The Hidden (Shadowed Wings #1)

The Hidden (Shadowed Wings #1)

Ivy Asher


I’m shoved against a wall as soon as I clear the doorway, and lips seal to mine. The kiss is hurried, a little messy, but I can work with that. I grind my hips forward, and the hard bulge in his pants protrudes against my lower stomach. I reach down and start to undo the button on his jeans. I moan as Trevor—shit, I think that’s his name, or was it Turner?—runs his hand under my shirt and cups my breast with a firm squeeze. His tongue swirls with mine as I try to recall what he said his name was when he approached me at the bar. All I can really remember was the brown scruff dusting his jaw, muscles, and the hint of his farmer’s tan peeking out from the sleeve of his t-shirt.

I take over the kiss, modeling for him exactly what I like. I dive into the memory of when he came to talk to me, and dig through it for his name.

“Your boyfriend’s been in the bathroom a long time,” a tan, brown-eyed, brown-haired man tells me, pointing to the helmet sitting in the seat next to me.

I finish the bite of food in my mouth and then run my gaze up the stranger’s lean but nicely muscled body. I take a discreet inhale of the air around me and pick up a distinct pine and soil scent. He’s a wolf shifter. He gives me a knowing smile, and it’s clear he’s already picked up the same olfactory hints from me. I reach out and lift my helmet off the seat and place it on the polished wood of the bar I’m sitting at. I don’t bother correcting the boyfriend comment. I’m decked out from head to toe in riding armor, and the helmet’s obviously mine. He’s either stupid or shit at opening lines; either way, he’s pretty to look at and currently exactly what I’m looking for.

I take another bite of my burger as Tan and Pretty sits down next to me. I unzip my jacket and shrug it off, exposing the gray ribbed tank top I’m wearing underneath and a lot more skin. He takes another deep inhale, and his arm brushes against mine. I’m just a shade lighter than him, but I have my father to thank for the extra dose of melanin and not the sun. My grandmother said he was from some island somewhere, although it was easier to sit through a bikini wax than to get her to be more specific than that. She never liked talking about him much.

Travis, or whatever the fuck his name is, tries to take control and bites at my bottom lip a little too hard. It yanks me from my wandering thoughts. I growl at him and then return the favor, and he hisses at me. I’m tired of this freshman make out session that’s going on. I want to fuck, shower, and get a little sleep before I need to get back on the road, and Tyler is not being nearly as aggressive as he was at the bar. I want a hot hook up, not a slow and sensual lesson in the merits of the karma sutra.

I suck on his tongue and muscle myself away from the wall I’m pressed against. I flip our positions and slam him back. The yellowing plaster of the wall cracks a little, but I doubt the manager will notice; this motel room isn’t exactly a five star establishment. I grab Tate’s hands and direct them to my ass, and then I reach down and rub at his hard length which is, annoyingly, still in his pants. I kiss him harder, but instead of the growl and aggressive response that I’m hoping for, Tristan stiffens.

I pull back to look at him, and irritation flashes through me when his eyes aren’t filled with heat like they were at the bar or when he was just feeling me up.

“I don’t like dominant play,” he informs me.

I stare at him dumbfounded for a couple of seconds. “Then you shouldn’t pick up chicks more dominant than you,” I challenge.

“I didn’t think you were. You were pretty quiet and went along with my lead back at the bar,” he counters.

“Yeah, because I was eating and didn’t give a shit about whatever the fuck you were talking about.” I separate from him and shake my head as I walk over to the door and open it.

“Are you kicking me out?” he asks, shocked.

“I wanted a good fuck, but at this point, my hand is more likely to give me that than you are,” I answer simply and motion out the open doorway.

He stares at me openmouthed for a few beats as his eyes grow more and more incredulous. “I should have fucking known you’d be some alpha bitch when you got on that butch-ass motorcycle and brought me here,” he accuses, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it on.

My eyes narrow with anger. “That butch-ass bike is a Ducati XDiavel S, and she feels better between my thighs than I’m sure you ever would have. Bye, Troy, wish I could say it was nice to meet you.”

“My name is James,” he barks at me and then stomps out the door, mumbling something about how I probably don’t even like men. He makes a beeline for his shitty truck, and I slam the door, leaning back against it with a huff. James? I could have sworn it started with a T.

I shrug it off as irritation and anger pump through me. I can feel my wolf wanting to respond, and I take a couple of deep breaths to try to calm the both of us down. As much as she wants to rip out of me like the big bad alpha bitch that she is, I’m a fucking latent. No matter how much I try to shift, it just doesn’t happen. The failure to do what should come naturally to me as a shifter hurts me and the animal that prowls underneath my skin, but I’ve learned to accept that it is what it is and there isn’t shit I can do about any of it.

I thumb the large moonstone ring that I wear on my middle finger. It was my mother’s, and I always feel close to her as I rub the same metal wrapped around my finger that was once wrapped around hers. I haven’t taken it off since my grandmother gave it to me at fifteen, and playing with it or touching it in some way has become like a soothing tic. A truck engine roars to life, and the sound of tires kicking up gravel resonates just on the other side of the door.

The peeling wallpaper and obnoxious floral bedspread of the motel room are suddenly all I can see, and I try not to cringe. I was fine to get my orgasm on in here, but now the thought of staying in this place for the night makes my skin crawl. I grab my jacket off the back of the chair that’s tucked into a small desk with a cracked top. The leather and the quilt stitching of my jacket hug me tightly, like the old friends they are, as I shove one arm into a sleeve, then the other, and zip it up. I grab my pack and helmet and head out.

“Well, Gran, it looks like it’s just me and you again,” I announce, as I strap my helmet on and make my way back to my bike. I power up my GPS as I straddle my motorcycle, and my thighs and lower back give a twinge of protest. Gran, of course, doesn’t answer since she’s in an urn in my backpack, but just like touching my mother’s ring soothes me, talking to Gran while I take this trip helps me feel a hell of a lot better about it. The engine of my bike roars to life under me, and I pat the pack on my back reassuringly.

Gran always hated that I loved vehicles of the two-wheeled variety as opposed to the four-wheeled options, but something about the wind as it rushes past me sends my soul flying. I’ve been hooked on bikes since shop class when we were tasked with building one my sophomore year of high school. Even though Gran put up a fuss about it, I could always see a gleam of longing in her eyes when I talked about my love of speed and what it felt like to cut through the wind on one. She grumbled, but she never did stop me from saving up my money and buying my first bike.

I take off out of the parking lot, careful not to eat it on the gravel, and head back out toward the highway. I have about four hours of easy road ahead of me before I reach the final destination of this four-day road trip. I was hoping for a solid distraction so I could put things off a little longer, but the hard cock between my thighs I was hoping for clearly didn’t work out. I merge on the highway and pick up speed as I get lost in my thoughts.

“Miss Umbra—”

“Falon, just call me Falon,” I correct as I stare absently at the large cherrywood table I’m sitting at.

“Falon, did your grandmother ever discuss with you her preferences when it came to her remains?” the suited and booted lawyer asks me, his voice soft and bleeding sympathy.

“No,” I answer hollowly and try to fight the melancholy sitting on my chest like a rock. I can’t believe she’s gone. I mean Gran was old. She had a full and, as far as I can tell, relatively happy life, but I just never really pictured myself without her. Without a tether.

previous 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 ..39 next