Shifting Desire

a shifter surprises himself and a friend

The gym was crowded, a wall of sweat and effort. Leo moved through the evening throng, his mind a thousand miles away, still trying to wrap his head around the impossible. The brush of a shoulder, the accidental tap of a hand—each fleeting contact now felt like a loaded gun. He’d been cataloging them all day, a strange, electric archive humming under his skin.

He was turning toward the free weights when he saw her. She was doing bent-over rows, her form perfect, the muscles in her back and shoulders flexing under smooth, sun-kissed skin. Her hair was a dark, sweat-dampened ponytail. She wore tight black leggings that clung to every curve of her legs and backside, and a matching high-support sports bra. She was, without question, the most stunning woman he’d ever seen.

He meant to give her space, but the crush of bodies had other ideas. Someone bumped him from behind, and he stumbled forward, his hand landing squarely on the small of her back to steady himself.

“Oh, shit, sorry!” he blurted, his palm burning where it met the slick, warm fabric of her top.

She straightened up, turning. Her eyes were a startling green, and for a second, they held his—annoyed, then dismissive. “It’s fine,” she said, her voice cool. She turned back to her weights, the moment severed.

But for Leo, it was everything. The contact, brief as it was, had been full-palmed, skin-to-fabric. It was enough. The new, hungry part of his brain whispered it. It’s in the library now. She’s in the library.

He didn’t work out. He left, the phantom sensation of her lower back imprinted on his hand, a key waiting to be turned.

Back in the sterile quiet of his apartment, the urge was a physical pressure. He locked the door, leaned against it, and closed his eyes. He reached for that new, internal catalog, the mental ‘feel’ of her—the specific heat, the texture of the performance fabric, the firm muscle beneath. He pulled.

The sensation was not pain, but a profound, liquid unmaking. Bones whispered as they reshaped, sinew and muscle sliding like silk. He felt his center of gravity drop, his shoulders narrow, his hips flare out with a soft, popping sigh. A heavy, unfamiliar weight settled on his chest, and a cascade of dark hair fell over his shoulders. He gasped, and the sound that came out was higher, smoother—her voice.

He stumbled to the full-length mirror on his closet door.

My God.

She stared back. The same green eyes, now wide with his own shock. The full, parted lips. He brought a hand—her hand, with slender fingers and neat, clear-polished nails—to his… her… face. The skin was soft. He ran that hand down the column of her throat, over the pronounced collarbone, and then cupped the heavy, perfect weight of her breast through the sports bra. A jolt, sharp and sweet, shot straight to his core. Her core. A low, shaky moan escaped her lips.

This is it. This is the power.

His—her—heart hammered against her ribs. The sports bra and leggings, which had looked so enticing on her at the gym, now felt like a prison. He needed to see. He needed to feel.

He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of the leggings and peeled them down. They slid over the new, round curves of her hips, down the sleek muscles of her thighs, revealing not the plain cotton he’d expected, but a flash of intricate black lace. A breath hitched in her throat. He pushed the leggings all the way off, kicking them aside.

There it was. A lacy black thong, a mere whisper of fabric that disappeared between the full cheeks of her ass. The bra would match. With trembling fingers, he reached back, fumbled with the clasp of the sports bra, and finally released it. He shimmied it off over her head.

The lacy black bra that emerged was sheer, the dark circles of her areolas just visible beneath the delicate pattern. He filled his hands with her breasts, the lace rough against his palms, her nipples hardening instantly into tight peaks under the dual stimulation of touch and sight. He squeezed, rolling the peaks between his fingers, and a wave of pure, undiluted pleasure washed through her body, settling as a deep, throbbing ache between her legs.

He was panting now, a sheen of sweat on her skin. The reflection was a stranger, a beautiful, aroused stranger whose every nerve ending was his to command. The psychological thrill was dizzying—the voyeurism, the ownership, the sheer taboo of it. But the physical need was becoming urgent, a pulsing demand.

He needed a witness. He needed to use this.

His phone was on the dresser. He picked it up, her fingers clumsy at first on the screen. He scrolled to Mark’s name. Mark, his old college friend, steady, a little shy around women. Perfect.

He typed, his mind swimming with sensation. Hey, you around? I’ve got something to show you. A surprise. Come over?

The reply was almost immediate. Uh, sure. Now?

Yes. Now.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. Leo had changed into a simple silk robe, belted loosely. It gaped at the front, offering a generous view of the lacy black bra. He took a deep, steadying breath, feeling her breasts rise and fall, then opened the door.

Mark stood there, his friendly face shifting from curiosity to utter, jaw-slackening shock. His eyes traveled from the cascade of dark hair, down the exposed cleavage, to the bare legs beneath the robe’s hem. He flushed a deep red. “I… uh… Leo? What… who…”

“It’s me,” Leo said, and he let her voice come out low, a little smoky. He saw Mark’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “Come in, Mark. Don’t be shy.”

Mark stepped in like a man in a dream, his eyes never leaving her. Leo closed the door and leaned back against it, letting the robe fall open further. “You like the surprise?”

“I… I don’t understand,” Mark stammered, his gaze glued to the lace-covered swell of her breasts. “How is this possible? You’re… you’re a…”

“A woman?” Leo finished for him, a smile playing on her lips. He took a step forward, into Mark’s space. He could smell his friend’s familiar cologne, see the confusion and dawning, hesitant desire in his eyes. “It’s a new trick. And I wanted you to be the first to… appreciate it.” He took Mark’s hand, which hung limply at his side, and guided it to the silk of the robe, placing it just over her hip. Mark’s hand was warm, trembling slightly. “Do you appreciate it, Mark?”

“God, Leo…” Mark breathed, his resistance crumbling. His fingers curled, gripping the silk and the curve of her hip beneath. “You feel… real.”

“I am real,” Leo whispered, leaning in. He brushed her lips against Mark’s stubbled cheek, then traced them to the corner of his mouth. “Every inch.” He captured Mark’s lips in a slow, deep kiss, pouring all his newfound feminine sensuality into it. Mark groaned, his hands coming up to cradle her face, then sliding back into her hair, his initial shyness dissolving into hungry need.

Leo broke the kiss, panting. “The bedroom,” she murmured, taking his hand and leading him. Inside, she turned and pushed the robe from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet, leaving her in only the lacy black set. Mark’s eyes devoured her, his desire now plain, urgent.

“Touch me,” Leo commanded, her voice husky.

Mark’s hands were on her breasts, kneading through the lace, his thumbs finding her nipples. Leo arched her back, a sharp cry escaping her. The sensation was incredible, doubly so because it was Mark causing it. He fumbled with the front clasp of the bra, finally releasing it. The lace fell away, and he bent his head, taking one taut peak into his mouth.

Leo cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair. The wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth—it sent fire licking down her spine. She ground her hips against the hard ridge of his erection straining against his jeans. “More,” she gasped. “I want to feel you.”

They fell onto the bed in a tangle. Mark stripped frantically, his clothes flying. Then he was over her, his body hard and warm. Leo reached between their bodies, her hand wrapping around his length, guiding him