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Celia Kyle

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Big Dawg
by Celia Kyle   

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Books by Celia Kyle
· Rookery Cove: Nipped
· Going Up, Going Down
· Silk Panties
· What the Cuff?
· Battered Not Broken
                >> View all



Publisher:  Changeling Press

ISBN-13:  9781605212920

Changeling Press

Mac's dreamed of owning his own golf course from the moment he hefted his first club. It's opening day at Dawg Track and for Mac, it's Time to let the Big Dawg Eat. But things don't go according to plan and his owl shifter lover, Douglas, is there to smooth the way for some wayward dawgs looking for a home.

It was a good day to own a golf course. The grass was green, the course was clear and he'd just sucked his lover's brains through his cock. Yes, today was the perfect day to own a golf course.

Mac inhaled a lungful of the sweet Kansas air. At seven in the morning, the sun just peeked over the trees and a whisper of a breeze danced through the foliage. Not too hot just yet and near perfect weather for the first round of golf to ever be played on the Dawg Track.

He'd worked hard on building the best course possible west of the Mississippi and damned if he hadn't succeeded. In his mind, at least. The course would help to bring money into their little town of Barkus while still staying true to his roots.

No high falutin' pro golfer would ever step foot on the Dawg Track green as long as he had a say so. And considering he signed every check and approved every membership application, Mac had a feeling the Dawg Track would always be a place for the working man to enjoy a round of golf with his friends and grab a beer at the 20th hole when he was through. (The nineteenth hole was a special place for him and Douglas. Real private like.) As far as Mac was concerned, golf wouldn't remain a rich man's sport.

At the Dawg Track the idea of wearing polo shirts and slacks for a round was thrown right out the window. Mac liked being comfortable when he played and he knew other men did as well. Hell, he'd even gotten a pair of shit-kickers made with cleats so he could go straight from his Harley to the course and back again without having to strap on some namby-pamby golfing shoes.

Yeah, this was the life. It was opening day for the Dawg Track and every tee time had been reserved months in advance. Whoo, boy. He had to be the luckiest golf lovin' Dawg to ever live.

With one last look over his domain, Mac figured it was about time to get the show on the road before the heat made playing unbearable. He reached into his bag, pulled out a tee and ball and teed up. Then he went back for him, the Big Dawg, a custom driver made just for him. Mac slid the club from his bag and admired the workmanship once more. A big ol' sweet spot in the middle of the head and the purtiest bit of graphite, steel and God only knew what else, made the club one of his most prized possessions.

"Ooh yeah, time to let the Big Dawg eat." He grinned and took a few practice swings. The Big Dawg sliced through the air like a knife through warm butter, and the soft whoosh as it skimmed the grass was music to his ears.

Not willing to delay his game any longer, he stepped up to the tee, eye on the ball. Lining up his shot, he couldn't suppress his smile. He'd done it, he'd designed and built his own golf course for guys like him and there was nothing stopping him now. Mac swung the club back, the head of Big Dawg rising higher in the air while he completed the arc. With a soft exhale, he brought the club down, eyes focused on his target.

The first ball to ever be hit on Dawg Track...

Out of nowhere a blur of tawny fur darted across his field of vision, taking his golf ball with it. Mac woofed the shot, striking the tee and losing his club on the upswing. Big Dawg went flying across the course to land a good twenty feet ahead of him.

"Gawd damn it, Trenton! Get your furball ass back here with my ball!" Damned little pint-sized prairie dog didn't know to leave well enough alone. The eighteen-year-old pup dogged his heels all the time and now he'd mucked up the first game! He bellowed, "Trenton!"

"Aw, Mac, leave the poor kid alone. He just wants attention, you know that. With so many pups running around Barkus, you know some of 'em get attached to other men. Especially since you won't let me snack on any of them."

Mac spun around (as much as his cleats on grass would let him) and glared at Douglas, his partner and lover. The man winked at him. Of all the...

"Dougie." His lover hated that name. "Why don't you tell me how that little prairie dog got onto the property when you know this is a dog-free zone?" He stalked forward. "I didn't sink eight feet of fencing into the ground around the course just so you could let them all in." He took a deep, calming breath. He wasn't going to blow up at Douglas. He. Wasn't. His frustration needed to stay directed at the pint-sized pup that stole his ball and ruined his freakin' game. He softened his voice. "Baby, we talked about this and --"

"And I told you I disagreed." The shorter man propped his fists on his hips with a stomp and Mac's favorite curl dropped over Douglas' forehead, dipping behind the man's glasses. "It's not right, Mac."

"You just want to gobble them up for a midnight snack, don't you, Douglas? My little owl's got a hankering for a little prairie dog, don't ya?" Mac reached out and tugged his lover into his arms and nuzzled his neck, nibbling the soft skin below his ear. "I've got something you can snack on."

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