"Ohmigod, did you hear?" Kenzi practically bounced on the balls of her feet, which was, Bo considered, pretty impressive since her heels were six inches high.
"D-man got suspended for getting all up in some high shmuckety shmuck's face! Hale had to put his job on the line to get him reinstated!"
"How do you manage to not spill your beer? Wait. What?"
"Dyson's gone all berserker and might lose his job!" Kenzi chirruped.
"Hale?" Bo shot him a questioning look.
Somber, Hale nodded. Behind the bar, Trick let out a gusty sigh and closed his eye, his round face folding into sorrowful lines.
"Why the hell is he going all Big Brooding Wolf Boy?" Bo demanded. "We don't have time for his fuzzy naval gazing bullshit right now."
Hale shot an inscrutable look at Trick, who folded his mouth in a straight line and shook his head, slightly. Bo shot her glare from one to the other, and snorted in disgust when they refused to meet her gaze. Hale started to whistle, absentmindedly, making one of the barmaids stumble.
"Guys. Dyson and I may have a ... past, but he's still my friend. So stop with the mysterioso silent treatment and tell me what the hell is going on."
"There's nothing you can do, Bo," Trick insisted. "This is something he needs to work through for himself."
"Trickster, there's always something Bo can do. We can do."
Again, there was a glance between the two men.
"These meaningful looks you two keep sharing? They're starting to piss me off, guys," her voice vibrated with frustration and the hint of violence. And still they just stood there, looking anywhere but at her.
"Hale," Kenzi turned and flashed her big baby blues up at the siren. "Hale, tell us what's going on with Dyson, please?"
Hale flushed under his dark skin and stammered a denial. Kenzi stepped in closer and laid a tiny hand on his wrist, making him turn even redder before he blurted out, "Ciara left him."
Bo looked into the mouth of her beer bottle while she tried to sort out the sudden storm of emotion. Sympathetic sadness for her friend's grief, a sharp ache at losing Ciara as a friend, and, though she would admit it only in the privacy of her own mind, a painful flare of hope, which she quickly squelched.
"Where is he?" she asked, not looking up from her bottle.
"At his place but-"
"Bo!" Trick's voice carried the weight of command, and something in her wanted to be pulled back, wanted, badly, not to do this, but Bo ignored the feeling and strode out of the Dahl.
There was no response to the knocking. Bo could hear music playing, loudly. He couldn't hear her. She opened the door and stepped inside, only getting a few feet in before the sight of him stopped her in her tracks.
Dyson was... enraged.
He had stripped off his shirt and was pummeling the heavy bag like it was the Morrigan herself. His jaw was set, she could see the clenched muscle under the scruff of his beard. The light slanting through the high-set windows gleamed off the sweat that was beading on his golden skin. Bo's breath caught in her throat at the sight of his broad shoulders pivoting smoothly in a steady violent rhythm, pivoting on his his narrow hips, left, left, right, left.
Each time his bare fist sank into the canvas, Bo felt the meaty thunk resonate in her own flesh.
She ached with the need to slip up behind him and run a single finger down the furrow of his spine, feeling the steel of his muscles under the sweat-slick skin. He would pause, reach out both hands and grab the bag to stop its furious jouncing, his biceps bulging with the effort. Then she would trace the the line of his tattoos up his back using the tip of her tongue, tasting the salt of his sweat. He would bow his head and lean against the bag, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a long, aching shudder.
She would slide her hand up the back of his leg, from the sensitive spot behind his knee, over the corded strength of his thigh, up to where the faded jeans were worn down to soft whiteness just below the curve of his ass. Her palms sliding up his ass cheeks would make him shift a little, still head-down, still leaning hard against the heavy bag, but move just a little back towards her.
When he did, she would step in close and press her hips and belly against him, feeling the small tremors in his muscles even though his jeans. She'd rake her nails, gently, across the tops of his shoulders and down the swell of his biceps, and the sharp sensation would make his whole body shiver. The spike of his desire would warm her like a solar flare.
She'd slip her hands around him, pressing her hard nipples against his back, flutter her fingers down the flat planes of his belly to the top of his jeans. He take a long, deep breath, fighting for control. She'd slip one fingertip between his skin and the denim, and whisper in a throaty voice, "I want you."
He'd let out that breath with a low rumbling growl as she popped the top button his jeans. When her hand dipped inside and took him in her grip, he'd moan. She would feel all the trembling stillness in his body, pressed back against her, convulse, once as he gave in to the hunger she still felt between them.
He'd spin around and span her waist with his hands, big and calloused and strong, lifting her so she could wrap her legs around his hips. He'd cover her mouth with his, hungry and biting, a devouring kiss, as he slammed her up against one of the pillars.
Pinning her against the wall, he would yank her shirt up over her head, press his bare chest to her bare breasts. He'd bury his nose in her neck, making those small groans of pleasure as she arched against him.
Finally, impatiently, she'd tear his jeans down around his thighs, the zipper breaking with a metallic snarl as she yanked them down his hips, her movements hurried and urgent. He would growl and look down at her with eyes fill of animal heat as he yanked her skirt up, tore her lace panties to shreds.
He'd enter her with a single thrust, and she'd gasp, open mouthed, at the feel of his energy uncoiling inside of her. Her hands, locked around his neck, would feel the orgasm build in the shivering tension of his muscles as he drove himself in and out with an unrestrained and nearly frantic fury. Finally, he'd drive himself deep into her with a wordless howl, and she'd spill open, her chi released like a waterfall, pouring over him.
"Bo?" Dyson's sharp voice, roughened by fury instead of desire, cut through her haze of hunger. "Bo, what the hell are doing here?"
He stood in front of her, legs spread, shoulders braced for a fight.
"I-" she paused, her mouth open as she fought to find words in the shreds of her fantasy. "I'm sorry. I heard about Ciara and I came to see if you needed anything."
"I'm fine," he barked.
She opened her mouth to protest, to say she knew him, knew him like no one else did, she could see him hurting. But then he narrowed his green eyes at her and breathed in, his nostrils flaring. She could see the aura of her own need, knew he could smell her arousal.
She swallowed, hard, her mouth suddenly dry. When she was this hot and bothered, men had crashed their cars just to crawl to her on bleeding knees. And yet Dyson's aura stayed still, laying under his skin, as unreachable as his wolf.
She'd never had a more stark reminder of what she could not do. How much he had given up for her.
She licked her lips and looked down, suddenly feeling selfish and ashamed.
"Okay. I'm sorry. I'll go."
She turned and left, with a glance over her shoulder. He stood there, watching her leave, his face set like stone.