by Terry Spear
Page 56
Doc Weber and Doc Mitchell remained at the hospital in their wolf forms. They urged Carol to use her experimental cures on them. Those ranged from herbal remedies like garlic and onion, Echinacea, licorice— which didn’t go over with any of the wolves—and Vitamin C for improved antibodies to fight the virus in an infected person. She had even tested the medieval concept that exercising the werewolf into exhaustion in his wolf form would force him to shift back to his human form. Nothing worked. Darien also had tried all of the remedies in good spirit, although he wouldn’t go along with the brutal exercise plan, probably figuring that was a bunch of medieval bunk.
Carol lifted two packages of licorice, one red and one black, and took a deep breath as she pondered the results of yet another attempt at creating a cure. She’d tested Darien, Jake, and both the vet and Doc Weber, but no one seemed to respond to the home remedies. The vet and Jake had both gone along with the exercise program, willing to try anything to snap out of the inability to shift back to their human form. But Darien was right. It didn’t work.
Her mind frazzled, she poured herself another cup of ginger tea, and took it back to the table. On page fifty-five of a set of handwritten notes on werewolf myths and legends, she had found a possible cure, or death. She closed her eyes as she sat at the table and rested her head on her arm, willing herself to think. Think, what hadn’t she tried that might work? Something that wouldn’t possibly result in death.
Her thoughts shut down, and as if in a dream or out of the mist of her mind, a lush green meadow appeared.
The sun was shining down on Ryan as he lay on the grass. Hands behind his head, he had his eyes closed and his leg cocked, resting peacefully, until two small boys attacked him with childlike exuberance. The boys were identical in size, maybe three years of age, chubby, with dark hair like Ryan’s, and smiles and dimples like his, too. Startled out of his peaceful pose, he laughed and tackled them, tickling them amid giggles and squeals. Twin boys.
Before she could come to any conclusions about the vision, the fragrance of blended almond, lime, and mandarin soap drifted to her, and she returned to the world at present and turned in her chair. Freshly showered and totally naked, Ryan advanced on her in a strictly lustful predatory manner. Her gaze shifted to the package between his legs. He sure was hung. She might have missed showering with him, but he wasn’t leaving her to stew over the dilemma of finding a cure all night. And she loved him for it.
She smiled at him, so handsome and caring and hunky, his mouth curving up a little, his eyes taking her in as if she was the most beautiful creature in the world—which as tired as she was, she knew wasn’t possible—and his expression determined, bordering on sinful seduction.
No matter how frustrated and anxious she’d become with trying to discover a solution, Ryan was always her champion. He told everyone she was getting close to a breakthrough, when no one really knew how long it would take.
He encouraged her, adamantly insisting that she could do it, and by doing so, she knew he trusted in her abilities with all his heart. That bolstered her confidence in the face of failure. Pride reflected in his expression every time he talked about her efforts to find a solution. She wasn’t sure if he did so to remind her she could fight this, too, or if he wanted her to know she was fully a werewolf now—just like any of their kind.
Despite how tired she was, she saw he was ready for some loving. She rose from the chair to recharge her batteries, too.
“Time to rest,” he said, massaging her shoulders with dreamy strength.
She knew he meant after they made love.
“So soft,” he whispered against her ear, his large capable hands moving down her pale blue cashmere sweater and settling on her breasts, measuring, feeling, circling. Then his lips curved up in a wicked way.
“Hmm, no bra. ”
The way he said the words in a hushed and seductive voice, and the way he touched her, made her feel naughty and decadent. She swept her hands up his naked biceps—strong, smooth, and tensing with her touch— and encircled his neck with her arms. She couldn’t press against his length like she wanted, to feel his growing arousal and his desire for her building, not while his thumbs targeted her nipples, stroking and rolling the sensitive nubs between his fingers and stealing her thoughts, her breath, her willpower.
Already her loins tightened with need and her body quivering with desire—responsive, receptive, needy. She wanted him, wanted the feel of him mating with her, the closeness, the intimacy.
His mouth crushed hers, his hands moving from her breasts to the bottom edge of her soft sweater. He slid the luxurious fabric upward, his thumbs stroking her skin from her belly over her breasts, stopping to fondle her nipples for a moment in a deliciously sinful way, and then moving up her collarbone to pull the sweater off.
He dropped it on a chair, and head bent, leaned down to capture a nipple with his mouth, his tongue slick and hot, as it glided over the raised hypersensitive nub. She moaned, felt her knees give, and would have been kneeling before him if he hadn’t slipped his hands down to cup her buttocks and to hold her in place while he had his way with her.
She felt her bones melt, her blood and skin sizzle with his touch, and briefly worried that she was shape-shifting… until his thigh pushed between her legs, pressed gently upward, and rubbed, giving her a jolt.
Oh God, she’d never last.
His heart was pounding as thunderously as hers, despite his slow and measured moves. He recaptured her mouth with his, their breathing heavy and labored. The scent of arousal, hers and his, entwined in a pleasing fragrance, added to the sweet and spicy aroma of the almond, lime, and mandarin soap he’d washed with.
His fingers tangled in her hair, his eyes dark as midnight, his thigh still pressed between her legs, holding her up and tormenting her. Then he unfastened her jeans button and, after that, the zipper. Once he’d unzipped her jeans and slipped his fingers into her soft curls, he pulled his mouth away from hers, and smiled.
“No panties?” Again his words made her feel wickedly sinful.
As if he couldn’t last a moment longer, he tugged her jeans down and left them in a puddle of blue denim on the floor.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and lifted her so that she was straddling him. “And all mine,” he added, sounding wolfishly possessive.
No coherent words could come to mind as her legs were spread open to him against his belly, his chest hair mingling with her soft curls, his stomach rubbing against her feminine lips with every step he took. She clung to him as he moved fast, heading toward the guestroom, his gait long and decisive.
“You’re beautiful, too,” she said hoarsely, soliciting a deep-seated chuckle from him.
When they reached the bed, he didn’t set her down and then join her, like she’d expected. Instead, in one deft move, she was on the mattress and he was still between her legs. He shifted away from her slightly and ran his hand up her inner thigh, teasing her into submission.
But she would not submit! Her hands swept over his arms and his back, and lower to his buttocks. She squeezed, soliciting a shiver from him. She reached up and raked her hands through his damp hair, while his eyes studied her, lust-filled, desirous, and hungry.
She pulled him down and licked his shoulder, loved the salty and sweet taste of him freshly showered, all man and wolf, and hers. He groaned, a sound that said she was pushing him over the edge.
As if he couldn’t wait any longer, he began to stroke her between her legs, dipping a finger inside her and claiming her. He pressed his mouth against hers again, ravenous, passionate, greedy. His tongue danced with hers, their breathing fast paced as her fingers pressed against his lower back, her loins aching for resolution.
She arched her back, pushing against his fingers, demanding, begging. He stroked harder, relentlessly, watching her expression until she shuddered and fractured into a million wondro
us bits of pleasure and gave out a cry.
Watching Carol come nearly brought him to climax. He dove into her tight sheath, and pushed hard and deep—and deeper still. Her body was flushed and moist, and every inch was delectable, gripping him with ripples of orgasm. Her fingers dug into his buttocks, her desire pronounced in her actions and heady arousal.
He stretched her and claimed her, merging, melding, and mating with her. Their tongues and lips tasted and teased, and he said her name softly against her mouth just before the final thrust—the eruption—when the heat sizzled between them.
She gave a tired smile, pulled him close, and held on tight.
“Mine,” she said.
He rolled over and cushioned her against his chest.
“Mine,” was his response.
After sleeping a few hours, and still feeling the sensual glow that always lingered after making love with Ryan, Carol returned to the kitchen to begin working on the Aconitum cure. The plant also was called monkshood, leopard’s bane, wolf’s bane, and dozens of other aliases. Not only was it touted as an herbal cure for colds and fever, but it also slowed the heart rate and numbed nerve endings to pain.
However, the roots of the plant were poisonous, and while the mostly deep blue or purple flowers were strikingly beautiful, they could also be deadly. So why did some werewolf lore state that the flower was a cure for being a werewolf? It killed wolves. But wouldn’t it kill the human half also? Still, often legends arose from some truth. What if it would cure what ailed them?
The dawn was just beginning to appear, the darkness fading as the sun rose. Ryan was again reading through the files on Miller’s computer, which Ryan had brought back to Doc Weber’s house. Ryan’s cell phone rang, and he yanked it off his belt.
“Yeah, Tom?” He glanced at Carol. She assumed it might be good news, but Ryan’s expression was noncommittal as he stalked out of the kitchen to the living room to speak to Tom.
Carol started boiling the roots of the wolf’s bane in a small stainless-steel pot. When Ryan walked back into the kitchen, she knew he was going on another fact-finding mission. Unfortunately, he’d done so at least once a day, sometimes more, and nothing had ever come of it.