Chosen Mate: Lion Shifter Romance (Cybermates Book 5), Candace Ayers [big screen ebook reader .TXT] 📗

nature sounds didn’t block out the moans, groans, cries, and squeals of their lovemaking. Hashtag never again. “It isn’t all that bad. I’ll get a team from Tidy Maids to do an emergency visit, maybe order a trash dumpster… or two…or four…” Hell, maybe a backhoe.

I forced my legs to move and tried to shift my focus to the positive, something that hadn’t come easily lately. “Well, the open floor plan is nice, and look at this kitchen. Great lighting for my YouTube videos. I have a couple new recipes waiting to be filmed for my channel.”

Arden nodded, then gestured to the sink. “How long do you think those dishes have been piled in there?”

I grimaced, but before I could respond, she reached into her purse and pulled out her vibrating cell phone. “I have to take this.” She waved her cell phone in the air, grinning from ear to ear as she headed back toward the front door.

I called after her, pointing to the ceiling. “I’m taking a look upstairs.”

As I headed toward the stairs, a stack of photos on the edge of the dining room table caught my eye. I picked up the top one, brushing the dust off with a crumpled napkin, and stared at a bunch of guys laughing, drinking and mugging for the camera. I recognized Jake and Patton right away. And another guy. Emerald green eyes, dazzling smile, grinning like the demon of mischief and wearing a pair of lace panties on his head. Dylan.

He looked younger, maybe eight or nine years, but he was just as handsome as ever, and my heart constricted like it was being squeezed in a vice. I absently rubbed my lower belly.

It had been over two months since I’d last seen the more mature version of Dylan King. Two months since he’d swept into my life like a whirlwind. And back out just as quickly. If I saw him today, I’d run as far and as fast as possible. In fact, I’d rather gargle with dirty toilet water than have to set eyes on that man again. And the feelings were mutual, if the way he took off two months ago, never contacting me again, was any indication—right after the most amazingly hot, feverishly orgasmic, earth shatteringly passionate experience of my twenty seven year existence.

I groaned and tossed the picture back onto the pile.

The man screwed me one minute and ran screaming the next. Okay, he didn’t literally scream. But he sure didn’t bother sticking around—or care about what he left behind. Jackass.

My anger flared as I marched upstairs and pushed open the door to the first bedroom. Before I could enter, I heard a noise coming from the room at the end of the hall.

I had heard a noise, hadn’t I? It had been faint. Maybe my imagination. Or maybe not.

When I heard it again, I knew what it was. Raccoons. They often found their way into vacant homes on the island. They built nests, messed with heating and ventilation systems, and inflicted thousands of dollars’ worth of damage. As if the place wasn’t enough of a wreck.

Well not today, varmints.

I took two steps in the direction of the squatters before I froze. What if it wasn’t a nest of racoons? What if it was a human—an intruder lying in wait?

The smart thing would have been to turn around and call the police, ask them to come and investigate. Then again, did I really want to be the crazy woman who got spooked by a family of trash pandas? No. I did not. I was highly hormonal, and I was in no mood to be the butt of jokes down at the island precinct.

I crept back to the bedroom and searched for anything I could use as a weapon. The best I could find was a badminton racket and a can of Lysol.

Creeping closer to the closed door at the end of the hall, my pulse thundered like a jackhammer. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. If an intruder was behind that door, this would not end well. For him.

Just as I reached for the doorknob, the door swung open and, as if in slow motion, emerging from a vaporous cloud of shower fog, wearing nothing but a low-slung towel clutched at his waist…was Dylan.

Wet hair. Smoldering eyes. Smelling like cedar and soap and maleness. Six feet four inches of sculpted muscle and manly hotness. Damn if my nipples didn’t pucker like traitorous little hussies.

And what was worse, I had no words. For over two months, I’d imagined what I would say to the man when I saw him again. I planned the entire exchange in my mind.

I would say something witty and undeniably sophisticated.

He would struggle for words and trip over his tongue as he begged my forgiveness.

I would remain cool and passive, never letting him know he’d hurt me.

He would drop to his knees and pledge his undying devotion.

Instead, I stared open-mouthed. Stunned stupid.

He looked equally surprised. “Elin? What are you—”

Whether it was a knee-jerk reaction, gut instinct, or a deep-seated need for revenge, I really couldn’t say, but my finger depressed the trigger of the Lysol can aimed at his face at the same time my arm swung the badminton racket aimed at his head. Both hit their targets with bullseye precision.

“Fuck!” His hands flew to his eyes as the towel fell to the floor.

And there he stood before me in all his glory—every delectable inch.

Despite never wanting to lay eyes on him again, I was getting a mighty big eyeful now. Mighty big.

I scooped up the towel and held it out to him. “Crap.” I waved the towel. “Here, cover up. Your junk’s flapping in the breeze.”

He huffed. “Well, pardon me. It’s difficult to see through the burning haze of disinfectant!”

Ooh, he sounded angry. Was he angry? He was probably angry. “Are you angry?”

“Am I—” He narrowed his teary, bloodshot eyes and stared for a moment. Then he