Maggie Blackbird

Romancing Canada's Indigenous People


The soles of boots squeaked along the floor.

Gavin gripped the edge of the desk. Breaths of air hurled from his throat. Just as he’d planned. Slade was on his way. He’d taken the offering.

Each squeak that grew closer weakened Gavin’s limbs and lightened his head. He licked his lips, stamping down the hiccup threatening to barrel from his mouth.

A tall shadow materialized in the doorway.

Gavin kept his hand on the desk. You’re chief. The boss of the reserve.

A scuffed hiking boot appeared. Then Slade himself, all six feet of him, loomed in the doorway, with his long hair tied back for work, a flannel shirt minus the sleeves draping his rock-solid chest, and threadbare jeans clinging to his thighs.

Saliva filled Gavin’s mouth. If he didn’t get himself under control, he’d start drooling.

Slade’s dark eyes didn’t flicker with warmth. His thick lips didn’t curve into a smile. But he didn’t sneer, either. Or glare.

He kicked the door shut.

Gavin’s cock almost jumped from the sound—and from the strong line of determination on Slade’s jawline.

With one boot heel hitting the floor, Slade began his descent.

Under the sight of his former lover’s—his former hero’s—his former protector’s determined gait of one luxurious thigh moving in front of the other as he came closer, Gavin’s muscles twitched, and his prick pressed hard on his pants.

Slade was close enough for Gavin to smell the feral taste of testosterone he’d always exuded.