by P. C. Cast
“Impressed by my superpowers?”
“Very.”
“Good. You’ll love my next display of EWP.”
“EWP?”
“Extrawerewolfory perception,” he said, with only a slight glint in his eyes. “So. Are you hungry?”
“If I say yes are you going to grow fur and chase down some poor helpless rabbit?”
“Maybe another time. Right now if you said you were hungry I’d simply clap my hands twice and then help you climb up the rise in the path so I could show you that I made your wish come true.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. I’m hungry.”
He waggled his eyebrows and leered at her. “Be careful, Ms. Cox—mine is the species that bites.”
Before she could respond with the pithy reply she was formulating, he grabbed her hand and pulled her up the incline. Candice glanced around, surprised that the dense woods had suddenly given way to a lovely meadow of soft grass that was dotted with blue wildflowers. Fireflies flitted in the dim evening light, looking like miniature fairies. (Candice squinted her eyes and made certain that they weren’t actually fairies. God, she hated fairies.) And then her surprise doubled. Not far from the path someone had spread a large plaid blanket, on which sat a huge wicker picnic basket and a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of white wine.
“You see what happens when you date a superhero?” he said.
“This isn’t a date. It’s an appointment,” she said automatically.
“Well, I think that depends.”
“On what?”
“On the good-night kiss.”
Smiling, he led her over to the picnic dinner he had so meticulously chosen, packed, and then brought out into the forest just for her.
Six
The dinner was scrumptious. Candice was amazed by the obvious care he’d taken with everything. From the excellent dry white wine from Venice and the real crystal goblets he served it in, to the decadently tender prime rib sandwiches and fresh fruit—everything was better than perfect. And that included the conversation. She couldn’t believe how easy he was to talk to. He was actually smart! A closet history buff, he told her stories about the settlers who had founded the various cities in Colorado—something she knew little about because she’d always focused on European instead of American lit.
And he noticed everything. Not just the details of the meal, but he noticed when the inflection of her voice changed, when she was distracted by the beauty of the blue wildflowers (which he promptly picked for her), and when she talked about her new passion—finishing her master’s and moving to Denver. He discussed the aspects of her new future animatedly. Unlike Godiva, he didn’t try to talk her into staying or dissuade her from following her dream. Justin honestly seemed to understand her need to move on.
But what surprised Candice most was how easy it was for her to forget he was so young. She wasn’t sure when it happened—somewhere between their discussion of the stupidity of the underfunded state education initiatives, and their mutual (and, on her part, rather blasphemous) agreement that the Lord of the Rings movies were actually better than the books—but Candice Cox totally stopped thinking of him as ohmygodhe’ssofuckingyoung Justin, and started seeing him as the man she was out on a date with.
“So, how’s the poetry assignment coming?” he asked.
“Better, I think. At least I got a little written last night.” She sipped her wine. Maybe it was the third glass of wine, or the intimate silence that surrounded them, but it felt easy for her to speak half-formed dreams aloud. “You know what’s weird? I’m doing this whole master’s thing so I can get a job reading other people’s writing, but I think I’m finding out that I actually like doing the writing part myself.”
“You want to write a book?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Right now all I know is that I’d like to write something that—” she broke off, suddenly embarrassed.
“That what?” he prompted.
She met his amber gaze. He was so sincere. Rarely had she known a man who listened as well as he did. There was something about the way he looked at her, and spoke to her—as if he thought she was interesting and smart and he honestly cared about what she had to say.
It was more intoxicating than the Venetian wine.
“I’d like to write something that would have the ability to make people feel. It could be a book, or short stories, or maybe even poetry. What it is isn’t important. What is important is that what I write evokes feelings in those who read it.”
His gaze was hot and intense on hers as Justin leaned toward her, resting his hand on her knee. “I know exactly what you mean. That’s how I always felt about my art. I didn’t care if I was painting or sculpting or just sketching with plain charcoal. I wanted people to feel what I felt.”
“Why did you stop, Justin?” she asked softly.
“I don’t really know. . . .” His eyes dropped from hers. “One day I was a college freshman at the Art Institute—the next I’d washed out. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with me changing my major from art to beer and women.” His lips twisted in self-mockery. “A double major actually. I made stupid choices—a string of stupid choices—and then I was back in Mysteria working at the restaurant.”
She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t too late for him to go to college, that he could get a portfolio together and get back into the Art Institute, but she hesitated. Did he really need her to turn into a teacher and lecture him? She didn’t think so, and she also didn’t want to. She liked being his date and not his mentor. Candice put her hand on top of his.
“Sometimes it’s easy to get lost. You let your art get lost when you dropped out of college. I let good sense get lost when I committed serial matrimony. I suppose all either of us can do is to learn from our mistakes.”
“I’m glad you’re divorced.” He smiled and added, “Again.”
“Well, I’m with you on that one.”
“Do you mind if I ask why none of your marriages worked?”
“I don’t mind you asking, but I’m not sure I have an answer for you, even though I should because the ending of each of them felt the same—so you’d think I’d learn how to define the problem, if not fix it.” She sighed. “I stopped loving them. Each one. Actually, it’s more accurate to say that I stopped liking each of them first, then I couldn’t love them anymore. They were five different kinds of men, and, as much as I kid around about it, none of them were bad men. I wouldn’t have married a bad man. Still, it didn’t work out with any of them, which, naturally, points to the one common denominator—me.” She glanced up at him. He was watching her intently, and not in that patronizing “I’ll just let the woman talk so I can get into her panties” kind of way. His amber eyes were interested—his expression plainly said he was involved in what she was saying. Candice drew a deep breath. “I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone. I think I fail at relationships because I don’t have any magic.”
His brow wrinkled. “But most places aren’t like Mysteria. Outside of here lots of people don’t have magic and they manage to have happy marriages.”
“Nope. I don’t think so. I don’t think you have to live in totally bizarre Mysteria to have magic. See, I think the ability to have a successful, happy marriage is a special kind of magic, and that special magic exists all over the world. The problem with me is that I’m doomed because I have nonmagic, just like I have nonmarriages and nonrelationships.”
“Maybe”—he reached up and cupped the side of her cheek with his hand—“you just need to quit trying so hard.”
Then, amazingly, Justin leaned forward and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, not accompanied by any intrusive thrustings of tongue and teeth. She’d worried about that when she’d allowed herself to think about kissing him. Would a twenty-something be a bully kisser? Would he blindly stick his mouth on hers and proceed to grind any and all available body parts against her? It’d been too damn long since she’d kissed a man this young—sh
e couldn’t remember how they did it. But she needn’t have worried. The boy/man/wolf kissed like a dream . . . a deliciously erotic dream. His mouth was a warm caress against hers—not a demand, but a seductive question.
“You taste like lavender and wine,” he murmured, his lips lingering near hers.
“You taste like sex,” she whispered back before her better sense could stop the words. “Erotic and decadent, and very, very male.”
He chuckled and his lips moved to her neck. “That’s because I’m still using my superpowers on you.” His tongue flicked out to tease the gentle slope of smooth flesh where her neck met her shoulder. “But maybe you don’t believe me. Maybe you need more proof first.”
“If I say I do, does that mean you won’t stop?” she said breathlessly.
“I won’t stop unless you tell me to.”
“Then we may be here all night,” she moaned.
He pressed her down into the blanket and slid his hand under her T-shirt. “I’m good with all night.”
She let her hands travel up his arms to his chest. God, his body was hard! And more than just between his legs (although it was already decidedly obvious that he didn’t suffer from the same unfortunate and very flaccid problem her last ex-husband had). Utterly fascinated, she tugged at his shirt until he took his hands from her long enough to pull it over his head.
Dear sweet Lord—she’d died and, despite her numerous sins and bad language, gone straight to heaven. He looked better unclothed—and that was one hell of a compliment because he had looked scrumptious with his shirt on. He was truly a beautiful man.
Then his hands were tugging up her shirt. She started to help him . . . and remembered: 1) that she was wearing her least stretched out and frayed sports bra—“least” in no way meaning that it was attractive, and 2) she was forty. Suddenly he was, once again, ohmygodhe’ssofuckingyoung Justin.
“Uh, wait. I’m—I’m not completely okay with this,” she said quickly, smoothing down her shirt while she avoided meeting his eyes.
Instantly, he stopped. But he didn’t pull away from her. Nor did he throw a fit because he had a hard-on and needed to have sex now. He just shifted his weight so that she was resting comfortably in his arms. Then he lifted her chin with his finger, gently making her meet his gaze.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.
“No. It’s not you.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her and smiled crookedly. “Is there someone else here I don’t know about?”
“Of course not.”
“Then is it that you don’t want me?”
“Of course not!”
“Candice, I’m going to be honest with you. For the past several years I haven’t been connected to much—not another person or a job or even a place. I’ve been playing at life and just letting time pass. But with you I feel a connection, and that’s something I’m not used to. I want to see where it takes us. If that means going slow physically, I will. But I have to tell you that the truth is I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman in my life.”
His amber eyes had darkened to the color of aged Scotch. She could feel the sexual tension in his body. She loved the intensity with which he looked at her, and the way his hands lingered on hers. And she knew if she didn’t make love to this beautiful young man that she would regret it forever.
Deliberately, she sat up and, keeping her eyes fixed on his, she pulled off her shirt. Then she reached behind her and undid her sports bra, shrugging it off her shoulders. The late evening air was cool against the heat of her skin, and her nipples puckered. Justin’s gaze dropped from her eyes to her naked breasts. He reached forward and took her heavy breasts in his hands, lifting and caressing them.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said huskily. “Look at you! You’re not some plastic girl who hasn’t lived enough to know there are sexier things than fake boobs and lace bras that match their thongs that match the color they paint their toes.” He bent and kissed the swell of her breast, then let his tongue tease her already aroused nipple while she moaned and arched into him. “You’re an earth goddess, rich and ripe and desirable.”
He pressed her back into the blanket again, his lips and tongue teasing her breasts. His mouth moved slowly down her stomach, kissing the waist of her shorts. Before she could begin to get nervous about the fact that her stomach wasn’t as flat as it had been ten years before, she heard him murmur, “Your skin is like silk, and you taste like lavender-scented honey.”
She probably would have let him pull off her shorts then, but he slid down, until he knelt at her feet. Smiling at her, he took off her running shoes and socks. When he kissed the arch of her foot she had a moment to think about how desperately glad she was that she’d had a pedicure just two days ago, then he moved from her foot to her calf, kneading it much as he had done the day before. Only now he interspersed his caresses with soft kisses as he made his way slowly up her leg.
“Justin . . .” His name was a moan, and all thoughts of statutory rape and moral turpitude permanently flew from her mind.
“Sssh,” he breathed against the sensitive spot behind her knee. “Let me worship you like the goddess you are, and allow me to teach you what I’ve learned since I left your class.”
“A little role reversal?” she asked breathlessly, making no move to stop him as his lips grazed her inner thigh.
“Absolutely, Ms. Cox. It’s time you quit worrying about marriages and relationships and nonmagic and just relax and enjoy a man who appreciates what an exceptional woman you are and can make you feel as good as you deserve to feel.” He nuzzled the leg of her shorts up so that when he spoke his mouth moved, hot and insistent, against the very top of her inner thigh. “What I’ve learned is how to use my tongue and mouth to bring a woman to orgasm before I fill her body with mine and stroke her into another climax and then another.”
“Do you do this often?” The thought of the possibility that she might be just another in a long line of female conquests began to dissipate her horny haze.
“No,” he moaned, his mouth on her skin. “Don’t think that. It’s you I want to taste—you I want to pleasure. I’ve fantasized about you for years. You have no idea how much I want you and how special you are to me. Let me make my fantasies real. Let me taste you.”
When he pulled at the waist of her shorts, she willingly lifted to make his job easier. As she settled back against the blanket, her eyes were drawn over his shoulder to the darkening sky and she felt a little jolt as she realized how close it was to sunset . . . which would be followed by moonrise . . . and a nearly full moon rise at that.
Observant as ever, Justin read the new tension in her body. He saw her eyes fixed on the sky and the clear concern in her face.
“I promise that you have nothing to fear from me.”
Reluctantly, her gaze left the sky and met his eyes. “But when the full moon rises, you’re a wolf, aren’t you?”
“Actually, there’s always a little of the wolf in me, full moon or not,” he said, nipping her stomach gently and then lowering his head to taste her with a long lick of his tongue.
Her breath caught in surprise and she had to bite her lip to stifle a breathy moan.
He kissed her thigh and then smiled up at her. “Remember, your magic is nonmagic. Which means I am unable to shift my shape around you. I am in man form right now, and as long as I’m close to you I’ll stay in that form.” He nuzzled her thigh and kissed her again. “Let me make love to you, my sweet Candy,” his voice caressed her name. “Let me be your lover.”
“I know exactly what you need . . . a werewolf lover.” Godiva’s voice whispered through her mind. Maybe her friend was right. And why not? Justin appreciated her. He listened to her and made her feel beautiful and desirable. What was wrong with her taking a young, virile lover who wanted to worship her like a goddess? . . .
With a triumphant smile, she made her decision.
“If you can’t change form as long as I’m
close to you, I guess the right answer is for me to keep you very close to me.” She pulled the young werewolf to her and let his victorious growl vibrate against her naked skin.
Justin had been right. He had learned a hell of a lot since he’d left her classroom. And his tongue . . . not only did he use it between her legs with such enthusiasm that her vibrator would forever after seem a weak substitute, but his ability to listen (amazingly enough) hadn’t stopped when his dick hardened. He listened and responded when she showed him the secret place low on her stomach that was so ultrasensitive. He paid attention to that spot at the base of her neck. And his kisses . . . his kisses were an erotic adventure.
When he’d brought her to climax three times he finally moaned that he couldn’t wait anymore, and she’d reveled in the hard length of him as she guided him within her slick, ready folds. He’d tried to hold back—tried not to be too rough. She’d bit him on the shoulder and told him fiercely that she wasn’t a breakable young girl—that she wanted him—all of him. His growl had been sensual music. She gripped his hard hips with her legs and met his thrusts with equal strength, urging him on until he cried her name and spent himself within her.
Seven
Godiva had known what she was talking about. Having a werewolf lover was spectacular. Especially such a young werewolf lover. God, she’d almost forgotten the incredibly sexy strength of a young man’s body. And recovery time! Jeesh. That boy had been better than a recharged vibrator. Way better. She was so glad it was the weekend and there was no school the next day. They’d made love for hours, and he was still nibbling at her neck when he’d walked her home. She jumped the steps into her house two at a time. He made her feel twenty again. No! She took that back. She didn’t feel twenty again—no way did she want to feel that stupid and unconfident again. Justin made her feel fabulous and forty, which was exactly what she was.