat, "and I saw something morph back to its normal, small size." I snickered. Another mystery solved. Would Alissa have willingly joined Yale in his office for afternoon delight otherwise? "But he does know of other shifters, some of whom are friends, nice law-abiding people who certainly don't deserve being outed. For all he knows, the staff at the Spectator who report stories of the vampires and such, no more believe in them than you did. Just bullshit to sell papers." Mark leaned against the tile of the shower, arms folded and grinning. Finally I realized I had been naked and wet all this time. His smile was too dazzling, his demeanor so overpowering that I forgot where I was. Quickly I folded my left arm over my breasts and palmed the soap over my crotch with my right. "Oh, stop it," Mark admonished. "I've seen plenty already. Unless something new is going to happen, and you're obviously not a shifter so it won't, there's no point in this." "Right." My arms dropped to my sides. "Are we still friends?" "Yes, Mark."

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His smile turned wicked. "Can we be more than friends? I mean, beyond the owner/vibrator relationship we previously shared, of course." "Of course." Hands simultaneously tugged at his T-shirt and worked the fly of his jeans. "Hey now," I warned, "when I said 'Of course' I was just agreeing with the vibrator assessment thing, not inviting you to get wet." Mark continued to undress. His gaze flickered across my thighs, and I quivered. "You're wet now," he said. "Duh." His look smoldered, as if to add You know what I mean. Did I ever. Damn his keen journalistic observation. Damn my weakness for cock. Wet skin untouched by the spray cooled significantly, and I shifted for warmth. "Why don't you morph out two more hands to help out there?" The T-shirt flew away, revealing gorgeous pecs and washboard abs. Why was I mad at this man again? "The anticipation is killing you, yes?" The ache in my pussy was killing me. I righted myself and tried to look dignified, nothing like the horny chick I was. At least Mark was not making fun; this was promising. "I have to admit," he said, stepping over the tub's rim to join me, "that this was not how I pictured our first official coupling." "So you have pictured it?" Very promising. "I pictured a warm, dry bed." Mark's nipples were dark and taut, rock hard to match his cock. I dared a touch to one and relished the flinched response. The cock would feel even better, I knew. "Well, one hallmark of a good journalist is the ability to adjust to any situation," I said. Mark considered this with a mock frown. "Well, that's fine and good for journalism, but lovemaking is a different animal." As are you. I remained quiet, though, letting only a small chuckle escape. I moved to let the spray hit Mark's bare chest. "If I stand here and shrivel like a prune, that wouldn't do you much good, would it?" "Why not?" I asked, batting my eyelashes. Mark cuffed his shaft, brushing his thumb over the bulging tip. "Would you want any of this shriveled?" Hell, no. He was beautiful. Water streamed down his broad, hairless chest and teased his erect, brown nipples, trickling around them and

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sliding down his legs, which were matted with dark hair. That cock was huge and stood at attention above a triangular patch of dark pubic hair. "If I didn't say it earlier, oh, my." I licked my lips. "Tell me, is that...real?" "Oh, yes." Mark leaned his head away from the direct stream of water. Droplets beaded in his hair and on his lashes, making his smoldering gaze shine. "And if I didn't say it earlier, I rather like tight situations," he said, his eyes lowering to my crotch. Nothing more needed to be said. Before I knew it, I moved forward and was in Mark's arms, stabbed with a hundred sharp water needles to the back as my breasts crushed against him. We kissed hungrily, stroking each other's backs. He cupped my ass and I felt his erection pressing into my stomach. I tried to maneuver myself so he could get inside me, but he suddenly drew away and looked at me apologetically. "No," he said. "We can't do that. I don't have any protection." I might as well have been filled with concrete. "What?" My voice bounced around the tile. "So what? We're in the shower, and we're standing up. Won't it all wash out? And you're a shifter, shift a condom on you." Mark laughed and guided my hand to his cock. He was so hard, and the water made it easier to stroke. I brushed my thumb over the circumcised tip. I wanted him inside me so much it hurt. To think I was so close; my pussy throbbed. He dipped forward and took my nipple between his teeth, nibbling and suckling as his hand scooped down to cup my pussy. Fingers waggled, pinching my pussy lips between them until one of them found my clit and started stroking in a circular motion. The shockwave tore through me, and I had to release his cock to grip his shoulders with both hands. My legs were too quickly turning into rubber to be able to support myself. I buried my face into his neck. "Oh, God, don't stop doing that." He started grinding his cock against me, and arched his neck. "I can't believe we're doing this." The first wave of orgasm was about to hit. My knees were set to buckle, which suited me fine. I supposed while I was down there I could find something constructive to do.

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I kissed one nipple then the other, then mouthed a trail down to his navel. At least I tried; it was difficult to bend over with him still teasing my clit. Mark seemed to sense what was coming next and quickly pulled me back to a full standing position. "Not here, you'll drown." He reached past me and cranked off the shower. The water flow ceased, and he took me by the hand, both of us sopping wet, to my bedroom. He pushed away the comforters and lay back, then motioned for me to do the same on top of him, facing away. With no thought to dampening the sheets I scrambled on the mattress and hovered over Mark, water from the shower dripping into his pinched face as I settled over his waiting mouth. Bracing my knees to his sides, I let Mark guide me the rest of the way down as his tongue sought and found my clit, licking furiously. Opposite me, his cock bobbed and winked, taunting me. I bent forward to grasp the base of the shaft and swallowed him whole. His muffled moan vibrated his entire body, but I didn't notice for the pressure on my clit and the cock in my mouth, which tasted so damn good. Salty and smooth, reminding me just how long it had been since I had eaten…anything or anybody. I stroked the soft skin of his inner thighs, teasing him before going straight for his sac, which I cupped in one hand and gently squeezed. I felt his body jerk slightly underneath me, but he didn't come. Not until after his tongue sped up its pace and sent me writhing into orgasm. I felt his hands push against my hips slightly, to raise me. I could only think perhaps that I might have been suffocating him with my eagerness to be pleasured. As I said, it's been a while. Not much longer, though, I was contemplating nothing else beyond the spray of hot, salty come shooting into my throat as Mark's muffled orgasm vibrated against my thighs. I kept my lips clamped around him, my cheeks collapsing as I sucked him dry. He tasted so damn good. Screw the low-carb fad. I drew the suction upward as his cock, and entire body softened, pulling with pursed lips until the tip popped away and slumped between his legs. At the other end, Mark released his own oral grasp and inhaled sharply. "You know," he gasped, "if you wrote half as good as you give head—" "I'd have a Pulitzer. Yeah, yeah." I would accept that as a compliment, I decided as I snuggled close to his chest. We tasted each

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other in a few brief kisses, and I traced my real initials in the droplets shining on his skin. "So," I added after a breathless pause, "do I take this to mean I get exclusives with the Spectator's star reporter?" Mark cast a lazy smile. "I'll laminate the press pass myself." "No way in hell did that sound sexy." Mark considered this and shrugged in defeat. "True, it's hardly a lingo that lends itself to seduction." "To say nothing of how you normally speak." I rolled off of him and, after a few seconds to establish balance, retreated to the shower for towels. The effects of the orgasm made me dizzy. I wondered if this is how alcoholics felt when they tippled off the wagon. I was scouring my hair dry when a low moan alerted my attention back to the bedroom. The mattress sagged and rippled with his movement. "Oh, shit!" Mark called. My heart paused mid-beat, and I ducked back into the bedroom. "I really hope the pained look on your face doesn't mean you just remembered that normal people who swallow shifter cum eventually explode," I pleaded. I really wanted it to sound like a joke, but my own worry surprised me. Being bitten by a vampire turned one into a vampire, right? What severe alterations to the anatomy could sex do? "No, don't be silly." Mark rolled his eyes. "I just remembered we did have protection." "Really?" I hoped Mark might next remember that he could shift his cock back into a nice, hard rod at will. Then I dashed back into the bathroom and checked Mark's pants pockets and wallet. Nothing. "No, in your purse." Mark's voice drifted low and deep. "What? No way. I haven't been with anyone else in so long, there was never any need..." I padded through the bedroom, fighting a moment of wooziness upon seeing Mark stretched across my bed. An inviting scene, one I'd be happy to join even if Mark was mistaken. Yet his smile encouraged me to steel my trek through the living room to my purse. I rifled through its contents, slowly retreating. "I have everything but," I said, shaking my head. "Breath mints, wet towelettes, twenty bucks...everything one might need before and after the deed, but not for during." Mark was touching himself, pinching his nipples and tracing the raised skin bordering the hardened nubs. "Look harder." He winked.

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I delved deep, past crumpled receipts for hamburgers long ago eaten, and punch cards I never thought to consolidate. Checking a side pocket, I found a wrinkled packet. "Who knows how long it's been there." I was skeptical of its quality, yet inside my desire fluttered with newfound strength and my pussy throbbed for attention. Mark was already rolling the sheath down the length of his cock. "Looks fine to me," he said, and beckoned me closer. It most certainly did look nice, and it felt incredible. I straddled Mark's hips and took his cock deep inside me then leaned forward to thrust my own hips in slow motion. Tightening my walls around him, the friction created a delicious sensation that warmed me all over. Spreading my knees farther apart, I pivoted so that my clit rubbed against the base of his cock as we rocked together. Soon, I was coming. I reared back with my eyes closed, riding the wave and clutching blindly at Mark's chest. When the fire burned completely through my clit, I crumpled forward and returned to life. Watching the quiet ecstasy flit across Mark's face, I could tell he was close behind. He clawed at my ass and stiffened as he came, roaring his release. I clamped my pussy lips tightly around him, milking every last drop to prolong his pleasure. "Oh, that was good," Mark exhaled, contented and tired. Carefully I slid him away and came to rest at his side, my head nestled in the crook of his arm. I watched the hypnotic rise and fall of his chest as he slowly resumed normal breathing. He peered down at me, eyes narrowed but crinkled with amusement. "That exclusive enough for you?" "Very." I propped my chin on his chest and squirmed at the new patch of heat spreading across my back. Mark's hand brushed up and down my spine, causing delightful shivers. This feeling was too wonderful to spoil. Yet, in order to enjoy future activities like this, I had to clear some air. "So, what will happen to Yale then, if exposing him is out of the question? Do we just send him the clip and hope he drops the idea of ruining reputations?" "For now, yes." Mark reached beyond me for something, and I then realized he wanted under the sheets. Why, I couldn't imagine, as they were soaked from our detour in the shower, and who knows what else. Quietly I motioned for him to help me strip the bed. Soon we were lying together on the mattress cover, with the dry comforter to keep us warm.

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Mark drew me into his embrace and kissed my cheek. "I want you to know that I trust you completely with my secrets," he said. I could feel the blush heat my skin. I couldn't think of a better turn-on beyond physical attention. "I trust you with mine, though my secrets aren't as sensational," I admitted. "So I don't know what I could tell you to even the score." "Well," Mark snuggled closer, "you could start with your real name." I giggled. Of course! I came on board with the investigative moniker, and everybody called me Libby. Even my checks were made out to Libby Hoffman. It never occurred to me that Mark wouldn't know my true identity. "Fair enough," I said finally, pulling the comforter over our heads. "First, though, how about we make some more headlines?" Mark laughed. "I get it. Stop the presses and start the fucking." So we did. Extra, extra, read all about it.

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About the Author Leigh Ellwood is a multi-published author of romance and the creator of Phaze's award-winning Dareville series. An EPPIE nominee in a former life, she was honored with the 2005 Golden Rose Award for Best Erotica (Dare Me) and the second place prize for Best Pansexual Erotica by the ERWI (also for Dare Me). She is proud to make Phaze her primary home for her romantic novels and short stories. Readers can visit Leigh at www.leighellwood.com.

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If you enjoyed this title, may we recommend…? Wishes, by Stella and Audra Price ISBN 1-59426-565-8, $2, available in eBook format When Nicodemus Marsh is contracted by Sean Taylor, a business man and exiled demon to look after his interests involving Janey Duvall’s Company by keeping the busty beauty in control, he never thought he’d fall for the girl he was supposed to make fall for him. The major problem? Marsh is a Djinn, a major race of genie, and a genie grants three wishes. He’s met his match in the woman he’s sent to break, and while she’s occupied with his body and his actions, will she see past the cosmetic to make the one wish that will keep her by his side for all time?

Switch, by Alessia Brio and Will Belegon ISBN 1-59426-558-5, $2, available in eBook format Erotique's Mandy and Bruce are back! When these playful lovers experiment with a new toy during a powerful thunderstorm, they experience sex in a whole new way.

Fairy Tail, by Courtney Bee ISBN 1-59426-580-1, $2, available in eBook format You'll never be able to look at Tinkerbell the same way again! In a fantasy world of dragons and ogres, hapless peasant Adam saves the life of a feisty fairy queen--who attempted to rob him! Now the tables have turned and forest law decrees that Adam shall be granted one wish. Taunted by the winged spitfire's luscious curves and fiery tongue, he knows exactly what he's going to wish for...

Now available at www.Phaze.com!

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The hottest romance, the most memorable heroines, and the most gorgeous heroes… Welcome to the next PHAZE in erotic romance! Join us online for author chats, writing workshops, and big prize contests with our FREE newsletter!

www.phaze.com groups.yahoo.com/group/PhazeChatters eBooks available at Fictionwise.com, CyberRead.com, and AllRomanceeBooks.com, print titles available at Amazon.com, BN.com, BooksAMillion.com and on the shelves of Borders bookstores!

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