In December I got tired of fighting with my PC all the time and decided to treat myself to a MAC. Can I just say I love it? And I seem to write faster. But there's one problem: my smallest cat, Bast, all black like the original Bast, has figured out she can now get up on my keyboard tray and lie down here while I'm trying to write. Sometimes she even rolls over and tried to lie on the keyboard itself.
I've talked to her about this and finally told her she needs to figure out how to help me write. So what do you think she said?
"But Mom, I already inspired Black Cat Fever and Pretty Kitty.
Hmmm. So she did.
"So how about giving everyone a taste of one of them," she said, staring at me with her cat's eyes.
"Well, okay then," I said.
So here it is. Just a little taste.
Aisha McClellan has more trouble than she knows what to do with. A born cat-shifter, part human, part leopard, at the age of eighteen when she was just coming into her first heat, a rogue member of the pack attacked her and traumatized her, leaving her unable to shift. Cast out by her pack, she makes a half-life for herself on the outskirts of both human and shifter societies, moving from city to city, seeking some kind of attachment. She’s been in San Antonio for about six months now and has taken to hanging out at The Litter Box, a bar where cat shifters go to relax. Several times she’s allowed herself to go home with someone she’s met there, but it’s always a disaster, and after that she’s careful to avoid them. Her best friend is the bartender, Max Rogan. One night when she’s drinking too much he coaxes her story out of her. He is appalled at how she’s had to live and what’s happened to her.
When her dance partner slid his hands up her rib cage and brushed his thumbs against her breasts she’d had enough and jerked away from him. He grabbed her arms, tightening his hold on her, anger in every line of his body. Taking a deep breath she broke his hold on her, she pushed her way off the dance floor and made her way back to the bar. She had to laugh when she got back to her bar stool. Someone—Max, of course—had put a crudely lettered Reserved sign next to her drink. Ignoring the dirty looks from the customers forced to stand, she hitched up onto the stool again and waved at Max, filling an order at the end of the bar.
He smiled and winked at her. God, that wink was so utterly sexy. If anyone could kick start her pheromones it would be him, but she had as much chance at that as she had of winning the lottery. Since she’d found out about The Litter Box she’d taken to hanging out here several nights a week. Hoping to find that one person who could help her get past her trauma. Make the act of sex so arousing that she lost herself in the climax and finally, finally came into full heat and shifted.
She’d tried, god knows. She’d probably fucked half the clientele of the shifter bar. But they all left her cold. Incomplete. Most of them didn’t even care that the orgasms she had were faked. Assholes. Why did she even bother again and again. It always ended the same way. Afterwards she couldn’t even stand to talk to them.
Only Max had been a constant. Sexy as sin Max Rogan who had become her best friend. The only person who knew her sad, pathetic story. The one who always kept a watchful eye on her. The one she could always count on.
The man who never saw her as anything but Aisha, vodka stinger on the rocks.
The one she really, really wanted more than any of the others.
You can read more about Pretty Kitty and my other books at www.desireeholt.com