Bayou Loup Page 5

  Mark licked at Bobby’s cock, up the underside, his tongue worrying the thick vein. Then with a quick suck of the head and a deep swallow, Mark engulfed its length in his throat.

  Bobby’s head hit the tiles, and he cried out. Mark wasn’t sure if it was from pain or pleasure, but the tightening of his hands on Mark’s head hinted at pleasure.

  “Damn, Mark, you give the best head.” Bobby gasped.

  Mark chuckled in his throat and kept sucking him. He glanced up and caught Bobby staring down at him, lust burning in those blue eyes.

  “Fuck, when you look at me like that, your lips wrapped around my dick…” Bobby shuddered. “It makes me want to shoot my load.”

  Mark’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked harder, encouraging the big man to blow.

  Bobby’s cry of “Mark!” and a few quick thrusts of his hips, drove his cock deep into Mark’s mouth, and he unloaded shots of hot cum. Mark drank them down, loving the taste of it, the feel of Bobby’s body under his hands, Bobby’s hands in his hair.

  Everything about sex with this man was so fucking perfect it was as if they had been made for each other.

  And Mark was going to have to walk away from it in about thirty minutes.

  »»•««

  Mark put on his clothes and then stuffed his belongings back into the gym bag.

  “Well, that’s everything.” He looked around the room.

  Bobby stood against the wall, his lips a rigid line. Not a frown, but not a smile. Mark could only hope the man didn’t regret their time together. He knew he never would.

  “You know I hate for this weekend to end.” Bobby ran a hand through his still-damp hair. “I really enjoyed it, Mark.”

  Mark came up to Bobby and leaned up for a kiss. Bobby swooped down and captured his mouth, and the sparks between them ignited. Mark’s dick went from tired to interested in seconds.

  Damn, this man got to him like no other, but he’d be dead if he stayed any longer.

  Maybe it was a good thing they didn’t give their names.

  He broke the kiss. “So did I. Never thought when I first saw you at the bar this would happen.” Mark didn’t mean the weekend; he meant the way he felt about Bobby.

  “I…” Bobby started to say something but then closed his mouth. He exhaled and unlocked the door, holding it open for Mark.

  See you or Catch you later seemed wrong, but he had no idea what to say instead and neither did Bobby.

  There were many things Mark wanted to tell Bobby, but he swallowed them down and gave his lover a saucy grin. “Best weekend ever.”

  “Best weekend ever.” Bobby nodded.

  Mark slipped out the door and headed for the elevator. Behind him, he heard the door snick closed. He reached and pressed the button.

  »»•««

  Bobby turned and stared at the empty hotel room. Might as well pack and get out of there. The memories of what he and Mark had done there were too fresh and too heartbreaking to stay any longer. He tossed his clothes into his carry-on, zipped it closed, and then sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

  How could he have let Mark walk away?

  Without a last name or phone number?

  Bobby sighed. No point, not really. Even if they’d exchanged names and numbers, Bobby couldn’t bring Mark to St. Jerome. Not if he wanted to keep his secret from his friends, neighbors, and what little family he had left, like Carol’s parents.

  Christ, what if they found out?

  They weren’t members of the pack and didn’t live in St. Jerome. In fact, they had never known about his wolf. Carol had promised not to tell them when he and she married, and she’d kept his secret. But he couldn’t face them; he just couldn’t. If that made him a coward, then so be it. How could he ever explain to them without explaining about his wolf? One of the most important rules of the pack, drummed into him from childhood, was learning the truth about the pack was on a need-to-know basis. All others had to be kept in the dark to protect the pack.

  Could he face his pack? He’d grown up with the men of it, mentored their sons, worked with them in the sheriff’s department. They knew him as a straight man, as Carol’s husband.

  Not as a gay man, and certainly not a gay man with another man as his lover.

  Most of the pack was still reeling from the introduction of their new alpha, Scott Dupree, and his lover and mate, Ted Canedo, an ex-cop, former PI, and now an artist. Then deputy sheriff Billy Trosclair announced he was gay and brought in a gay wolf from another pack, Peter Graham, as his mate.

  Had St. Jerome hit its threshold on gay men? Had the pack?

  He shook his head to clear it.

  God, this sucked. He didn’t know what to do, except check out and go home.

  He had a ton of work waiting for him on the festival. Best get on his way.

  Bobby grabbed the handle of his overnight case and wheeled it to the door. Without looking back, he left the room and headed to the elevator. He pushed the button and waited. The doors opened, and he stepped in. He faced the buttons and pushed L for Lobby.

  »»•««

  As Mark drove away, a deep sadness filled him. He’d missed his chance at something wonderful. Something he might not ever find again. Something he should have held on to with both hands.

  During the elevator ride down, Mark’s urge to stop, get off, and go back to Bobby swelled in him until his fingers gripped the handrail of the car so hard they looked bloodless.

  Mark had wanted to go back, tell Bobby his name, give him his phone number, and arrange to meet again, but if Bobby had wanted that, he would have asked.

  He had to admit this had been nothing but a fling for the older man, just as it had started out for him.

  And didn’t that just suck?

  He exhaled and told himself not to be so melodramatic.

  Mark had a life. He taught. Had friends. His research was important. He’d devoted the last five years of his life to confronting his demons.

  He touched his head where the white streak of hair grew, then fought away the memory of the night he’d gotten it. A night he’d never forget, not if he lived to be one hundred.

  He was so close to announcing a discovery. Once he lined up all the rest of the evidence to prove his theory, the world would finally know the truth.

  Wolves existed right here in the swamps of Southern Louisiana.

  Chapter Six

  Mark ran the video again. He zoomed in. There. The flash of gray crossing the dirt path next to the bayou. That was no dog. It had to be a wolf and a damn big one. He’d found the movie on the Internet, on some channel that showed videos of creatures like the Loch Ness monster, Big Foot, and the Yeti.

  He didn’t believe in any of those stories, the badly doctored photos, the drunken unreliable reports printed in the gossip magazines. Mark snorted.

  He believed in the rugarou because he had an eyewitness account. One that no one could dispute—his.

  The legend of the beast of the bayou was true. He’d seen it with his own eyes when he was fifteen. Hell, it had attacked him and his dad while they were camping. It had frightened his father so badly the man had a heart attack, later dying in the hospital, and it had left Mark with a streak of gray hair, marking him as a victim. His mother had never quite recovered from losing her husband, had never been the same. Every time she looked at him, the streak of white hair reminded her of her loss, so she stopped. She’d talk to him, but her gaze danced around him, over his head, his shoulders, even at his feet. Gradually, she’d distanced herself from him until it had been a mercy to leave for college.

  The rugarou had destroyed his family.

  Mark owed it to his father and mother to prove the wolves existed. Oh, he’d never believed the werewolf stories, but he did believe in the wolf. Werewolves? That was crazy shit, right up there with vampires and zombies and aliens.

  The attack was one of the reasons Mark had gone into zoology, to learn about wolves and how they behaved, where the
y lived, and their mating habits. He’d studied wolves up in Canada and in Yellowstone. Now he had his opportunity to prove his theory that the swamp wolf existed.

  He’d name it in honor of his father.

  These wolves needed to be studied. Zoos would want specimens; they’d create breeding programs. Others would want to study them, of course, but the swamp wolves would be his discovery.

  When his colleagues heard his theory, they asked him how wolves had escaped exposure for so long, and he’d tell them they hadn’t. The Cajuns knew all about them. Hell, they even had a festival for them. The creatures were the best-kept secret in Louisiana.

  But no longer.

  With the occasional photo of them and anecdotal reports he had collected over the years, he almost had enough to write his paper. All he was missing was video, and he had a plan for getting it.

  Mark pulled out the USGS map of the swamp and located the place where he’d determined the most activity had been reported. Red dots, each one a sighting, covered the map, and most of them centered on one parish—one part of the swamp—just outside a little backwater town called St. Jerome.

  When the weather cooled down, he’d go there, set up camp in the swamp, and with his video equipment, finally get film and proof positive swamp wolves were real. Then he’d publish his findings and make the biggest find in North America—a new species of wolf.

  It would put an end to the legend of the rugarou for good.

  »»•««

  Bobby had just sat when someone knocked on his door. He frowned, then pushed out of the chair and went to the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone.

  He opened the door. Sarah Guillory, a pack widow with two grown sons, stood on his step, a large casserole dish in her hands.

  “Hi, Bobby. Hope you don’t mind me just dropping by?” She smiled up at him.

  “Well, Sarah. How have you been?” He gave her a grin. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “It’s a casserole, silly. I thought you might need something home cooked.”

  For a moment, Bobby couldn’t think why in the world she’d be there on his doorstep, and with food. Then it hit him. He swallowed and shuffled his feet. He knew he had to ask her in.

  “That’s mighty nice of you, Sarah, but you didn’t need to worry about me. I’m a fair-to-good cook in my own right. But thank you, all the same.” He took the pot from her and stepped aside to let her in. She came up to his shoulder. She’d styled her blonde-gray hair, wore a pretty dress, what Carol would have called a frock, and he caught a whiff of some expensive perfume as she passed him.

  Well, this visit had to happen sometime, and he was just amazed it hadn’t happened sooner. The pack had a few widows. As a single, eligible male, he should have expected this, but it caught him off guard—like a linebacker had come out of nowhere to smash into him, throwing him onto the ground.

  Oh, God almighty, Sarah was hunting for a husband, and he looked like prey.

  Oh merde, how off-base was she?

  She nodded and followed him in. Bobby went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “Guess I’ll just put it in here.”

  “You can put it in the freezer, if you want.” Sarah looked small in the middle of his living room. She twiddled her fingers together as she glanced around at his bare walls. He’d taken the pictures of him and Carol down a year ago. Now he felt as if he should apologize or explain why he’d done it.

  But he couldn’t do it. Not share that part of him with her.

  Sarah still stood there, waiting, looking at him with her big brown eyes.

  Maybe another man would have laughed, but Bobby knew it had probably taken a lot of courage for her to come to his house like this, and kindness was something he could well afford. And she was pack.

  “No, I’ll heat it up for dinner tonight.” He shut the door and turned to face her.

  She beamed at him.

  He wanted to die. His heart, his body craved Mark, but he knew his responsibility to the pack. He’d been married, widowed, and according to pack rules and the threat of wasting away, he should marry again. People wouldn’t think twice about that; they would expect it. Find another mate. Marry. Live a long life.

  “It’s just chicken and dumplings.” She shrugged.

  “I love chicken and dumplings.” Bobby leaned against the counter, not leaving the kitchen, keeping distance between them, afraid any move he made would be misinterpreted.

  Sarah smiled, sighed, and then unhooked her fingers and put them stiff-armed at her side.

  “I was thinking maybe you’d like to go to the movies on Saturday night,” she blurted out. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and held her breath.

  Bobby sighed. No way could he come out to her. He wasn’t ready for that, and he sure as hell wasn’t ready for this.

  “Sarah, I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”

  She blinked at him. “Well, uh…” At a complete loss, she stared at the floor as a slow blush crept up her cheeks.

  Damn it!

  “Look, Sarah. I sure appreciate you stopping by, but truth is, I’m just not ready to…to date again. Yet.” He shuffled his own feet.

  “Oh. Okay.” She nodded, her head still down.

  He’d just die if she was crying.

  “Well, I better be going then.” She turned and headed to the door.

  Bobby bolted from the kitchen and made it to the door in time to open it for her.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “I understand.” She stopped and put her hand on his arm. “It took me a long time before I could even entertain the thought of being with someone other than George.” She gazed up into his eyes. Her brown eyes looked liquid, like a doe’s. His gut gave a hard yank. She did understand, but not everything, and for a moment, the urge to explain warred with just wanting her gone.

  “Thank you for understanding. I’m just not ready yet.”

  She dropped her hand and turned away.

  Bobby watched as she went down the walk to her car parked at the curb, got in, and then drove away.

  He shut the door and leaned against it, letting out the breath he held.

  He needed Mark, more than ever.

  But how in the world was he going to tell these people, his pack members, that he was gay and had found his mate, another gay man?

  “Don’t be stupid. Mark is long gone,” he muttered.

  Maybe he should start thinking about taking a new wife, if only for the pack’s sake.

  Maybe he should get off his ass and go back to Lake Charles. Make an effort to find his man.

  »»•««

  With Mark’s teaching schedule at the university and burning the midnight oil with his research project, he’d had little time to think about Bobby and their incredible weekend together. Well, no time during the day, but at night? Man, he’d jerked off to his memories of the big man almost every night and morning.

  No man had left such an impression on Mark. Such a craving.

  He shoved his books and notes into his messenger bag, locked his office desk, and headed for home. Today was Friday, and the idea to go back to Lake Charles, to the hotel where he’d met Bobby, had been fermenting in his mind for weeks.

  Tonight was the night. He just needed to go home, grab his duffel bag, and head to the casino. Even if he didn’t find Bobby again, he was pretty sure one of the other men would scratch his itch.

  He got to his car in the university faculty parking lot, started it up, and drove to his apartment. After a quick shower and shave, he dressed in his good jeans, a tight-fitting black T-shirt, cowboy boots, and a leather jacket. He checked his look in the mirror and ran his hand through his hair, trying to straighten the patch of white.

  Mark grabbed his car keys and the duffel bag and left. The drive from Lafayette to Lake Charles only took about an hour if he did the speed limit, and he would. The last thing he needed was a ticket to bum him out even more.

>   Need and excitement raced through him as he pulled into the drive and up to the front entrance. Parking attendants rushed over to take his keys as he climbed out. He could have driven around the parking lot, looking for Bobby’s truck, but why? Why let the disappointment start so early in the evening?

  Right now, he was feeling good, looking for love in all the wrong places, and hoping to meet the man of his wet dreams. A tall order, sure, but lightning had struck once. Why not again?

  Mark made his way to the hotel bar and paused just inside the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He scanned the bar. No Bobby. Damn.

  He frowned.

  “Why the sad-sack look, sugar?” A young man approached him with a tray of cocktails. “You look like you need a drink.”

  “Scotch. Neat.” Mark moved to a table and sat. It faced the bar and entrance. The waiter returned, put the drink down, and asked, “Run a tab?”

  “No. I might not be here very long.”

  “I get it.” He winked. “Five fifty, please.”

  Mark gave him a ten, and the waiter gave him the change. Mark slipped two bucks on his tray. “For you.”

  “Thanks, sugar.” He paused, then looked back. “If you’re interested, I get off at midnight.”

  Mark laughed. Nothing better for the forty-year-old ego than to be hit on by a twentysomething waiter. And a cute one at that.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” The waiter tucked his tray under his arm and cocked a hip.

  “I was in here a couple of months ago. Met a very nice man. Big. About fifty. Blond, but with gray mixed in. Drinks whiskey. Does that ring a bell?”

  The guy twisted his pert little lips. “Yeah. Sounds familiar. He comes in here every now and then, always on Friday.”

  “Seen him lately?”

  “If you mean tonight, no. If you mean recently, I think so, but I can’t be certain.”

  “You don’t happen to know his last name, do you?”

  “Sorry, sugar. I don’t get a lot of last names, you know?” The waiter gave him a shrug and moved off.