Bite by Sean Michael
I love growly characters. Not just ones who actually growl, like you'd expect to find from a werewolf, but characters who are growly because they are grumpy and snarly and are grouches (Oscar the Grouch was my favorite Sesame Street character). I find those characters so much fun to write. This was Anton, and he came first with Bite. He showed up, uninvited at the time as I was working on another book and had a deadline, demanded some time and nodded toward the chef with the short spiked hair and an attitude of his own who was apparently going to become his mate.
Now Greg might not be as growly and grouchy as Anton is, but he's just as stubborn, probably even more. He has to be given Anton penchant for rare steak and biting.
The characters are the thing for me. That's how almost all my books start -- a character shows up in my head and demands a story. And who am I to say no? I'm glad I didn't when Anton grouched his way in.
Anton loves a well-prepared steak. That's all he's hoping for when he meets Greg, his new live-in chef. Flamboyant and confident, Greg attracts Anton immediately, and he finds himself wanting to know Greg better. Much better.
It's not just a normal attraction for Anton. He's an unusual man, with unusual desires, and Greg seems to be filling a place in Anton's life that he's never explored. Anton prefers to be a civilized man and not let his werewolf self run free, but it’s the wolf that wants to claim Greg for a mate.
Someone disapproves of Anton's relationship with Greg. Someone close to Anton, someone inside his carefully controlled household. As he and Greg come closer and closer to mating for life, the danger gets nearer, forcing them to depend on each other to stay safe, and for Greg to stay sane.
Can Anton convince Greg that his wolf would never hurt him and keep Greg safe from the menace outside their relationship, too? Sexy, razor sharp and fast-paced, Bite will keep your heart racing!
Fuck, his head was pounding.
Anton stepped out of the shower and searched blindly for a towel. He'd not bothered with the lights as they just made his head pound worse.
Really, he needed to find a proper cure for a hangover. Or possibly to drink less. Still, the party had droned on and on and he'd been bored out of his mind. At the time, the pounding of his skull had seemed like a small price to pay for drinking himself into a stupor.
He dried off, shaved blindly, and pulled his hair back into as tight a tail as he could stand, wrapping a silver clasp around it. Silk underwear felt good against his skin, smooth and easy, his dress slacks topped with a turtleneck sweater. Just because he felt like hell, didn't mean he needed to look like it.
Anton ventured out of his room, frowning as the pounding in his head doubled when he stepped into the hall. The marble tile was cool under his bare feet -- it felt good actually, but he should have put on socks, shoes, like a civilized person.
God fucking damn it, he wished the pounding in his head would stop.
It did, only to start up again a moment later and if he hadn't worried about how much it would hurt, Anton would have shaken his head. Someone was knocking on the front door. He wondered where Jackson had fucked off to, that the man couldn't answer the door, as he went to do it himself.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, blinking at the man standing in the hallway.
"Last time I checked, I was Greg. Anna sent me. Said you needed a new chef." The brightest, sharpest blue eyes he'd ever seen stared out from under dark hair with bleached tips.
"You're a cook?" This guy didn't look like any chef he'd ever seen.
"Yep. Anna said she sent my resume." Ink, goatee, pierced ear -- this was a rock star.
He imagined Jackson had indeed seen the resume. He also imagined there hadn't been a picture attached. He stared at the tattoo, the red heart, blue bird and sexy sailor almost... old-fashioned. The little diamond in the man's ear twinkled at him.
"Well I guess you'd better come in then." He stepped away from the door.
"Thanks, dude. You the boss?"
"I am." And he'd have been calling for Jackson to get his ass out here and do his job, except Anton had a feeling any attempt at raising his voice would find the top of his head exploding. "Are you a good cook?" he asked, leading the way past the elegant decor and expensive furniture to the large, bright -- Jesus Christ it was bright -- kitchen.
"Nope. I'm a fucking exceptional cook."
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