Make Me Howl (23 page)

Slipping my hands to his chest, I flattened my palms there, and sucked hard on his tongue. He growled, thrust his hips lightly against me, and broke the kiss. I thought he would pick me up and carry me to his bed, and if he didn’t have time to take the dozen or so steps to get there, I thought we’d at least make use of one of the recliners.

Instead, he swallowed and took a breath. A long breath. A look of sheer determination came over his face as he stiffened his back and he took a step away from me. If he hadn’t kept his hand on me, holding me in place, I’d have followed him just like a partner in a slow dance.

He nodded once then asked, “Want a beer?”

I was shocked he could stop like that—that he didn’t want me as badly as I did him. All I could do was gape.

He must have imagined I nodded, because he turned and walked away from me. Leaving me alone. And cold.

My entire body quaked with my need for him. I wasn’t going to let him escape without fulfilling me. He
would
want me as badly as I wanted him. Even if I had to hurt him to make him do it.

Glancing around, I again focused on the pool table in front of the empty fire place. Too bad there wasn’t a stimulating fire burning, but I’d have to use what was at hand.

And if my hand didn’t work, I’d use my mouth.

I took off my blouse and draped it across the recliner, arranging it to make it look as if I’d tossed it there. I kicked off my shoes, first one, then the other, on my way across the room. Next came my jeans, and then my bra. After stripping off my thong, I slid on top of the table and lay down. Rolling to my side, I rested my head on my upturned fist.

The roughness of the felt against me was one of those pleasure/pain sensations, rubbing hot places on my skin. But when I got Doc on it with me, all I planned to feel was pleasure. The fragrance of cigar smoke drifted to me, making me smile as I envisioned him celebrating something or other with his brothers.

He came out of the kitchen with a beer in each hand, stopped dead and gaped at the shirt I’d left on the chair. Without moving, he followed the trail of my clothing with his gaze, stopping to stare at each article in turn. When he looked at my jeans for a few seconds, he took a few steps toward me until he found my bra.

I pushed to a sitting position, took aim and flipped my thong at him, slingshot fashion.

It landed perfectly, encircling the beer in his left hand and falling to hang from his wrist.

He stared at it for so long, I wondered if he recognized what it was. But when he lifted his face to look at me, I had no doubt. He watched me for a long moment, his face darkening as his eyes almost glowed.

I curled my legs under me as I waited for him to make a move—if my antics hadn’t given him a stroke or heart attack.

Finally he moved toward me, his movements as fluid as a fox. Without a word, he handed me both beers, then scooped me off the table as if I weighed no more than a fluff of fur.

He carried me to his bedroom, and I knew why the rest of the house looked as it did. He’d spent all his time—and talent—making a sleeping space that a sex goddess would dream of. The colors were dark but bright, the fabrics rich and sensual. And the room smelled wonderful. Almost as if we were outside in the woods on a moonless summer night.

And in the corner a small fireplace blazed away. In front of the hearth was a rug, or it could have been a throw, that looked amazingly like ermine or mink. He carried me to it and, as gently as if he were helping a woman stand after a very long illness, he set me down.

My feet buried in the deep fur. It curled between my toes and tickled my ankles, wrenching a giggle from me.

While he yanked off his clothes and shoved on a condom, I sat down. The sensation of the long fur as it caressed the more tender parts of my body was amazing. It crept into hidden crevices, stimulating me to heights I’d never before known.

Then he was behind me, one firm thigh on each side of me, his chest at my back. He pushed me onto my belly and stroked the length of me, his hands firm yet gentle, his breath hot on my neck while the fur tickled my breasts, belly, thighs and everything in between.

Never having been the passive type, I could only take so much of the pleasure before I had to join in. In a single move, I turned, pushed him to his back and straddled him. Raising my body, I lowered myself over him, gasping as his length filled me.

Finally, I knew what I’d waited for all my life. I’d found what had always been missing. My heart swelled, along with other parts of me, as I started moving.

Putting his hands on my bottom, he levered to an almost sitting position and moved with me, stimulating me as no one ever had. How did he know the way to make me feel so alive? So much a part of him?

I’d never known a man who fit me so well, both physically and spiritually, in my life. How was he able to make me feel so cared for? So well loved? Realization that it could only come from long nights of practice on his part sparked a nip of jealousy, making me want to ruin any other woman’s chances at love with him.

Our movements grew faster, more frenzied until I started to lose my mind. Not ready to let it end, he rolled me beneath him so he was in complete control. I curled my legs around his long muscular ones as he slowed the pace. This time, while I grew as excited as before, the depth of the feeling was somehow broader. Deeper.

Richer.

As we neared climax, I felt my control slipping, my mind going. I wanted nothing but to lose myself completely, rush to the edge, fling myself off and during the climax become the true being I was inside. If I didn’t hold myself back, I’d morph right there in his arms.

I could tell he neared the edge, too, as he moved over me. But just as I thought he would shout with triumph, he seemed to take a step away from me.

He rose to his knees with his hands on my shoulders, as if he held me back. With an extremely controlled movement, he took a long, quavering breath and, simply, finished.

His completion very subdued. Very disappointing. And I very nearly didn’t climax at all.

I’d never been so disappointed in my life.

He made a sound that was close to a groan then, with a kiss, collapsed on the fur beside me.

What was that?
I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t find my voice.

Why, when I was about to have the most fantastic climax of my lifetime, had he backed off? Shut down?

Why had I been gypped?

But before I could find the energy to ask, my body shut down from the exhaustion of having to fight morphing while in the midst of wild lovemaking.

We moved to his bed, and after a very long, lonely time, I fell asleep and dreamed of a wolf and her mate, deep in the Texas woodlands.

I must have slept hard, because when I awoke, it was morning and I smelled coffee brewing in the kitchen and heard the shower running in the adjacent bathroom.

Not ready to force myself out from under his quilts, I snuggled down for a little time of twilight sleep and drifted in and out until I heard him shut off the shower. Knowing it was time to get moving, I sat up just as he opened the door and left the steamy bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

He glanced at me then let his gaze slide slowly to my breasts. I could see in his face the internal battle with himself, so I pushed back the covers and got out of bed. Just as I reached for my clothes, which lay at the foot of the bed where he must have put them, I glanced in the mirror.

Down my left buttock there was a long scratch. Unable to believe what I saw, I touched it. The sting made me yelp in surprise.

“How did you do that?” he asked, his eyebrows high with concern.

“I don’t know.” I glared at my backside in the mirror. “I don’t remember scratching myself there.”

“Must have done it when you climbed on my pool table.” Frowning, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I should have had that rough place fixed.”
For naked women climbing on top,
remained unspoken.

Why hadn’t I felt it when it happened? I was stimulated and having a good time when I blazed my trail to the table, but I hadn’t been
that
turned on. I should have felt the pain if I’d torn my flesh like that.

Unless somehow in the night, I’d somehow lost control, morphed and done it while I was out of my sane mind.

Fear cut a swath through me as the possibility occurred to me. If that was what happened, why had it started? The other time had been at the Halloween party. But this time why wasn’t it the same? When I’d lost control at the Halloween party, I’d awakened in a cage and naked, experiencing a nauseous headache wasn’t unlike a hangover.

This time I woke up right where I’d fallen asleep. Naked, yes, but I’d been naked when I crashed. No headache. No nausea and no reason to believe I’d gone anywhere.

More than a little worried, I tried to calm myself as I turned to him. “Okay if I take a shower?” Not wanting him to see my concern and delve into my psyche to understand it—or whatever werewolf researchers do—I tried not to look him in the face.

“You bet. I left out clean towels for you.” He watched me for a moment, as if wondering if I would invite him in to shower with me.

Not a chance. At least, not while I felt so uneasy. Vulnerable. I headed for his shower, wishing I had someone to talk to about it. Someone who knew werewolves and the changes that could happen.

Going into the bathroom, I closed and locked the door behind me. I turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm before getting in.

I went over it again and again in my mind. Why had this happened to me? Was it because I held back too much for too long? Or didn’t hold back enough? If he were a born-in-the-flesh werewolf, I believed he’d started to morph and scratch me as he neared climax. Too bad that wasn’t the case. It had to be something I was doing wrong.

If only Grandma Maleva were alive. She’d known everything about werewolves. And she’d always been able to make me feel better about myself, even when I was a young teen and knew I was different from every other girl in the world.

In the shower, I let my hair out and washed it really well before drawing it in a bit. After I washed my injury, I finished up and stepped out onto a thick rug. It wasn’t as cushy as the one by his fireplace, but it soaked up the water sluicing from my body. Taking a towel I found on the cabinet next to the sink, I blotted the water from my skin and dried my hair.

Maybe the previous evening’s lovemaking had just been an off night for him—I hoped! Hoping to make him suffer just a little, I left my towel in the bathroom and walked naked into his bedroom, where I’d left my clothes. Too bad he’d left the room.

I quickly dressed, grabbed my purse and pulled out my comb and makeup. I slicked my hair back into a ponytail with an elastic band I found in the bottom then put on a little mascara and lipstick.

That was all I had time to do. I had to find someone—or something—that could give me some answers. I shoved my purse over my shoulder and left the bedroom, ready to ask him to take me home.

The dark fragrance of strong coffee stopped me. The pungent aroma filled my head and shoved everything else out of my mind. I had to have a cup. Or ten.

“Buy a girl a cup of coffee?” I asked, hoping it sounded teasing.

His eyes sparkled with unvoiced laughter. “Anything you want.”

I waited as he grabbed a man-sized mug from the cabinet and poured it full. “Cream or sugar?”

“Don’t ruin it,” I answered.

He gave me a half smile of appreciation and handed me the mug. I took a sip and sighed with enjoyment. A single sip made me feel human. By the time I’d finished the mug, I might feel like a woman again.

He walked to a bar stool and sat down, so I followed him. “Do you usually eat breakfast?” he asked then took a healthy drink from his mug.

“If someone else is cooking.”

He almost choked on the coffee. After clearing his throat, he nodded in agreement. “Me, too. Exactly.”

“So you won’t be…?” I smiled as I left the sentence unfinished.

He snorted then shook his head. “Believe me, you wouldn’t want me to. I can make toast, if you’re really hungry.”

“I’m hungry, but toast wouldn’t satisfy me.” Hearing the double entendre in my own words, I ignored them. “I mean, when I finished, I’d still be hungry.”

The heat in his gaze, coupled with his slowly spreading smile was proof, indeed, that I’d made it worse.

“What I meant to say was I’m hungry for sausage and eggs. Or biscuits and gravy. Just toast wouldn’t be enough.”

“Uh-huh.” The sexual-innuendo-induced grin remained. “And I know a great place, not too far from here. We’ll stop on the way to take you home.”

What I really wanted was to go home, so I could change clothes and really go home—to the house in the panhandle where Grandma Maleva had lived. Maybe there I could find the answers to the upset in my mind, which was starting to remind me of a killer bee attack in my head.

As we left his house, I thanked my lucky stars it was Saturday and I had no appointments set up for the weekend. Maybe I’d be able to go to Grandma’s without having to change any appointments.

We stopped at a small, mom-and-pop restaurant called A Taste of Home. The tables were all antique oak with mismatched chairs, and on the windows were drapes that would have looked right in someone’s home. The sign outside that blazed their name hadn’t lied. If it weren’t for the cash register and the waitresses, it would look exactly like someone’s home, right down to the Christmas decorations.