Chapter 2: The Stranger in Her Bed
The scream ripped through the bedroom like a gunshot.
Samantha scrambled backward, her spine slamming against the headboard, the sheets tangled around her legs as she yanked them up to her chin. Her heart was a fist pounding against her ribs, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that burned her throat. The creature between her thighs—the gorgeous, impossible creature with the swollen lips and the heaving breasts and the cock that jutted obscenely from between slender, trembling thighs—lifted its head and stared at her.
And its eyes were Logan's eyes.
Not the color—those were different, a deep whiskey brown instead of his usual hazel—but the expression. That particular mix of panic and apology and desperate, pleading love that she'd seen a thousand times before. Usually when he'd forgotten to take out the trash or accidentally shrunk her favorite sweater in the wash.
"Sam," the creature said, and the voice was wrong—breathy, husky, pitched higher than Logan's—but the cadence was right. The way it shortened her name to a single syllable, like a secret only they shared. "Sam, please, don't—don't scream again. It's me. It's Logan."
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"What the fuck," she whispered.
"I know." He—it—Logan—was trembling, his new body shaking like a leaf in a storm. His hands—small, delicate, with perfectly manicured nails—were clutching the edge of the mattress like he was afraid he'd float away without something to anchor him. "I know, I know, I know. I can explain. Well, I can't explain, because I don't understand it myself, but I can try to explain, and maybe that will help, and—"
"Stop." Samantha held up a hand, and the creature flinched like she'd slapped him. "Stop talking. Just—stop."
He stopped.
She stared at him. At the impossible curves of his new body, the way his breasts rose and fell with each panicked breath, the way his cock—Jesus Christ, he still had a cock—stood at attention like it hadn't gotten the memo that everything else had changed. His skin was flushed, sheened with sweat, and she could smell something coming off him in waves. Something sweet and musky and deeply, disturbingly arousing.
"What—" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "What happened to you?"
"I don't know." The words tumbled out of him, fast and frantic. "I was at the happy hour. I went outside for air. And this woman—this woman in the alley—she bit me. She said it was a gift. She said—"
"A woman bit you?"
"In the wrist." He held up his arm, and sure enough, there was a faint pink scar on his wrist, the kind of thing that should have taken weeks to heal. "And then I came home, and I felt weird, and I went to sleep, and then I woke up and I was—" He gestured at himself, at the heavy breasts and the narrow waist and the hips that flared out like a pin-up model's. "This."
Samantha's brain was doing its level best to shut down entirely. She was a biology teacher. She believed in science, in evidence, in things that could be measured and replicated. She did not believe in—in whatever the hell this was.
But she was also looking at her husband's eyes in a stranger's face, and she had never been good at lying to herself.
"You were going to—" She couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say the words out loud.
Logan's face crumpled. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam. I didn't—I wasn't thinking. I just—I was so horny, and you were right there, and I couldn't—"
"You couldn't what? Stop yourself from crawling between my legs and—"
"I didn't know what I was doing!" His voice cracked, and suddenly he was crying, ugly sobs that shook his new body and made his breasts bounce in a way that was almost comically pornographic. "I felt like I was burning alive, and the only thing that made it better was you. Your smell.Your taste. I just needed—I needed something, and I couldn't think, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"
He was crying. Logan was crying, and despite everything—despite the horror and the confusion and the fact that her husband had just eaten her out with a stranger's face—Samantha felt her heart clench.
She'd seen him cry maybe three times in their entire relationship. Once when his father died. Once when they'd lost the pregnancy. Once when he'd accidentally run over a squirrel and spent the whole drive home in silence.
This was worse than all of those combined.
"Hey," she said, her voice softer now. "Hey. Look at me."
He looked up, his brown eyes wet and wild.
"Come here."
He stared at her. "What?"
"I said come here." She held out her hand, and it was shaking, but she held it steady. "You're not going to hurt me. You're still you. I can see it. So come here."
He crawled toward her on hands and knees, his movements awkward and uncertain, like a newborn foal trying to figure out how its legs worked. When he reached her, she cupped his face—his soft, unfamiliar face—and ran her thumb across his cheekbone.
"You're really pretty," she said, and laughed, a little hysterically. "God, that's so weird to say."
"I know." He leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed. "I don't know what's happening, Sam. I don't know what I am now."
"Neither do I." She stroked his hair—his long, silky hair—and felt something shift in her chest. Something that wasn't fear or disgust. Something that felt suspiciously like fascination. "But we're going to figure it out."
"Together?"
"Together." She paused. "But first, you need to tell me everything. The woman. The bite. All of it."
He told her. It didn't take long—there wasn't much to tell—but by the time he was done, she had a name and a description and a sinking feeling in her gut.
Roxy LaRue. Platinum hair. Emerald dress. Teeth like razors.
"I think she did something to me," Logan said. "Something that made me—" He gestured at himself again, at the curves and the breasts and the cock that was still, impossibly, hard. "This."
"Clearly." Samantha's gaze dropped to his lap, and she felt her cheeks flush. "Does it—does it hurt?"
"What?"
"That." She nodded toward his erection. "It's been like that the whole time, hasn't it?"
He turned crimson. Even with his new coloring, the blush was unmistakable. "I can't—I haven't been able to—I tried, but it just gets worse."
"Worse how?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at her with those desperate, pleading eyes, and she understood.
He needed to come. Needed it like she needed oxygen. And he couldn't do it himself because whatever this transformation had done to him, it had made his body a stranger—a stranger that didn't respond to his own touch.
But it had responded to her.
She remembered the way he'd groaned when her fingers tangled in his hair. The way his hips had bucked when she'd scratched her nails against his scalp. His new body was wired differently, needed a different kind of stimulation, and maybe—maybe she was the key.
"I can help," she said, and the words felt insane coming out of her mouth. "If you want."
"Samantha—"
"I'm serious." She met his eyes. "You're my husband. You're confused. And you're obviously in pain. So let me help."
He stared at her for a long moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The panic faded, replaced by a raw, aching vulnerability that made her chest hurt.
"Please," he whispered. "Please, Sam."
That was all it took.
She reached out and touched him—first his chest, her fingers tracing the soft curve of his breast, and he gasped like she'd electrocuted him. His nipple pebbled under her palm, and she felt a strange surge of power. It was a stranger's body, but it was responding to her like it was built for her. Like every nerve ending was tuned to the frequency of her touch.
"God," he breathed. "That's—fuck, that's insane."
"Good insane or bad insane?"
"I don't know yet."
She pushed him back onto the mattress, and he went willingly, his new body sprawling across the sheets with a boneless grace that made her mouth go dry. His cock was still there, thick and flushed and leaking, and she found herself staring at it with a mix of horror and fascination.
It was Logan's cock. She'd seen it a thousand times. But now it was attached to a body that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover—this impossible union of feminine curves and masculine appendage that made her brain short-circuit.
"This is so weird," she murmured.
"I know."
"I'm literally touching my husband's boobs right now."
"I know."
"And you still have a dick."
"I know." A laugh bubbled up from his chest, high and slightly hysterical. "I don't even know if it's my dick. It might be her dick. The were-whore's dick."
"Please don't call her the were-whore."
"What else am I supposed to call her?"
"I don't know. The biter. The temptress. The reason I'm probably going to need therapy."
He laughed again, and this time it was real, and something loosened in her chest. This was ridiculous. This was insane. But it was still them—still Logan and Samantha, still that same easy rhythm of banter and teasing that had gotten them through everything else.
She could work with this.
"Okay," she said, and wrapped her fingers around his cock.
He cried out—a raw, broken sound that was half pain and half pleasure—and his hips bucked off the mattress. His new body arched, his back bowing off the sheets, his breasts bouncing with the force of his movement.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
"Is this okay?"
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
She didn't stop. She stroked him slow and steady, learning the feel of this unfamiliar flesh, the way his breath hitched when she squeezed just so, the way his thighs shook when she ran her thumb over the head. He was so responsive it was almost terrifying—every touch, every stroke, every tiny shift in pressure seemed to send him spiraling.
"You're so sensitive," she said.
"Everything feels—amplified. Like my skin is on fire and your hands are—" He broke off, gasping. "Fuck, Sam, I'm not going to last long."
"That's okay." She leaned down and kissed him.
It was strange, kissing him. His lips were softer, fuller, and he tasted different—sweeter, like something she couldn't quite name. But the way he responded was exactly the same. The little sigh he made. The way his hand came up to tangle in her hair. The way his tongue slid against hers like they'd done this a million times.
Because they had.
She kissed him deeper, and her hand moved faster on his cock, and he moaned into her mouth. The sound vibrated through her, settling somewhere low in her belly, and she realized—with a start—that she was getting wet. Her body was responding to this. To him. To the absurd, impossible reality of her husband transformed into a sex goddess with a dick.
Who knew she had a thing for that?
"Sam," he panted against her lips. "Sam, I'm close—"
"Let go." She stroked harder, faster, her grip firm and sure. "Come for me, Logan. Show me how much you need me."
The sound he made was animalistic. Primal. His whole body tensed, his hips thrusting up into her hand, and then he was coming—thick ropes of white pulsing from his cock, spattering across his stomach and breasts, and she watched every second of it with a kind of fascinated awe.
He was beautiful like this. She'd never seen him so undone, so wrecked, so completely at her mercy. Usually he was the one in control, the one taking his time, the one making him come apart. But tonight, in this body, he was hers.
She'd never felt so powerful.
He collapsed against the mattress, chest heaving, his new breasts still glistening with his come. His eyes were glazed, his lips parted, and he looked so thoroughly fucked out that she almost laughed.
"Wow," she said.
"Yeah." His voice was a hoarse whisper. "That was—yeah."
"You good?"
"I think so." He paused. "Actually, no. I think I might need to do that again."
She raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
"It's not going away." He gestured vaguely downward, and sure enough, his cock was still hard, still leaking, still ready for more. "Whatever this is, it just keeps building up. I think—I think it's like a pressure valve. It releases, but it doesn't stop."
"That's..." She searched for the right word. "Inconvenient."
"That's one way to put it."
She looked at him—at the mess of come on his chest, the heavy breasts, the desperate need in his eyes—and felt something shift inside her. Something that wasn't just fascination anymore. Something that was closer to hunger.
"I could help you again," she said. "If you want."
His eyes went wide. "You don't have to—"
"I know." She crawled up his body, positioning herself over him, her thighs straddling his hips. "But I want to."
And then she lowered herself onto his cock.
The stretch was immediate and overwhelming. She'd had him inside her a hundred times before, but never like this—never with the strange angle of his new hips, the way his cock seemed to hit places she didn't know she had. She gasped, her nails digging into his chest, and he groaned beneath her.
"Fuck, Sam, fuck—"
"Shh." She placed a hand over his mouth, her eyes glinting in the dim light. "You need to be quiet. We don't want the neighbors to hear."
He nodded frantically, and she began to move.
It was different like this—slower, more deliberate, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure through her body. His hands came up to grip her hips, his slender fingers digging into her flesh, and he met her movements with a desperate rhythm. He looked up at her with those wild, pleading eyes, and she'd never felt so powerful, so in control.
She rode him hard, her head thrown back, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His cock filled her completely, and she could feel every inch of him—the slight curve, the way he throbbed against her walls, the heat that seemed to radiate from his skin. He was hers. Every inch of him, every gasp and moan and desperate thrust. He was her husband, her Logan, and she would have him in whatever form he came in.
"Please," he whispered against her palm. "Please, Sam, I need—"
"I know." She moved faster. "I know, baby. Let go."
He came with a strangled cry, his body convulsing beneath her, and she felt the rush of heat inside her. It sent her over the edge, and she came with him, her walls clenching around his cock as the pleasure washed over her in waves.
They lay there afterward, tangled in a sweaty mess of limbs and come and something that was deeply, disturbingly beautiful. She rested her forehead against his, and he looked up at her with eyes that were still Logan's—still hers—and she knew, somehow, that they would be okay.
"So," she said. "What now?"
He didn't answer right away. He just stared at her, a strange expression on his face—a mix of exhaustion and wonder and a desperate, aching hunger that hadn't quite been satisfied.
"I don't know," he said. "But I think it might happen again."
"What might happen again?"
"The transformation." He swallowed hard. "It doesn't feel like it's over. It feels like it's building. Building toward something."
Samantha felt a chill run down her spine. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, there was a dark edge to his gaze that hadn't been there before. "I don't think this is a one-time thing. I think this is just the beginning."
She looked at him—at the impossible curves, the desperate hunger, the cock that was already starting to stiffen against her thigh—and felt the weight of what he was saying settle over her.
This wasn't going away. This was their new reality.
And she had no idea if they were ready for it.
He was still hard. Still twitching against her thigh, still leaking that same viscous fluid that had painted his stomach minutes ago. His cock hadn't softened at all, and the hunger in his eyes had morphed into something darker, more desperate.
"Logan," she said carefully. "You just came.Twice."
"I know."
"So why—"
"I don't know." His voice cracked. "I don't know why it won't stop. I don't know why I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin if I don't—" He stopped, his jaw clenching.
"If you don't what?"
He didn't answer. Just stared at her with those whiskey-brown eyes, and she watched something move behind them. Something feral and hungry and utterly unlike the man she'd married.
She should have been afraid. She was, a little. But underneath the fear was a current of something else—something that made her pulse quicken and her thighs clench.
"What do you need?" she asked.
He moved so fast she didn't have time to react.
One second he was beneath her, and the next he'd flipped them both, pinning her to the mattress with a strength that shouldn't have been possible in that slender body. His hands gripped her hips, his breath hot against her stomach, and before she could say a word he'd buried his face between her legs.
She gasped. "Logan—"
He didn't respond. Just pressed his open mouth to her cunt and licked a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit. The sensation was electric, overwhelming, and she arched off the bed with a cry.
He'd gone down on her before. Plenty of times. He was good at it—patient, methodical, always making sure she came at least once before he even thought about himself. But he never did this. Never after sex. Never when his own come was still inside her.
He'd told her once, early in their relationship, that he didn't like the taste. That it made him feel weird. That he'd rather just shower and start fresh. She'd never pushed him on it—everyone had their limits—but she'd always wondered, in the back of her mind, if it was something deeper. Something about control, maybe. Or vulnerability.
Whatever the reason, it had never been an issue. Until now.
Because Logan wasn't just eating her out. He was devouring her.
His tongue delved into her entrance, scooping out the mess of his own come with an enthusiasm that made her head spin. He moaned against her flesh—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through her entire body—and she felt his tongue curl inside her, gathering every drop of that salty, musky fluid.
He pulled back just long enough to swallow, and she watched his throat work, watched his eyes flutter closed in something that looked almost like bliss. When he opened them again, they were glazed, dreamy, utterly unlike the anxious man who'd been panicking minutes ago.
"You taste incredible," he breathed. "Fuck, Sam, why have we never done this before?"
She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. Her brain had short-circuited the moment his tongue touched her cunt, and every rational thought had fled in the face of pure, animal sensation.
He went back for more. This time he was slower, more deliberate—laving at her with long, luxurious strokes of his tongue, cleaning her out like he was savoring a gourmet meal. His slender fingers spread her lips wide, exposing her completely, and he pressed his open mouth to her entrance and sucked.
She screamed. Actually screamed, her back arching off the mattress, her hands fisting in the sheets. His tongue was inside her again, curled and thrusting, and she could feel him moaning against her cunt—a steady, rhythmic vibration that drove her closer to the edge.
"You're so wet," he murmured between licks. "Is this for me? Is this all for me?"
"Yes—" She was panting, desperate. "Yes, Logan, please—"
He didn't let her finish. Just dove back in with renewed vigor, his tongue working her clit in tight, fast circles while two slim fingers pushed inside her. She was so close, teetering on the edge, and then he crooked his fingers upward and she was gone.
The orgasm ripped through her like lightning, and she came with a sob, her thighs clamping around his head. He didn't stop—just kept licking, kept finger-fucking her through it, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until she was limp and shaking beneath him.
When she finally opened her eyes, he was kneeling between her legs, and he was—he was licking his hand.
She stared, transfixed. His cock had apparently come again at some point, spattering fresh spend across his fingers, and he was cleaning it off with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue. He swirled the tip around his knuckles, lapped at the web between his fingers, and he did it all with a sensual grace that was so unlike him it made her chest ache.
He wasn't even aware of what he was doing. That was the strangest part. He looked almost hypnotized, lost in the taste and texture, and his whole body had gone soft and languid in a way she'd never seen before.
"That's—" she started, and stopped.
He looked up at her, his mouth still glistening. "What?"
"You just—you licked your own—"
"Oh." He glanced down at his hand. "Yeah. I—" He frowned, like he was noticing it for the first time. "I wanted to see what it tasted like. What I tasted like."
"And?"
His cheeks flushed. "It was good. Really good."
She should have been horrified. She should have been disgusted. But instead, she felt a fresh wave of heat roll through her, and her cunt clenched around nothing.
"You're killing me," she whispered.
He smiled—a slow, wicked smile that was nothing like his usual mild expression. "Good."
Then the doorbell rang.
---
They froze.
The sound echoed through the apartment—sharp, insistent, utterly out of place at two in the morning. Samantha's heart lurched into her throat, and she watched the color drain from Logan's face.
"Oh God," he whispered. "Oh God, what if someone—what if they saw—"
"Nobody saw anything." She was already scrambling off the bed, gathering her discarded underwear from the floor. "Just—stay here. Don't move."
"Where are you going?"
"To answer the door." She pulled on her panties and a t-shirt, her hands shaking. "Who the hell rings a doorbell at this hour?"
She left him in the bedroom and padded down the hall, her mind racing. Cops, maybe. Or a neighbor who'd heard the screaming. Or—
She pulled open the door.
Roxy LaRue stood on the welcome mat, looking like she'd stepped fresh out of a magazine. Her platinum hair was perfectly styled, her emerald dress hugged every curve, and her heels probably cost more than Samantha's monthly salary.
"Hey there, gorgeous," Roxy said, and smiled. "I believe you have something of mine."
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Roxy. Roxy LaRue." She pushed past Samantha and into the apartment like she owned the place. "And unless I miss my guess, your husband is currently in the bedroom trying to figure out why he's suddenly a bombshell with a hard-on that won't quit. Am I close?"
Samantha stood frozen by the door, her hand still on the knob. "You—you're the one who—"
"Bit him. Yes." Roxy dropped onto the couch like it belonged to her, crossing one long leg over the other. "I'd apologize, but it wouldn't be sincere. So I won't."
"You—"
"Sam?" Logan's voice echoed from the bedroom, high and uncertain. "Sam, who is it?"
"Stay where you are," Samantha called back. Then she turned to Roxy, her fists clenching at her sides. "You have about ten seconds to explain before I call the police."
"Call them." Roxy waved a hand. "They can't help. Nobody can help. That's the thing about being a were-whore—it's not exactly a public health crisis."
"A were-what?"
Logan appeared in the hallway. He'd pulled on a pair of Samantha's sweatpants—they hung loose on his new hips—and one of her old t-shirts that stretched tight across his chest. He looked ridiculous. He looked terrified.
And he looked like he wanted to bolt the second he saw Roxy lounging on the couch.
"You," he breathed."Me." She smiled at him. "Looking good, sweetheart. The transformation really suits you."
"What did you do to me?"
"I told you. I gave you a gift." Roxy examined her nails. "Though I'll admit, I probably should have told you about the side effects before I did it. That was rude of me. I apologize."
"Screw your apology." Logan's voice cracked. "What the hell is happening to me?"
"Language." Roxy clucked her tongue. "Fine. You want the short version? You're a were-whore now. Once a month, for one full week, you'll transform into what you see in the mirror right now. During that time, you'll be sexually insatiable. You'll crave fucking, sucking, come, and basically any type of sex you can imagine. And maybe some you can't."
Samantha felt the blood drain from her face. "That's—"
"Not all of it." Roxy held up a finger. "You'll also be stronger than you look, you'll heal faster than a normal human, and you'll have a certain... magnetic quality that attracts sexual partners. But the hunger—that's the main thing. That's what drives the transformation. That's what keeps you alive."
"Keeps me alive?" Logan's voice was barely a whisper. "What happens if I don't—"
"Don't fuck?" Roxy shrugged. "You'll burn out. Fever, seizures, organ failure. It's ugly. Trust me, I've seen it."
Samantha grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself. This couldn't be real. This was a fever dream, a nightmare, some kind of psychotic break that they were both sharing.
But she could still taste Logan on her lips. Still feel the phantom pressure of his mouth between her legs. And she knew—with a certainty that had settled into her bones—that this was real.
"Why?" she heard herself ask. "Why him?"
Roxy's expression shifted. For a moment, the flamboyant mask slipped, and Samantha saw something underneath—something tired and old and surprisingly sad.
"Because I was lonely," Roxy said. "Because I've been doing this alone for fifteen years, and I wanted someone to share it with. And because your husband was standing in that alley looking like the saddest man in the world." She looked at Logan. "You were, by the way. You looked like you'd forgotten how to want things."
Logan flinched like she'd slapped him.
"So what now?" Samantha demanded. "You just—you turn people into this and leave them? No handbook? No support group?"
"There's a handbook." Roxy reached into her purse and pulled out a slim, black volume. "Well, a pamphlet. It's mostly useless. But the support group part—that's me. That's why I'm here."
"You're going to help us?"
"I'm going to try." Roxy stood, smoothing down her dress. "Starting with the most important lesson: the transformation lasts for a week. Seven days. During that time, Logan will need to have sex—a lot of it. Multiple times a day, preferably with multiple partners, to keep the hunger at bay."
Samantha felt sick. "Multiple partners?"
"It's not a requirement. A single invested partner can work, but it's harder. You'll need to be...creative." Roxy's eyes gleamed. "And you'll need to be ready to say yes. Often."
Logan made a strangled sound. "I can't—I can't just—I'm married—"
"You're also a supernatural creature of insatiable appetite." Roxy shrugged. "These things happen."
"This is insane." He was shaking, his arms wrapped around himself. "I'm not—I don't even know who I am anymore."
Roxy's expression softened, just slightly. "That's the real bitch of it. You'll figure it out, though. We all do." She headed for the door, then paused, looking back over her shoulder. "Oh, and one more thing. The transformation started tonight, but it's not complete. By tomorrow evening, you'll be fully in your new body. No going back until the week is done. So I'd suggest you and your wife have a long conversation about what that means."
She pulled a business card from her purse and tossed it onto the coffee table.
"Call me if you have questions. Or if you need a third." She winked at Samantha. "No judgment here."
And then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
Logan sank onto the couch, his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking, and Samantha realized he was crying—silent, heaving sobs that wracked his slender frame.
She sat down next to him. Put her arm around him. Felt the unfamiliar curve of his shoulder beneath her hand.
"We'll figure it out," she said.
"How?" His voice was muffled, broken. "How do we figure out something like this?"
She didn't have an answer. So she just held him, and they sat in the dark, and somewhere in the distance the city hummed on, oblivious to the two people whose lives had just shattered and reformed into something entirely new.