High Moon

by Kati Wilde

  “For real bad behavior?”

  “Yes,” she says on a laugh, then catches her breath, going utterly still as I angle my cock and drag the thick head up through the wet seam of her cunt.

  And fuck, the feel of her. My breath hisses through my teeth and I battle the need to push deep into that scalding wetness.

  But that’s a step too far tonight. Even though she’s tilting her hips as if to invite me in.

  “Ethan,” she moans my name in a way that’s half demand and half plea.

  Christ help me. I can’t deny her anything. But I might have to. “You on the pill?”

  Her gaze widens and locks with mine. She shakes her head.

  This is the one time I won’t give her what she wants, then. Until I kill the fuckers who murdered my family, who are hunting the kin, I won’t risk a child of my own. Not when it’d paint a target on the baby’s—and Makena’s—back.

  “I don’t have a condom,” I tell her hoarsely. “So you just lie still and let me do my thing.”

  That draws a quick grin from her, one that disappears on a gasp and with Makena biting her lip and groaning deep in her throat as I push forward up through those slick lips, the full length of my cock riding over clit. I don’t stop until my balls meet the sweltering heat of her pussy, then the swing does the rest, gliding back before rocking her forward again, my cock stroking her clit all the way.

  “Oh my god.” Panting, Makena arches her back into the next swing, her pussy wetting my dick like a long, hot lick. “This is your thing?”

  “It is tonight.” Though I want a little more control, which I get by putting her heels up on my shoulders and gripping the edge of the seat.

  She makes a soft, guttural noise when I push the swing back farther, then bring us back together with a wet slap of skin. But the way her gaze is locked on the sight of my cock, her eyes slightly glazed, it ain’t just the feel of this that’s getting to her.

  It sure as hell isn’t all that’s getting to me. “You like the look of it, don’t you? And like knowing how deep I’ll be when I get into you.”

  Her breath shudders, and she doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to. She’s watching my thick cock stroke up over her clit, my shaft glistening with her juices and the crown dripping a trail of pre-cum over her lower belly, and imagining how I’ll stretch her open and fill her up.

  Because I’m imagining the same thing. With every wet, scalding stroke I’m imagining that tight cunt sucking at me, pulling at me. Then Makena licks her palm and reaches down and I’m surrounded by her touch, enfolded in the hot furrow of her pussy and her slick grip. And that’s the end of me. As if commanded by her hand, the orgasm whips through my cock like lightning. Hauling her forward until I’m balls-deep in that sultry grip, I throw back my head and clench my teeth against a howl of pleasure as my cum spurts across her flat stomach. And it’s fucking endless. Three years built up, with my hand the only release, yet a single touch of hers and I’m coming harder than I ever have.

  It just about drains me. Drains me—and energizes me like I’ve never been before. I slump forward, my chest heaving, my hands braced beside her hips. She’s grinning at me as if she’s feeling the same thing, so I laugh and kiss the hell out of her.

  A distant whoop and echo of laughter pulls me out of it. Nothing I’ve heard yet suggests that the men at Rudder’s place are anything more than a couple of drunk locals—and I haven’t heard anything that makes me think they’ve been messing with the herd—but licking Makena’s pussy isn’t the only reason I’m here on her ranch. No matter how delicious a reason that is.

  I pull back, use my T-shirt to wipe the cum from her belly, then hand her the shorts and panties I stripped from her. She gets her panties on before seeming to give up, laying back against the cushions again, looking as satisfied as a cat who got her paws into all kinds of cream.

  Her lazy smile widens as I shuck my jeans. “I don’t know why I find it so funny that you’re running around out there naked.”

  “Am I naked if I’m covered in fur?”

  “Yes,” she says instantly, then tilts her head as if reconsidering. “Maybe? Does your dick hang out?”

  Not always. But considering it’s still erect, I figure she can determine her own definition of naked.

  Hunching over so I won’t bang my head on the porch roof, I transform into my warrior’s skin. Surprise widens her eyes when I suddenly change, then her eyes go even wider when her gaze drops between my legs.

  Instantly she clamps her thighs tight together, begins shaking her head. “Nope. Nuh-uh. Holy Jesus.”

  I huff out a laugh.

  “And I called it a monster before?” She shakes her head again. “That is fucking terrifying.”

  But not all terrifying. Not if I’m reading her scent right. Slowly I move closer, and her breath shudders.

  “It would never work.”

  It’s not meant to work. This is my warrior’s skin, not my mating skin. But that doesn’t mean I can’t use this form to tease her a bit.

  Growling softly, I loom closer—and she isn’t a bit scared. Not even when I crouch and sniff at her neck, my fangs skimming her vulnerable throat. She trembles as I lick there, but it’s not in fear.

  “Ethan,” she says breathlessly, almost incredulously, as if disbelieving her own response to this.

  I nuzzle lower, inhaling the mix of our scents on her soft belly—the essence of Makena and my cum. Then lower, watching her face as I do. She stares back at me, enraptured, with her breath shaking through her parted lips.

  “This is such bad behavior,” she whispers.

  Yeah, it is. So is nudging her thighs apart, exposing the damp cotton protecting her pussy—and taking a rough lick, explicitly demonstrating the length and strength of this tongue. Makena gives a startled little yelp, then swiftly covers her mouth, staring at me with arousal exploding through her scent.

  I grin and ease back.

  “You’re so fired,” she hisses.

  It’s about damn time.

  * * *

  Makena’s pasture stretches a good distance, bending with the river. Instead of taking that rounded route, I head straight over the hills that form the belly in the big U-shape that her property makes. Farther on, a little stream runs down the hillside to the river, and divides her land from Rudder’s old place. I follow that stream, slipping into the copse of leafy oak trees and low-lying shrubs that grow heavy where the bottom of the hill meets the fields. From there it’s easy to scope out the men who parked themselves in Rudder’s old pasture, about a stone’s throw away from the stream.

  Like I figured, the three men are drunk as hell, sitting in the back of a pickup that’s been jacked up on giant tires. A spotlight’s mounted on the rollbar over the back of the cab, and two of them are cradling rifles as close as they are holding their bottles of beer.

  Mixing guns and liquor tells me they’re dumb as shit, but my ears tell me there aren’t any elk or deer within shooting distance—and the herd is far enough away that no matter how wasted the dumbshits get, Makena’s cows are likely safe. My nose tells me that each one of them has a scent, so none of them took a sledgehammer to her herd a week ago.

  Hell. With the flavor of Makena’s pussy on my tongue, I’m in a fine and generous mood. Leaving them here to their stupid good time and heading back to have another taste sounds like the best idea I’ve ever had. Staying to watch some asshole take a piss is far less appealing. At least, that’s what I figure one of them is doing when he begins climbing down from the truck bed.

  Until he reaches in to grab a pickaxe and a bucket. Then I’m curious enough to stay a bit longer.

  Flashlight in hand, he starts heading my way. He’s not as drunk as the others—which isn’t saying much. He’s maybe in his mid-twenties, with the same clean-cut country boy look that half the men in Fortune City sport on church day—polished cowboy boots, tight Wranglers belted with a big buckle, and a button down Western shirt.


  The other two watch him make his way to the stream, erupting into laughter when he jumps over and stumbles the landing on the opposite bank, the beam of his flashlight arcing wildly.

  He mutters a ‘fuck you’ that likely I’m the only one who heard. Then one of his buddies yells out, “Don’t get eaten by the bears!” and this time his reply is loud enough for everyone.

  “Fuck off with that joking shit! They were nice people. Sponsored me all the way through Little League.”

  Makena’s parents, I’m guessing. Unless someone else got eaten by bears around here.

  “Is that why you fucked over their daughter?” his friend calls out.

  “Yeah,” the other adds with a laugh, turning around the baseball cap he’s wearing, so the bill sticks out the back. “Pulling out their fences sure isn’t a nice way to repay them.”

  Cleancut’s answer is another mumble. “Because nice doesn’t pay the bills any better than a state championship does.” At the same time the friend with the backwards hat calls out, “Though it sure was fun, wasn’t it?”

  Well. There goes my fine fucking mood. I look at that truck, at the cable winch mounted at the front end, and it’s easy to imagine them out here on another night, drunk as hell and having a great time yanking out Makena’s fence posts.

  Tonight, though…the only one who’s about to have a good time is me.

  “Hold up.” A clatter comes from the back of the truck, the sound of a drunk dumbshit trying to move quick. “Get that light over there by the trees. I just saw something.”

  That spotlight floods the spot where I just was, then searches slowly back through the underbrush. Concealed by the dark, I’m already racing through the trees, angling up the hill and around a pile of boulders that look to have settled at the bottom of the incline ages ago—and where Cleancut seems to be headed. I’ll cut him off and give him reason to head the other direction real fucking fast.

  I leap over a boulder and sickness explodes in my gut, shooting up into my throat. Dizziness spins through my head and I hit the rock in a bellyflop instead of landing on my feet, then tumble in an avalanche of gravel until I crash to a stop in a crevice between two big boulders.

  What the blazing hell?

  “Over here!” This time it’s Cleancut yelling. The beam of a flashlight arcs across the rocky slope above me, then the spotlight washes it all bright. With all eight furry feet of me crunched up between these boulders like some stupid fuck, I’m not in danger of being spotted. Just in danger of dying from embarrassment.

  “Maybe you scared it away!” One of the others yells.

  I’m not scared. Just real confused. Though maybe Cleancut’s pickaxe should have given me a clue. I’m likely close to the silver mine on Makena’s land. Maybe too close to it.

  Though I’m feeling all right now. Moving gingerly—not because I’m still disoriented but because I don’t want to make much more noise yet—I stay low and take a look beyond the boulder I tried to jump.

  The world wobbles unsteadily. Puke crawls up from my stomach again and I pull back, but not before getting a look at the mine’s entrance. Makena said that Jonas had sealed it up, but it sure as hell looks open to me. A frame made of thick wooden posts surrounds the entrance. A heavy door once filled that frame, but now that door is twisted on its iron hinges and hanging open a couple of inches, giving me a glimpse of the hole dug into the side of the hill—about fifteen feet away.

  Clearly I’m not getting any closer than that. But that’s all right. I don’t know if Cleancut is short on cash and hoping to prospect himself some silver, or if he somehow knows there’s something special about this mine—but he’s not getting any closer to it, either.

  I let loose a rumbling growl. Cleancut’s approaching footsteps stop dead. He’s holding his breath as his flashlight plays over the boulders.

  He won’t find me. I’m big as fuck but also real good at staying out of sight when I want to. And tonight, I need to. I can’t risk anyone claiming they saw a werewolf and maybe bring that organization of hunters to Makena’s home. But there’s plenty else I can do to make them real reluctant to ever come to her ranch again.

  Moving silently, I give the mine a wide berth and skirt up around the slope, until I reach the boulders on the other side of the stream.

  There I let him hear me again—a loud and vicious snarl. Cleancut spins around, that flashlight whipping back and forth, his breathing sharp and fast. He raises the pickaxe over his shoulder, as if getting ready to swing it like a bat.

  “Hey!” he shouts to the others. “Get that light over here!”

  They’d gone back to drinking and dicking around instead of watching him, so it takes a second before they get that light on him. By then I’m already down in Rudder’s field, making a wide circle around the truck while they all stare in the other direction.

  Ballcap calls out, “What is it?”

  “There’s something out here,” Cleancut calls back. “Maybe two of them.”

  They all go quiet, listening. Crouched in the grass, I wait.

  Until the third one scoffs. “It’s gone now, you pussy!”

  “You just keep that light on me.” Cleancut starts toward the mine again.

  “Aww, you scared of the dark? You just—”

  Running full speed, I slam into the side of the truck like a freight train. Jacked up on those big tires, it starts tipping—and I give it another shove to help it over.

  Screaming and swearing, Ballcap bails from the bed, jumping clear and landing in the field. The other clings to the rollbar, near the spotlight that traces the arc of the falling vehicle as it crashes onto its side in an screech of metal and shattering glass. That light flares out. Everything’s still bright enough for me, but I’m guessing they can barely see shit by the faint light of the quarter moon and the stars—or by Clearcut’s single flashlight beam, which doesn’t even illuminate the distance between him and the tipped-over truck.

  From up by the mine comes the sound of a clatter as Cleancut drops his bucket. Wielding that pickaxe, the fucker comes racing back.

  “What was it?” he shouts as he leaps over the stream. “What the fuck happened to my truck?”

  The others are doing too much of their own shouting and hollering to answer—until I growl again and they all go dead quiet.

  Then a whisper is followed by the sound of a rifle’s bolt-action loading a cartridge into the chamber. “It’s around the other side. You get that flashlight ready.”

  They’re just making this too easy.

  Lightly as I can, I leap up onto the topside of that tipped-over truck and crouch there. They come around the tail end, rifles at ready, with Cleancut holding the flashlight.

  I growl and he swings the beam my way. Ballcap follows with a scream, whipping his rifle around, reflexively jerking the trigger. I drop down onto the other side of the truck and both the light and the bullet miss me by a mile, but the crack of that shot echoes off the hills on either side of the field.

  I give the truck a push in their direction. Not far, only about ten feet, just enough to scare them a bit more. Another crack of a rifle and the thunk of lead against metal tells me it must have at least scared one.

  “You fucking idiot!” Cleancut yells. “You shot my goddamn truck!”

  “It was moving!”

  I grin and get ready to push it a hell of a lot farther. Then, in the distance, Makena’s engine starts up. Shit. No doubt she heard the gunshots and is heading this direction to make sure I’m okay. But as drunk and trigger-happy as they are, she’ll be the one in danger if these fuckers shoot at her.

  So I’ll take one risk tonight, then, because I’m not leaving these dumbshits out here with their guns. Silently I round the front of the truck—and toss their cooler way out into the field.

  It crashes to the ground, glass bottles and cubed ice exploding across the grass like a sparkling glitter bomb. They all spin in that direction, their sweat smelling as sour as the piss beer they
’ve been drinking. Fast and quiet, I come up behind them. I smash the flashlight out of Clearcut’s hand first, so they don’t see anything but a dark hulking shadow ripping the rifles out of their grip, my growls drowned out by their screams.

  They’re still screaming as I head back to Makena’s property, dropping those rifles in the water when I jump over the stream. I hightail it across the pasture. Makena’s truck is flying down the road, but she’s not the only one coming. In the passenger seat, her uncle’s loading a shotgun. Thelma and Alf sit between them, not sure what the hell is going on but eager to get their little doggie teeth into something, too.

  I reach the road just as she starts rounding the bend. The second her high beams touch on me, she screams and slams the brakes, skidding to a stop about two yards from where I’m crouching on the asphalt. The stink of burned rubber fills the air, then is overwhelmed by the sweet scent of Makena as she throws open her door and races toward me. “Are you okay? We heard someone shooting!”

  The dogs are right on her heels, prancing and tongues lolling, sure this is some fun we’re having. They lick my hands and sniff my crotch, because this is the first time they’ve come across me without my clothes covering up everything that’s most interesting to smell. I chuff out a laugh and give them a few scratches behind their ears, then realize Jonas is real damn quiet. And that he hasn’t seen me like this before, either.

  The older man stands beside the truck, staring at me with a face as blank as a face can get. I rise up out of my crouch, towering over Makena, who’s still looking at me closely in the headlights as if trying to figure out if I’ve been shot.

  Jonas’s wiry throat works as he swallows hard, then he gives a short nod. “Well…that’s really something.”

  Makena goes still. Her gaze darts down between my legs. A relieved breath bursts from her a second later—probably because everything’s well hidden now, sheathed and concealed by fur. As it should be in this form. A warrior who’s running around with an exposed dick is a warrior who’s leaving a sensitive part of himself vulnerable.