Master, Come (Gay Werewolf Erotica)

Fiction & Literature, LGBT, Gay, Romance, Erotica
Cover of the book Master, Come (Gay Werewolf Erotica) by Annabeth Lake, Annabeth Lake
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Author: Annabeth Lake ISBN: 9781497766761
Publisher: Annabeth Lake Publication: January 27, 2013
Imprint: Language: English
Author: Annabeth Lake
ISBN: 9781497766761
Publisher: Annabeth Lake
Publication: January 27, 2013
Imprint:
Language: English

Collared and naked in an isolated cabin, a werewolf waits for his master. His taste for blood can only be matched by his taste for rough sex. The moon is rising, and so is his lust. But before he can transform, he needs his master to satisfy his need to be sexually dominated. 

Contains oral sex, anal sex, and dominance and submission with a romantic touch. 

Excerpt: 

I awaken before nightfall, in despair because I awaken alone. My small room is cold. In my lonely misery I have slept all day on the floor without a blanket. But now, as I rub my eyes and shudder with cold, the bed looks more inviting than grief. Surely I can afford some comfort, for my misery cannot last much longer. He will come tonight.

Slowly, I move to the bed. My chain rattles on the floor. I do not stand but rather move in a crouch, my back bent forward and my legs folded at the knees. Though a glimmer of sunlight still lingers in the crack between the musty curtains, my bones already feel sore. They reject the shape the sunlight forces them to take. They long to transform.

To become what they are supposed to be.

I haven’t been truly human in four years. I’m told that some take much longer to “adjust,” but I embraced what I became almost instantly. The first transformation was unbelievably painful, but I learned to savor even the pain. What I felt when the pain stopped was worth every moment of it.
I felt free.

The bed is soft. I pull the duvet over my naked form. When my master comes, will he find me like this, huddled under the covers like an innocent? I could wait for him on the bed, just to see. Admittedly, I like the idea of him crawling into bed with me, waking me all over again with tender kisses. But that won’t happen tonight.

Tonight my body craves not tenderness but the savagery of the cold moon itself.

View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart

Collared and naked in an isolated cabin, a werewolf waits for his master. His taste for blood can only be matched by his taste for rough sex. The moon is rising, and so is his lust. But before he can transform, he needs his master to satisfy his need to be sexually dominated. 

Contains oral sex, anal sex, and dominance and submission with a romantic touch. 

Excerpt: 

I awaken before nightfall, in despair because I awaken alone. My small room is cold. In my lonely misery I have slept all day on the floor without a blanket. But now, as I rub my eyes and shudder with cold, the bed looks more inviting than grief. Surely I can afford some comfort, for my misery cannot last much longer. He will come tonight.

Slowly, I move to the bed. My chain rattles on the floor. I do not stand but rather move in a crouch, my back bent forward and my legs folded at the knees. Though a glimmer of sunlight still lingers in the crack between the musty curtains, my bones already feel sore. They reject the shape the sunlight forces them to take. They long to transform.

To become what they are supposed to be.

I haven’t been truly human in four years. I’m told that some take much longer to “adjust,” but I embraced what I became almost instantly. The first transformation was unbelievably painful, but I learned to savor even the pain. What I felt when the pain stopped was worth every moment of it.
I felt free.

The bed is soft. I pull the duvet over my naked form. When my master comes, will he find me like this, huddled under the covers like an innocent? I could wait for him on the bed, just to see. Admittedly, I like the idea of him crawling into bed with me, waking me all over again with tender kisses. But that won’t happen tonight.

Tonight my body craves not tenderness but the savagery of the cold moon itself.

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