5,49 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: December Drake
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
A group of men subject to a gene-altering treatment go primal. They're ready to claim the right women as their primal mates. Or sometimes, the wrong one.
The first three stories in the original Primal Regression series, in one volume:
- Claiming His Friend's Daughter: An older man fights his urge to claim, and loses.
- Claiming His Nanny: A divorced, single dad embraces the need to claim his nanny in several steamy, thorough sessions.
- Claiming His Patient: A fertility doctor believes he can resist the urge, but crumbles when he crosses paths with the one woman that matters.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
Ähnliche
Primal Regression: Volume One
Claiming His Friend's Daughter
Claiming His Nanny
Claiming His Patient
December Drake
Copyright © 2024 December Drake
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Contents
Claiming His Friend's Daughter
December Drake
Contents
Max slammed down his coffee mug, just loud enough to shut up the man sitting across from him.
He massaged his brow. “Yep. I understand. I get it. I just need a moment.”
He needed more than a fucking moment. He needed a whole goddamned week. Alone. Back at his remote house, where he was most comfortable.
Not down in the chaotic city at the Spectrum Institute, listening to some researcher explain the newly discovered, absolutely batshit side effects of an experimental treatment he’d tried last year.
The treatment itself had been bizarre enough. There were no pills, but a ton of injections over the course of a week, as well as countless blood draws and saliva swabs.
He’d even had to sign an NDA, and some other agreement for DNA sequencing. Fuck knows what else he’d signed. After a while, all the forms had become a blur.
All that, to try out a new, cutting edge treatment for erectile dysfunction, in a state-of-the-art research institute that screamed millions in grant money. It was amazing how easily men found money to try and cure themselves.
If the same money and time was poured into women’s health, maybe his wife would still be alive.
He should have known it was too good to be true, anyway. Hell, he didn’t care about his nonexistent sex life. The only reason he’d ended up in the trial was because they’d been seeking a very specific set of genetic characteristics, and his doc had referred him.
Max had thought he was doing a public service. Letting scientists poke and prod at him, so future generations of men had another option for their ED.
Well, maybe they still did. They’d just have to be okay with regressing down to uncontrollable, primal animals as a side effect.
Side effects that would make them go after women like cave men, and breed them like rutting beasts.
“Is there a drug you can give me as a counter-agent?” Max finally asked. “A suppressant of some kind?”
He’d undergone treatment to get his dick up, and now he was seeking drugs to keep his dick down. What a fucking joke.
The man cringed, and he had his answer. “Not… at this time,” the researcher hedged. “We’ve tried a few sedatives and tranquilizers, but with the amount of adrenaline produced in these regressions, the efficacy is minimal.”
Max blinked at tranquilizers. Well, shit. If they were already at the tranquilizer stage, this wouldn’t be stopped by anything he could pick up at a pharmacy.
He sighed. “I’m probably a low risk. I was living like a monk long before I signed up for the trial, and my lifestyle hasn’t changed since.”
His wife had been gone for five years. He lived an hour’s drive from the nearest town, and carved furniture for a living.
One of a kind, heavy pieces like tables, that only those who could afford the exorbitant shipping even commissioned. He sure as hell wasn’t personally delivering anything to his customers.
“We are confident, based on your remote living situation, that you’ve a lower probability of experiencing these side effects than other participants.”
The researcher cleared his throat. “However, keep in mind that you’re not the variable in the equation; you’re the constant. Women are the variable.”
He pointed to the hasty diagram that he’d scrawled on the back of a form for Max. “Your body is already releasing these special pheromones. They kick into overdrive when you experience a strong surge of physical attraction. Yet, only certain women will react to your pheromones to a noticeable degree. If any woman does react, she’ll release compatible pheromones that could trigger a regression in you.
“We’ve interviewed those who’ve experienced regressions, and we can’t discern a pattern in the type of women who’ve reacted so far. But based on the subsequent… pregnancies, it’s certain that all the women were ovulating at the time.”
Max shook his head as he drained the cooling coffee. The odds were still in his favor. He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had stirred anything in him since he’d become a widower, with the exception of—
His brain slammed the brakes on the thought as his body tensed.
Nope. Not going there.
He set down his empty mug and rose, stretching. Whoever had designed this institute must have run out of money when it was time to order decent chairs.
“We’ll contact you, if there’s any new developments.”
“Please do,” Max replied as he left the room.
Apparently, the universe hated him. He’d made one, sorry attempt to slightly improve his life, and he may have just ruined the rest of it.
Someone knocked on his front door. Once, twice, and then began tapping out an old show tune on the thick wood.
Max rolled his eyes and tossed aside the brochure for New Zealand. He’d been thinking about visiting his dad’s side of the family in Auckland.
That, and just staying there.
Running away wouldn’t prevent a potential regression. But it would solve one problem in particular. The most important one.
He yanked open the door just as his best friend reached the chorus of the infuriatingly catchy tune. Jim straightened and beamed at him.
“The best thing about you being self-employed at home is that I can pull you away at any time.”
Max eyed him with suspicion. “To go where?”
Jim spread his hands wide. “The Keys. You know I’ve been dying to return. I found the perfect, sweet spot time to go.”
“When?”
Jim hesitated. “Tomorrow.”
Max scowled. “What the— it’s a fucking Tuesday, Jim.”
“This is the sweet spot, Max.” He ticked off points on his thick fingers. “Mid-week, low rates—”
“Because it’s September.”
Jim snapped. “Exactly. Off-season.”
“Not for hurricanes.”
“I checked the storm forecast three times just on the drive here.” Jim pointed at him. “Don’t jinx me, asshole.”
Max leaned against the door frame and massaged his brow. “I’m not buying a last-minute ticket.”
“We’ve already got tickets. My bag is packed and in the trunk. I’m leaving from here tomorrow morning. With you.”
Jim fidgeted, his smile slipping. “I know you’re a hermit. But it’s my job to pull you out of it, every now and then. You’ve been under too long, Max. It’s time to come up for air.”
