Benjamin Sallen entered the club with wide eyes and a hopeful heart. It was a toss up what was more fascinating, the flashing lights, the flow of dancing bodies writhing half naked across the floor, or the scantily clad waiters sashaying around with trays of food. After filling out innumerable forms to validate he was werekin, he was finally allowed through the club doors.
His enhanced werewolf senses absorbed the smells of sweat, lust, and sex. Never had he gotten so hard, so fast, but the pheromones filling the room would make anyone want to have sex. Ben had come to find a mate, but at that moment he would take hot, sweaty sex with a total stranger if it would take off the edge. As it was, his dick was trying to burst through the zipper of his favorite jeans. He wondered if this was the type of club that had room in the back for the convenience of its members.
Ben jumped back as a wereleopard slammed his partner against the wall and started dry humping him. Maybe they didn’t need a private area. Shaking his head, he walked through the dance floor, towards the bar. His throat was dry and he didn’t have to work tomorrow. His job as an independent CPA let him set his own hours and prevented him from having to answer embarrassing questions about why he couldn’t work on days close to a full moon.
After months of settling into his new environment and living without a pack, he yearned for the touch of another werekin. Even the brief brush of flesh from the shifters on the dance floor helped soothe the lonely animal beneath his skin. Despite leaving his Alaskan pack only six months ago, he was desperate for the company of others like him. Hunting under a full moon wasn’t the same without a pack, it lacked the joyous luster, and the prey he could catch was more of the rabbit variety, than a fully-grown deer.
Purchasing the club membership was his chance at a new life. If he met and mated with a local werekin he could get accepted into the pack. Even if he hooked up with another lone wolf at least they could become a pack of two, in werekin culture anything was better than one. Lone creatures didn’t survive long in the big bad world, especially small ones. At five feet nine inches, Ben was on the short side for a wolf shifter. He blamed that on his human mother. If he was full blooded he would easily have topped six feet. At least he could shift. He’d heard of half-blooded werekin who were unable to shift but still felt the call of the moon. Ben decided they must be in a special type of hell, one he was lucky enough not to be a part of.
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