Cynthia Carole

My third paranormal romance-adventure is available.  

Here's an excerpt:

The door opened with a whoosh of cold air. The dark parking lot showed for a moment, and then a slim, redhead slipped into the bar. She kept her head down, her shoulders rounded, and she stayed next to the wall. Chris couldn’t help but admire the glow of the fire in her hair, but hadn’t he seen that color before? A jolt rocketed up his spine, chasing away the last of the alcohol buzz he had worked so hard to attain.

She raised her big green eyes, her pale face tight and nervous. God, she’s still beautiful. He clenched his empty glass so tightly it shattered.

The bartender cursed and tried to grab Chris’s hand, but he moved away too quickly.

He barely noticed how the blood welled and ran down his fingers like warm rain. His heart thumped in his chest. Was this it? Was Jerry at last going to come to him, after all these years?  The girl stopped in her tracks, her eyes down on the floor. His nose burned with her scent—wolf and fear. She trembled. He saw shudders run over her shoulders. Animal scent filled his nose, awakening his own wolf. The beast within came up just under his skin, making him twitch and the world shift into a sort of hyper focus. The human smells around him burned his nose. Alcohol. Sweat. Spray-disinfectant. But only in front of him did he smell werewolf.

He raised his eyes to the door, braced and ready. Muscles bulged beneath his back, and his fingers curled into claws.

“He’s not with me,” she said in a low voice. “I’m alone.”

Was she lying? He needed to get closer to know for sure. Leslie trembled as he approached. Her air of submission calmed his racing heart. She was the omega—always had been—the lowest member of the pack. His wolf eagerly came forward, remembering her smell and the feel of her beneath him. Raw memories popped into his head; her hips bucking his, her lips on his mouth, her taste, her cry of pleasure. It had been four years, and other women had come and gone since then—but still she remained the woman who came to him in his dreams, her red hair undone, and her body moving with each stroke.

“Chris! Let me look at your hand,” the bartender said, coming around the bar. Chris wanted to growl at the man, but he swallowed the rumbling down.

“I’m fine. Sorry about the glass.” He took hold of Leslie’s arm—she was warm. God, she was good to touch, and he hauled her out the door. This was no place for werewolf business.

“Chris,” he called after him. “You shouldn’t drive! And your hand—”

“I’m not driving. She’s going to. She’s an old… friend.” I guess that’s the word. Friend. Enemy. Betrayer. Lover. So many words for such a small wolf. 

To read more - go to purple sword.com