Alan Abramowitz crouched beside the shelves of his parents’ convenience store. His hands were busy placing product for sale but his mind was filled with daydreams about his future life as a famous musician when someone knocked into him. He cursed—and hissed, proud panther shifter that he was—at the dumb fucker. Several soap bottles slipped his grip and rolled helter-skelter across the floor. One burst with a resounding crash and spilled its slippery contents all over the floor.

Alan groaned. He mentally waved his early quitting time and his guitar practice good-bye. Liquid soap was such a bitch to clean up. Too much water, and Alan would be up to his throat in foam.

He looked up, ready to snap at whoever had almost run him over. He felt like a hammer had hit him.

Clad in leather pants, a tight white tee, and a leather jacket, a helmet tucked under his arm, stood the most stunning specimen of manhood Alan had ever seen. Blond, tousled hair, stubble so thick it almost slipped into beard territory, and piercing brown eyes.

“Uh... hi,” Alan mumbled. His eighteen-year-old, hormone-ridden body reacted immediately to the eye candy. His cock perked up at an admittedly odd angle, given that he was still crouched on the floor. Then his nose picked up the stranger’s scent under the fake apple odor of the soap spreading over the floor like a wet green carpet, and his eyes popped wide. Holy shit. The sexy guy was a shifter. And Alan’s fated mate.

Finding your mate at the age of eighteen wasn’t unheard of. Hell, some shifters found them at sixteen or seventeen. Thing was, whenever Alan had entertained thoughts about the mate waiting for him somewhere beyond the borders of their hick town in the middle of nowhere, Alabama, he’d thought about a man with red hair. Alan had a soft spot for gingers.

This man was blond, but at least the guy had turned out to be a guy. Girls were okay as friends, but Alan was so gay he wouldn’t know what to do with one beyond talking and braiding her hair. His sisters had forced him to do that countless times. By now, he was pretty skilled at it.

However, when Alan dragged another breath into his lungs and got a whiff of the handsome man’s scent, the stranger’s hair color didn’t matter. Alan’s cock twitched in the confines of his jeans.

“Hi. You’re my mate.” The strange shifter looked equally shocked to find his other half in the middle of a convenience store. His brown eyes were wide, and he clutched his helmet in a white-knuckled grip.

Alan realized that kneeling in front of his mate was not the proper way to introduce himself—unless a blow job was the proper way—and jumped up. He wanted to talk with the shifter—who was he, where was he from. Unfortunately, to his utter humiliation, his foot slipped on the damn soapy floor and he slithered right into the other man’s arms.

The blond let out a surprised grunt when Alan smacked face-first against his built chest. “Easy, tiger.” He smirked and winked.

“Panther. Black panther. My name’s Alan,” he said, copping a feel now that he was so close.

Alan was not a shrimp, not standing over six feet tall, and he possessed a fit body due to his shifter genes, but he was still eighteen—still in that awkward stage young men had to suffer through before they filled out properly. Although his shoulders were wide and he worked out regularly, his body just refused to develop the impressive pecs and abs he longed for. His mate was all big and buff. Alan loved muscled men.

“I’m Jon Zimmer. I’m a cougar. Pleased to meet you. Very pleased, indeed.” Jon gave Alan a charming smile and wrapped his arms more securely around Alan’s slipping body. Jon’s lips curled into a sexy smirk. “I just love black hair and blue eyes on a guy.”

Oh, that was sweet. But as first meetings went, this one wasn’t exactly stellar. Alan’s reply was cut off when Jon also fell victim to the nasty soap attack. As he tried to steady Alan, he slipped, and both dropped to the ground.

Alan landed on top of Jon, who groaned at the impact. They looked at each other then broke out into loud guffaws.

“So, you’re a biker?” Alan sat up, straddling Jon and grinning down at him. He couldn’t wait to go on a ride with him. In more than one way.

Jon grinned, too, and his hands gripped Alan’s waist. “Yeah, fancy taking a ride with me?”

Hell, yes. “Sure! I’d love to!” Alan’s cheeks pinked at the thought of what he wanted to do with Jon, what he wanted Jon to do to him.

“How old are you?” Jon let his gaze travel up and down Alan’s body.

“Eighteen. Hope that’s okay?” When Jon nodded, Alan let out a relieved sigh. He’d never had a boyfriend. No surprise in a town so small most people were either friends or family.

Okay, so he’d kissed another guy at school. But the boy had just been curious, and they hadn’t gone back for seconds. Oh, and Alan had once given Brad Talbot a blow job in the showers after gym class. Too bad the stunning jock had turned out to be a real prick and he’d punched Alan the next time they’d seen each other. Maybe because Brad hadn’t been naked and moaning for Alan to suck him harder the second time, but surrounded by his football buddies. Yeah, prick.