They met in a meat locker. Okay, honestly, it was an industrial deep freezer, but they all looked the same to Sela. Meat lockers, freezers, all were lined in metal and cold as hell, if hell was a frozen wasteland lined with meat.

Damn her alpha Royce and his misguided acceptance of everyone. He should have killed Ron, the weasel in wolf’s fur, long ago. But no, he was the alpha’s brother, he just needed understanding, a bit of counseling and massive doses of medication and he’d be fine. Whatever. Yeah, Ron was fine all right, so fine that he had to threaten death to get a female to rut with him. Of course, she hadn’t made it any better by telling him she’d rather die than fuck him. Too bad Ron took her up on her dare. And not one of her pack stepped forward to stop him. The cowards.

Then again, Ron always was an idiot. Sure, she’d be uncomfortable in the cold locker, but the man seemed to have forgotten that she was a wolf. Not only that, it was the night of shift, the midnight moon. The moon would rise, calling to her beast, and she’d have no choice but to shift or fuck through the frenzy in order to remain human.

Survival was as easy as shifting and settling in a corner until the pack-owned meat factory opened on Monday. Too bad the pack would have to trash all of the meat in the freezer. Hey, a girl’s got to pee sometime. She’d find a nice corner on the other side of the room to take care of personal business and settle on a few boxes to laze the weekend away.

Of course, those plans were thwarted the minute he was shoved through the door. He was what she’d consider a big, hulking, tall drink of water with a bit of rum mixed in for good measure. Scratch that, he appeared to be more rum than water.

His skin carried a deep beige tone that appeared to be natural and not sun induced, as if he was from a Middle Eastern country. But he didn’t look like any Middle Easterner she’d ever seen. He. Was. Huge. Like Incredible Hulk but not green, huge.

Dressed in tight fitting, faded blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt that showed every single bulge, dip and curve of muscle, the man wasn’t exactly dressed for a weekend in the freezer. Damn. She could last all weekend, but this guy? Nah, he wouldn’t make it through the night, no matter how many muscles the man boasted.

Those muscles were good for heavy lifting, but not for insulating against the cold. And he was such a prime specimen of manhood too. Sela supposed she’d have to figure out how to get them out of the metallic room for his sake more than hers. She might be a bitch, literally, but she wasn’t a bitch or deranged like Ron. She couldn’t sit idly by while a human froze to death in her presence.

Relaxing on a pallet of hamburgers, she watched as he pounded the solid doors with his ham-sized fists. The metal dented and bent under his constant barrage of blows. Impressive. She’d give it to the guy, he was wickedly strong. He hadn’t seemed to have noticed her presence yet, so she remained quiet, observing him from afar. At least she could stare at him for a while. Too bad it couldn’t be a long while.

Between the cold threatening his life and her increasing desire to shift or fuck, they had to get out of there. She would have been perfectly happy to stay in the freezer, locked up with the mystery man and fucking him cross-eyed, but he’d never survive the cold. And if they didn’t get out of the room soon, she’d become a lust-crazed fucking machine or would shift and chase the big man as if he were her next meal. Decisions, decisions. Sela checked her watch. Only eight. She still had a few hours until midnight and the full moon rise. She could resist the change and not have to fuck for a few hours yet.

The man began rubbing his palms together, blowing air from his lungs onto his clasped hands. Sela furrowed her brow. Sure, it was cold, but not that cold. He hadn’t even been in the room longer than a minute or two. Then he began hopping in place, stamping his mammoth-sized feet on the concrete floor. The man acted as if he’d been thrown out into the middle of a blizzard. She looked at her arms and legs. A few smatterings of goose bumps covered her cinnamon skin. Wiggling her perfectly French manicured toes wrapped in the tiny scraps of leather of her sandals, she realized her toes weren’t even cold. She’d been in the room for over half an hour and she didn’t seem to be as affected as this stranger. Curious.

The stranger continued alternating between hopping and stomping his big, leather boot covered feet on the ground, rubbing his hands and arms as he paced in front of the door. He was probably looking for the release mechanism. He wouldn’t find one. Not because it didn’t exist, but because the release was actually a long cord that normally hung from the ceiling. Pity Ron and his goons had dispensed with it when they shoved her in there. Sela couldn’t wait to be free so she could exact revenge on the mongrel. Brother of the alpha or not, he’d pay and then she’d go on the run and settle somewhere nice and quiet. She’d preferably like to settle in a place without a pack or other wolves to deal with.

Sela continued to stare at the man, following him from one side of the door to the other, his ass and thighs flexing and teasing her with each step. Damn, the pull of the moon felt strong tonight.

She needed theme music. Something like “Mission Impossible” but with a bit more sex appeal. That thought came to Ashley as she tugged on the belt of her black trench coat for the thousandth time. Nothing she could do about it now, though. Any second, the elevator would begin its nightly climb to the thirtieth floor, bigwig central. It would pick up its lone occupant for the evening and then begin its descent to the first floor. Because what goes up must come down. Of course, on its way down, it would pick up one additional passenger.

The LCD panel above the elevator doors came to life, slowly rising in number as the metal box made its ascent along the shaft. Her phone buzzed against her hip and she pressed the Talk button on her Bluetooth headset.

“Hello?” Ashley didn’t know why, but she whispered. It wasn’t like anyone else was in the building this late at night. Well, anyone but her, the man about to enter the elevator, and Marlon.

“It’s going up.” Marlon, the building security guard, had a penchant for stating the obvious.

“Yes, I can see that. Is our deal still in place?” She needed to make sure, doubly sure, he’d taken care of everything and wouldn’t allow her to be interrupted. Tonight was too important for the aging man to suddenly gain a conscience or simply forget to turn the elevator alarm off so that it didn’t notify emergency services. She really didn’t want to explain her outfit to some fireman or police officer. Really.

“Yep, long as you’ve got a place for me come the end of the year.”

“I do.” The bribe hadn’t been a difficult one to agree to, but she’d make sure he got what he wanted, without fail.

“Then I don’t believe there will be a problem for you this evening, Miss Ashley.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Marlon.” She pushed the button again, disconnecting the call. During their brief chat, the elevator had continuously been rising, passing floor after floor.

The red numbers taunted her as they switched from one number to another. As the elevator rose in its shaft, the bile in her stomach rose toward the back of her throat. Nerves caused the muscles of her abdomen to twitch and her belly to churn. Maybe it had all been a mistake. No. She wouldn’t back out now. Not after all the preparation she’d gone through.

Enough was enough. Trevor had brought this all on himself, and she wasn’t about to let him get away with what he’d done. She’d tried to be the sweet, submissive girlfriend and where the hell had that gotten her? Thrown to the curb. Now, she’d get her way and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. At least, not while they were in the elevator.

The red lights showed the number thirty and Ashley’s heart stopped. The elevator would be descending soon. Any second now it would begin its way back to the lobby. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the Down button and waited. Ashley had plotted, planned, followed, and bribed people, okay, a person, for this chance. There was no going back now.

Ashley pulled at the belt of her jacket, sliding one end through the other as she untied the slipknot. She brushed the belt ends aside and worked at the buttons, sliding them through the holes with increasing speed as the elevator approached her floor.

She let the coat slip from her shoulders, and the fabric skimmed her arms as it fell toward the floor and pooled at her feet. She hoped Marlon would remember to pick it up during his rounds and keep it safe for her. The red LCD lights continued to count down from thirty.

Twenty-nine…twenty-eight…twenty-seven… One more floor.

The soft ding signaling the elevator’s arrival echoed in the tile lined foyer of the twenty-sixth floor, but she ignored the sound. Seconds ticked by as she waited for the elevator to settle and open its doors. Her heart rate increased with each passing moment until she felt her heart would burst from her chest, and she thought it’d simply stop from overexertion before she got a chance to finish what she’d started. Then…then the elevator doors did what she’d been waiting for. They opened.

Trevor stood in the center of the elevator dressed in his typical business suit with perfectly pressed, exorbitantly expensive shirt and tie. He held his jacket at his side with his fingertips, leaving his upper body clad only in his dress shirt. With his promotion, he’d upgraded to Armani. And true to form, he didn’t carry a briefcase as work was best done in an office and never at home.

She made a note to tear the thing from his body, popping off each and every twenty-dollar button she could find. Of course, tearing the clothes from his back meant she’d get an eyeful of his body. Not that she was complaining, of course. With lightly tanned skin stretched over each rippling muscle, she’d be the last woman to complain at having to stare at his bare chest and six-pack abs.

His six pack led to his trim waist and in the front, those lickable lines on his hips. In the back, an ass she couldn’t wait to nibble…and bounce a quarter off of just to see if she could. His legs were long, equally muscled, and also wrapped in Armani. Scissors. She was sure the expensive tailored wool suit would melt away like butter beneath a hot knife with her newly sharpened safety scissors. That thought alone almost made her smile.

The epitome of a man on the rise stood before her, and her knees shook as the enormity of what she was about to do landed on her shoulders like a grand piano. In fact, if she listened hard enough, she was sure she could hear Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Great Balls of Fire” echoing from the imaginary keys.

The minute… No, the very second… Hell, the nanosecond she got away from this guy, Lyla was running straight to Gold’s Gym and buying a membership. Maybe even two. More memberships had to mean more weight loss, right? Shit, she hoped so.

Lyla chanced a glance behind her and gasped at what she saw. Carl had almost gone full wolf as he chased her. His arms and face were covered in a mottled mix of grey and brown fur. His mouth had contorted and reshaped into a half-formed muzzle, and his hands … his hands had lengthened and were now tipped with fierce, razor-sharp claws. No way would she survive if he caught her. Damn. As pissed as he was at her for running, he’d slice and dice her instead mating. She picked up the pace, cursing herself for wearing three-inch heels instead of comfortable flats.

As she ran, the fat on her arms wiggled, her ass jiggled, and her thighs rubbed together. She mentally moved Gold’s Gym to the very top of her list, above her next waxing appointment.

Now, running for her life from a freak of paranature, she finally understood why her mother used to harp on her about taking care of her human body. “Just because your wolf is fast doesn’t mean you won’t be caught human one of these days, baby doll,” her mom used to say.

Today’s the day, Mom.

Lyla skidded around a corner, breaking the heel of her left shoe in the process. Fuck!She stumbled, but caught herself before eating the pavement, and managed to only scrape her knee along the concrete. Now the pain in her side from running was accompanied by the searing, throbbing ache in her knee. So not good.

Her wolf clawed and scratched within, but she’d be damned if she went wolf in this area. Besides, letting the beast free was exactly what the sniveling omega, Carl, wanted.

Lyla kept running. She pushed Carl’s behavior from her mind. Mutt or not, her Alpha had no right to enforce his power over her.

So what if she’d reached the ripe old age of thirty without mating. So what if she was a bit pudgy—okay, a lot pudgy. And so what if she worked a near dead-end job with no hopes of advancement, which Mr. Alpha-man felt was beneath a member of his pack, albeit a mutt. Just … So what!

Her breath came in billowing pants now. The pain from the stitch in her side warred and fought with the almost debilitating ache in her knee. And through it all, her wolf howled and paced within her. It, in its infinite wisdom, felt it could take down the lowly Carl. Good thing Lyla knew better.

A growl sounded from behind her, and she didn’t dare look back. His shifted hand sliced through the back of her shirt, taking skin and flesh with it, and still she ran, cursing herself with every pounding step.

Why hadn’t she demanded to be taken home, Alpha’s wrath be damned?

She shoved the thoughts aside. Rehashing her mistakes during a run for her life wouldn’t solve anything.

The houses and shops lining the street were dark at this hour. No help would come from within. Not that she expected any. She realized, almost too late, that Carl had driven her to the center of the inner-city wolf territory.

Fuck me!

Wait, that’s right, that’s what got her into this mess. The fact that she wouldn’t…

“Eroticism is like a dance: one always leads the other.” ~ Milan Kundera

Harlow’s there in the darkness, watching me, weighing me, deciding. And I stretch longer, push harder, feel the music in my bones as I move. I want to make him proud.

The Company is important, the other dancers, the choreographers and the benefactors…but Harlow…he’s the world, the sun, the moon, the stars.

He’s my inspiration, greatest cheerleader and supporter.

So I shift for him, extend my leg, raising it higher, pointing my toes, every muscle screaming with the movement, but his praise is worth it. Always worth it.

I don’t care about the crowds, their support, because it’s surface, superficial. They don’t know me, don’t kiss my toes when I come home and they’re bleeding, don’t massage my muscles after a long day.

They clap, they cheer and that’s all some need.

Not me.

The tempo increases, growing louder, and I’m spinning, body tight. Heart pounding, the sweat on my forehead travels down the side of my face. But the sounds seep into my soul and I still dance.

I’m old now, older than most, and I feel it. But I can’t stop. What if I stop and…

The chorus is fading into the background now. My primary partner and I re-enter, time for the Pas de deux. Time to pretend I love women, adore her, that I’m in love with and worship the very ground she walks upon.

I pretend she’s Harlow.

Together we twine, moving in sync, countering steps and supporting one another. I lift her body, contort her, extending with her. We become one with the music, the song of life, the sex in motion.

Some have called it horizontal lovemaking, our bodies telling a story as old as time.

The crescendo is coming, the orchestra building higher and higher. I lift her, straining under her weight, but it shouldn’t be that way. It should be easy, but it’s getting more difficult with each performance.

But I don’t drop her, keep going, must keep going. Ten more minutes and it’s over.

It’ll all be over, the dance, my career, the biggest part of my life for almost as long as I can remember. And I’m fighting the pressure, the depression that eats at me, the fear. I’m only thirty-five. What am I going to do with the rest of my life? One answer: Harlow. He’ll keep me steady, he’ll…

My time on stage is winding down, two more eight counts and I’m done. I keep the tally in my head. Children are taught to count as high as the sky. Dancers count to eight. Throw in an occasional “and” and that’s the extent of our mathematical needs. Our bodies are our diplomas. The rest is just fluff, in our world.

The closing notes drift through the crowd and we strike the final pose, an embrace, a tribute to our love. Lights cut, curtains draw close and I straighten, releasing my partner’s waist, reaching for her hand.

The chorus and players line the stage and the fabric parts, bright lights in our eyes. We bow, smiles in place, pretending we haven’t just danced for hours. That we aren’t exhausted, that our feet don’t ache and that we won’t be soaking in a tub when we reach home. Because we’re dancers. That’s what we do. We complain to each other, but share our “gift” with the world, smiles in place.