Gunning for More

CHAPTER 1 — Opening Day The lodge smelled like woodsmoke, gun oil, and too much testosterone. I stood just inside the heavy timber doors, letting the morning chill cling to my jacket a moment longer before the heat inside swallowed me. Rifle season had officially begun, and every man with money and ego had crawled out of his truck to mark the occasion. I scanned the room slowly, my pulse steady, the way it always is before a real hunt. I wasn't here for deer. The ring in the inner pocket of my jacket sat warm against my ribs. Cold metal, ancient and patient, it would only kindle for a man whose hunger ran the right way — toward surrender, not conquest. Darius held court near the big stone fireplace like he owned the damn place. Broad shoulders straining against an expensive camo shirt, thick watch catching the firelight every time he gestured with his whiskey glass. His laugh came too loud, too sharp. I watched him slap a hand on the ass of a young waitress passing with a tray of coffee. She flinched. His buddies roared approval. The ring at my ribs stayed cold as stone. Not him. Never him. The sisterhood didn't want bullies. We wanted men who already knew, in the quiet places they didn't admit, that they wanted to kneel. A chair scraped sharply across the floor. A leaner man, dark hair falling over his brow, set down his coffee at the bar and stepped between Darius and the waitress. He didn't raise his voice. He just put himself in the way, hand light at her elbow, guiding her past. Darius's smile turned ugly. The shove came fast and clumsy, and the leaner man took it without giving back. A glancing knuckle caught his cheekbone before the other hunters dragged Darius off with forced laughter, calling it whiskey, calling it morning nerves. The leaner man pressed his sleeve to the cut, nodded once at the waitress, and slipped out the back door toward the deer trails. The ring against my ribs flared hot. I felt it like a struck match — the binding metal answering a hunger it had been listening for. My breath caught. I let the warmth pulse twice against my skin before I moved. Whoever he was, the magic had chosen him before I had. I shrugged my jacket tighter, pushed off from the wall, and followed him out into the cold. CHAPTER 2 — The Stalk The evening light had thinned to copper by the time I caught up with him. He wasn't hurrying. He walked the game trail like a man with nowhere he had to be and someone he half expected to find. That, more than anything, told me what I needed to know. The lodge talked. The sisterhood made sure of it. Stories drifted around the woodstoves about women who hunted a different season, about a ring that answered to a certain kind of hunger. Most men laughed. A few listened. Fewer still came looking. He stopped at a bend in the trail where the pines opened onto a small mossy hollow. He didn't turn when I stepped out of the shadow behind him. He just tilted his head, listening, and said, "I wondered if the stories were true." "They're true," I said. "Turn around." He did. The cut on his cheekbone had stopped bleeding, but the bruise was already coming up dark. His good eye found mine and held. Brown, steady, a little tired. Not afraid. "Elias," he offered, like a man giving up a password. "Tessa." I let the silence sit. The ring at my ribs hummed steady now, warm as a pulse. "You know what I am." "I've heard." A small, careful breath. "I came up here last season. And the season before. I keep coming back." "Looking." "Looking." I closed the distance between us until I could feel the heat of him through the cold air. He didn't step back. He didn't reach. He just waited, hands open at his sides, the way a man waits to be measured. "If you walk with me into the woods tonight," I said, "you don't walk back the same. The ring binds. The sisterhood holds the leash. Your body belongs to our pleasure when we want it, and your hunger belongs to our table. You can leave the lodge in the morning. You won't leave the bond. Ever." His throat worked. The breath he let out was slow, even, certain. "Yes." "Say it clean." "I want it. I want you to take me to them. I came here for this." The ring against my ribs flared so hot I felt it through my shirt. I almost smiled. "Then keep up," I said, and turned for the deeper trees. He fell in behind me, boots soft on the needle floor. The hunger that had been growing in me for months — the slow coil I'd nursed through every loud, entitled man I'd guided through these woods — uncoiled at last and stretched. This one wasn't running. This one was walking right in. CHAPTER 3 — The Clearing The sisterhood's hidden grove sat half a mile off the marked trails, ringed by ancient pines that had been here long before the lodge's first log was felled. Firelight already danced through the trunks when we crested the last rise. They'd been waiting on the ring's signal, and the ring had been singing since the moment he'd said yes. Wency stepped forward first, tall and broad-shouldered, the firelight catching the silver at her temples. Georgia came next, calloused hunter's hands tucked into the pockets of her wool coat, a slow grin on her mouth as her eyes traveled up the length of him. "This is Elias," I said. "Elias," Wency repeated, and tasted the name. "You came on your own feet." "Yes," he said. "You know what the ring does." "Tessa told me. I want it." Georgia let out a low, satisfied sound. "Look at the build on this one. And he asked for the collar." She circled him once, slow, appraising. "Honey, you sure you understand? Once that band's on your finger, my hand has rights to you. So does hers. So does any sister who calls." "I understand." "Out loud." "My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. I want it to be." Wency nodded once, and the chant began at the edge of the circle — low, weaving syllables that made the air feel heavier and warmer than the fire could account for. I led him to the thick wool blanket spread over the mossy ground. He stripped without being asked. Boots, jacket, shirt, the rest. He folded the clothes neatly into a pile beside the blanket like a man laying down a life he didn't need anymore. Naked, lit by the fire, he was lean and strong, marked here and there by old scars — the kind of body that had earned itself. The bruise on his cheekbone was already purpling. His cock hung heavy and half-thick already, just from the chant and the watching. "On your back," I said. He went down easy. I knelt by his head. Georgia settled between his spread knees without asking. Around us, the sisterhood closed their circle, voices rising and falling in the old binding rhythm. "Last word," I told him, low against his ear. "Once this starts, the magic closes. I won't ask again." His good eye found mine. He was smiling. "Bind me." CHAPTER 4 — The Binding Georgia's warm palm closed around him, and the chant deepened. She didn't tease. She worked him with slow, certain strokes from base to crown, the way she did everything — like a woman who knew exactly what she was holding and exactly what she meant to do with it. Elias's breath broke open on the first pull. His hips rose to meet her hand and didn't fall back. "There he is," Georgia murmured. "Look at this beautiful greedy thing waking up for us." His cock thickened in her grip, veins standing out, the head flushing dark. A bead of clear fluid welled up. Georgia caught it on her thumb and smeared it slowly down his length, easing her stroke into a wet, possessive rhythm. I leaned close to his ear and began the binding words. Ancient syllables rolled off my tongue, heavy with power. Each one landed in his chest like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples moving outward into every limb. I watched his throat work as he swallowed the magic down on purpose, mouth open, drinking it. "Good," I told him in our own English, between the old words. "Stay with me. Take it." "Yes." It came out broken and reverent. "Yes — please —" Georgia's hand quickened. Not rough, never rough — just inevitable. His hips bucked into her fist now, chasing every stroke. The chant on the air thickened until I could feel it pressing against my skin like a second heartbeat. His good eye stayed open and stayed on me. He wanted me to watch. I watched. "Tell me," I murmured against his ear. "Tell the circle." His voice came out rough and certain. "I'm yours. I want this. Take it. Take all of it —" The magic locked. I felt it land in him the way a key turns in an old, heavy lock — one clean motion and everything inside aligned. His whole body arched up off the blanket, mouth falling open in a sound that was half cry, half laugh, and he came hard across Georgia's fingers in long, generous spurts while the final binding words left my lips. The cool sealing wash of the spell rolled through him on the heels of his climax, and he sank back to the blanket boneless and grinning. Georgia milked him gently through the aftershocks, then lifted her hand to her mouth and licked her thumb clean with a slow, satisfied hum. "Good boy," she said. The ring — cold ancient metal — slid onto his finger with a final click. He turned his hand and looked at it like a man looking at a wedding band he'd waited his whole life for. "Thank you," he breathed. The bond between us hummed alive, warm and steady as the fire. CHAPTER 5 — First Blood The chanting had stopped, but the air still hummed with leftover power. I stayed on my knees beside him, the firelight painting shifting orange across his bare skin. The bruise on his cheekbone made him look almost rakish in the low light. The ring on his finger caught the flame like a fresh brand. Georgia stretched out on the blanket beside him, propped on one elbow, idly tracing the line of his hip with one fingertip. "He spilled like he meant it," she said, voice rough with satisfaction. "The old words like the willing ones best." I didn't answer her. My attention was fixed on the thick cock resting heavy against his stomach, still flushed and slick from what she'd pulled out of him. It twitched once, as if it already remembered my voice. I leaned closer. "Open your eyes." His good eye opened. There was no confusion in it. No fear. Just a steady, drugged-with-pleasure recognition — and beneath it, the new, bright thread of the binding, alive in him and tuned to me. "Get hard for me," I said, low and clear. A visible shudder rolled through him, and he laughed once, quiet and amazed. Right there, in front of the entire circle, his spent cock began to stir. It thickened slowly at first, then with growing urgency, lifting away from his body until it stood heavy and rigid again, head flushed dark. His thighs spread wider on the blanket without my asking. "There," he whispered. "Oh —" The sight sent a raw bolt of heat straight between my legs. I reached down and wrapped my fingers around him. He was still slick, burning hot now compared to the cold night air. I gave one slow stroke from base to tip, feeling every vein, every thick inch of him pulse in my grip. His hips rose into my hand, easy and shameless. "Good boy," I murmured. His cock throbbed hard at the praise. A fresh bead of clear fluid welled up and spilled over my thumb. I kept stroking — not fast, not rough, just possessive — watching his face the entire time. The way his good eye stayed locked on me, wide and open and grateful. The way his bruised thighs trembled every time my hand twisted over the sensitive head. Wency crouched beside me, voice rough. "He's responding faster than we expected. The willing ones always sing prettier." "They do," I agreed. I gave him another firm squeeze, milking another thick drop from him. His breathing had turned ragged. I could feel the tension building in his core again, that helpless climb toward release even after he'd already come once. "Enough," I said softly. His cock jerked in protest but immediately began to soften under my command. The obedience was intoxicating — not because it was taken, but because it was given. A low, addictive thrill spread through my chest and down my spine. This was the difference. This was what the ring had been waiting for. I stood up slowly, legs a little unsteady. The sisterhood moved efficiently around us — wrapping Elias in a thermal blanket, sliding his own clothes carefully back onto his loose, satisfied body. He helped where he could, fingers fumbling at his shirt buttons, the new ring already hidden beneath the cuff of his glove. As we walked him back through the trees toward the truck, he leaned his weight gently against Georgia's shoulder. She put an arm around him without thinking and didn't let go. The hunger I'd kept leashed for so long was fully awake now. Feeding it tonight hadn't quieted it. It had taught it what it really wanted. We loaded him into the back seat. I climbed in beside him for the drive, letting his head settle against my shoulder. Even through the layers of clothes I could feel the heat of his skin. My hand rested on his thigh, possessive. His hand found mine in the dark and stayed there. EPILOGUE The lodge lights were still visible in the distance as we drove the back roads. Elias sat between Wency and me in the rear seat, half asleep, head against my shoulder. His body still answered every low word I spoke from the front — a subtle shift of his thigh, the unconscious press of his palm against mine when I murmured his name. I kept my eyes on the dark road ahead, but my mind was already turning. This hunger inside me had been fed tonight, but it wasn't satisfied. It was only waking up. The season was still young, and the woods were full of men who, in the quiet places they didn't admit, were already looking for the ring. Men who would step between a bully and a waitress. Men who would walk a trail at dusk hoping a story turned out to be true. They were coming, whether they knew it yet or not. And the sisterhood would be waiting — not to take, but to receive. I smiled into the darkness, tasting the cold air through the cracked window, my hand still wrapped around his. The next opening day couldn't come soon enough.