Prymal Urges or Prymal Obsession???

Which title do you like better—Prymal Urges or Prymal Obsession? No matter which one you prefer, it’s done!!!! Yay!!!The second book in my new SEAL paranormal suspense series is completed!!!!! Nothing is more freeing than submitting a completed book to your editor. Of course, then you have to deal with the nail biting anxiety of…did she like it? OMG—should I have ended it that way? Did I explain the killing properly? Was the wrap-up complete?

To assuage my sudden plunge in self-confidence here’s a peek at Prymal Urges:

Brut Jurango had avoided Sidonie Walker for seventy-three hours, nine minutes, forty-one seconds, and counting. He didn’t trust himself around Sidonie. Had already decided to return to the site of his pack’s slaughter and resume tracking the killers. He had no time for anything other than vengeance.
The oversize black tires of the white F150 Sidonie drove kicked wide dust funnels in the distance. He had the time to absent himself from the house before she arrived, but something about her erratic seesawing on the road kept him frozen in place.
Brut slugged down the rest of his lukewarm coffee, turned on the tap, and washed the porcelain. Through the open window above the sink, he observed Sidonie yanking the hand brake, unbuckling her seat belt, and shoving open the driver’s door. She jumped to the paved asphalt, teetered, and wind milled her arms to regain her balance.      Her glorious reddish-blonde ringlet curls glinted and danced in wild disarray concealing her features save for the tip of her nose.
Alarms pinged.
Sidonie’s gait always reminded him of the elegant, languorous loping of a gazelle, even in her trademark five and six inch stilettoes.
A dry breeze wound up the gulley from the base of the mountain chasing Sid’s distinctive fragrance, a combo of musk, a hint of greenness, and rose-petals, right to Brut’s greedy nostrils. He inhaled and held the breath, sifting the essence of her scent and allowing the different perfumes to settle into his olfactory neurons. He frowned when the last sinking elements of her aroma revealed a hitherto un-detected hint of acidity.
Sid sprinted up the incline to the deck, stumbled on the first step, and grabbed the rail with both hands.
The slapping of her shoes on the wooden steps while she navigated her way onto the deck puzzled him. The sound didn’t go with the picture.
His hackles stiffened the instant he saw her face.
No makeup, not even a hint of mascara.
Sidonie wore cosmetic armor.
She had a peaches and cream complexion, skin so translucent and flawless, that from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, Brut had fantasized about touching and tasting her.
Their eyes met when she reached the top step.
A blast of terror, pungent and bitter, wove through Sidonie’s unique aroma.
Brut straightened, his olfactory senses on full alert. His woman was scared spit less. An unbridled wave of wrath laced with the compulsive urge to protect her swamped him.
She disappeared from view for mere seconds and then hurtled through the open kitchen door. Her head jerked right, left, and she did two more double takes before casting him a sidelong scowl. “I need Lycus. Where is he?”
“Not here.” Resentment and lust tangoed to jar a harsh f**k-you note into the two words he spat. F**k her needing any man but him.
“Tania?” Her voice, husky, low, and graveled with steel branded him. The woman had only to come within hearing or smelling distance and his big cat and wolf DNA exploded. His c**k unfurled. He reviled the way his scarred and tattooed body reacted to her. Despised her blatant want-to-f**k-the-ugly-beast human female reaction he’d encountered too often during his short lifespan.
“Neither.” He leaned his elbows on the granite countertop. Didn’t give a f**king crap if the move made his arousal obvious.
“Axe?” She pressed a fist to her mouth.
“Same.” Brut crossed his arms and inspected her from head to toe. Instead of her trademark stilettos, she wore flip-flops. This Sidonie, wearing a baggy white T with jagged blue stains, and jeans faded from too many washings, worried him.
“Can you not flipping answer a question with more than one word?”
He frowned at the note of hysteria in her screeched query. “No.”
“Is it just me? Or are you this surly and unresponsive with everyone?” She carried a sheet of wadded paper in one hand.
Lord, it’s turning out to be a Merciless Monday.