Mating the Beast (Virgin Werewolf Beast Erotic Romance) (Project Loup Garou, #2) (Project Loup Garou, #2)

by Ava Lore

  Bliss spiraled through her limbs, loosening her body, opening her further to him. Gently, insistently, he stroked her entrance as he circled her clit, his green eyes almost glowing down at her, burning with desire. Her good hand ran through his fur, clutching, clinging as he stoked the fire inside her, sending her higher with each movement of his fingers. As though they were connected in some way far more intense than carnal intimacy, he seemed to know exactly what to do, and within only a few strokes Michelle felt her climax building inside her, growing and growing.

  The quickness with which he brought her to ecstasy startled her, but she didn't want to question it. She only wanted to accept it. She was tired of resisting her desires.

  "One," she whispered. "One..."

  "Mate," he rumbled back. "Come for me, mate."

  She did. Sudden and bright, her orgasm flared up and she clamped her legs around his hand, burying her face in his furry shoulder and stifling her sobs of pleasure. The pain receded, the fear subsided. In her injured shoulder, she felt a warmth seep over her, and she realized that their partial coupling had done something to it, removing the pain of it. Like morphine.

  He'd been speaking the truth. Their mating could heal her. She trusted it now, and she realized that in the hands of this monster, this beast, she was a flower, cherished and protected, and her hurts could be healed, whatever they were.

  When at last the pleasure subsided, she relaxed against him. She took care not to jostle her injured shoulder—he'd seemed certain that blood would be what healed it, so she didn't want to injure it further—but his great, furry warmth filled her heart with something strangely akin to peace.

  After a moment he removed his hand from her pussy, and she watched, vaguely interested as he brought it to his lips and licked away the sweet juices she had shed. The sight sent a little ripple of desire to her core, but she was so relaxed she didn't really feel like acting on it. Then he reached over and ran his hand through her hair, which had become a tangled mess in their escape. Michelle closed her eyes and reveled in the sensation of his claws scratching over her scalp.

  "Need to find clothes," he said at last. Michelle frowned, her eyes still closed. She didn't want to think about anything like that. She just wanted to stay here in this attic and revel in the warmth of him, in the sense of safety he gave her. A partially false sense—after all, she knew very well what the managers and instigators of the project could and would do to those who dissented—but for now she just wanted to pretend.

  "I just want to stay here," she said honestly.

  His hand in her hair hitched, the slightest of pauses, before resuming its stroking. "Can't. Must move on."

  Move on. Move on to where? They had nowhere to go. The moment they popped up in civilization, the lab would find them. Surely he didn't mean to run forever?

  But he does, she realized. He does mean to run forever. Because what was there for him at the facility? More pain. More separation. More imprisonment. And he certainly didn't remember who he had been before, so his old life was lost to him. He had nothing now.

  Except her.

  Did he mean for her to go with him?

  She couldn't think about that right now. No matter what happened, she truly did need clothes. It was too cold to go about only in a blanket. She took a deep breath. "So where do you think we should find clothes?" she asked.

  He snuffed through his nose, thinking. "Steal?" he said.

  Michelle bit her lip. "I don't like stealing," she said. "Not clothes anyway." She'd have to steal this blanket or freeze to death, but it had been at the bottom of a whole pile of similar blankets and it probably wasn't going to be missed. Clothes were a different story. She began to chew on her lips methodically.

  His intense green eyes watched her, curious. "What do?" he finally asked.

  Michelle shook her head. "We don't have any money," she said, thinking aloud. "And we sure can't get any more, even if I had my ATM card, which I don't, but if I did they could track our position by withdrawals. I don't have any ID on me, either..." And she was a Filipina in the middle of east Texas... or western Louisiana, depending on how far Number One had run last night. Perhaps she could pass for Native, though she had no idea how she would do that. Would there be a bulletin out already identifying her? The Project couldn't very well say why she was wanted, or missing...

  A plan began to form in her head. Nascent, and relying mostly on luck, but at least it was a direction to go. She wasn't an idiot. She could out-think the Project, at least for a little while. They might have to take some calculated risks, but she could get clothes. She just hoped her bosses weren't already six steps ahead of her.

  "We need to find a church," she said. "They always have clothes for the needy stored somewhere."

  He tilted his head. In the dimness of the attic, his green eyes glittered and glowed. Eerie. Paranormal. "Steal from church?" he asked. She heard the note of incredulity in his voice.

  "No," she said. "Ask for clothes from a church."

  His muzzle dipped. "No. No ask. Be cle-ver. Qui-et. Take."

  Michelle made a frustrated sound. "I can't be clever and quiet, not while I'm naked and hurt. And if you can break into a house undetected I'll eat my shoe. Or I would if I had shoes, which I don't."

  He snorted right back at her. "Cap-tors. On trail. You talk, they find."

  She clenched her teeth. "So... what? You think I can just break into someone's house and get clothes? Because if I try to steal from a store you can bet I'll get arrested. I'm naked in a blanket and there is no way I can get clothes without talking to someone."

  He lifted his nose. "Clothes line?" he suggested.

  Michelle narrowed her eyes. How would he know about clotheslines? That was something that only happened in television shows and movies. No one dried their stuff on clotheslines, especially not in November. "No one dries their clothes on a clothesline in the winter," she said. "And it's really unlikely that we'd just happen to find the one person in the area who's dryer is broken at just the right time."

  He rumbled in his throat and she stiffened. She wasn't trying to upset him, she was just trying to be rational.

  A thought occurred to her: if she really wanted to, she could just go back to the lab. Continue with her job there. Perhaps she would have to face down some distasteful jokes about the way they'd thrown her into a dark cell to be raped by a monster, or perhaps she would be compensated, or maybe even let go without the memory wipe in compensation...

  She was still cold, though. She had to get clothes to wear first. Then she would figure out what to do. "I'm not trying to be difficult," she said finally. "I just want to get warm, and I have to do it soon, and I think the place least likely to turn us in would be a church."

  Number One was not buying it. "You so cold, then find church," he said. "Break in, take clothes."

  He had a point. She couldn't afford to be picky. If there was even a lost and found, or a donation box, she could find something to wear. It would be risky, though. Riskier even than appealing to someone's better nature. But in the set of his shoulders she could tell he would not be dissuaded. "Fine," she snapped. "Only if no one is there."

  He snarled, a feral, frightening sound, then turned away from her. "Come. Go now." And he opened the attic door, dropping lightly onto the floor below. Grudgingly she followed, feeling just as trapped as if she were back at the lab.

  Plastered to Subject Number One's back, Michelle peeked between the trees at the beautiful little church by the roadside and pulled her blanket tighter. She was going to have to leave One's warmth to approach the church and already she was dreading it. Michelle hated to be cold. But it would probably help her story.

  "I'm going. Stay hidden," she said, sliding carefully from his back.

  One grunted, insulted by her command, but she ignored him. All her focus was on her goal.

  Dry grass bent under her feet as she met the ground, and she tried not to think about all the creatures and insects hid
ing in the long blades, but she was already itching. Wrapping the blanket around herself, Michelle peered up and down the road running in front of the church to make sure there were no cars coming—she didn't know where they were, but One had moved far enough east that there weren't many people around—then took a deep breath. Her survival depended on getting clothes. She had to do this, no matter how ashamed she was of her nudity.

  She began to sprint across the field behind the church. Dry grass bent under her feet, and she winced as her tender soles found hidden rocks and buried branches. Halfway to her goal she was panting with the effort of running. Her legs grew impossibly heavy and she began to stumble. Her stomach, until now too knotted with worry to register hunger, suddenly roared at her. Her sprinting slowed to a jog, then a walk, and then a shuffle.

  God, she was weak. Physically weak, and almost fainting with hunger. The church dipped and wavered in front of her, and twice she had to stop and breathe deeply, trying to regain a measure of vigor. When at last she reached the back door of the church, she had to lean against it, catching her breath before she lifted a weary hand and knocked.

  She wasn't sure which would be better, someone there, or no one there. The door was probably locked and they would have to break in in the vague hopes that there was something in there she could wear, but then she would avoid questions. The break-in would pinpoint their direction and location, however, and the project would probably find them far quicker. There was always the danger of that happening if someone answered the door, but she was a psychologist. What use was it if she couldn't convince someone to keep her secrets?

  After a second knock, Michelle heard a muffled movement behind the door, barely giving her enough time to stand up before the doorknob turned and the door opened, revealing a nice-looking man in his mid-fifties wearing a paint-spattered sweatshirt and jeans. Not as good as a woman would have been, but maybe she could appeal to his chivalrous sensibilities.

  "I need help," she said, and she didn't need to fake the trembling tension in her voice. Her legs shook under the burden of holding her up, and she just wanted to sit down and close her eyes.

  Something in her appearance caused significant alarm in the man. "My god!" he said. "You're bleeding!"

  I am? Michelle wondered, and automatically she looked at her injured shoulder. Sure enough, thick, sticky blood plastered the thick wool to her body and she thought, Huh. Had it reopened as she stumbled across the field? She hadn't felt any pain. The bond had dulled it completely, but now that she was standing here in the back door of a little country church, she realized that the agony lurking underneath the numbness was resurfacing. Fear and pain and exhaustion came to the fore, and she swayed on her feet.

  Come to think of it, she was awfully thirsty, too...

  I am going to faint, she realized, just before she folded up and tipped forward into the man's startled arms.

  Chapter Seven

  Subject Number One panicked at the sight of his mate toppling over into the arms of another man. Their bond had weakened enough to strip her of the protections of his presence at such a distance. He should never have let her leave his side.

  His heart leaped into his throat and he had to suppress the urge to burst out of the trees and scoop his mate into his arms, though even still he took one step forward before halting himself. It took all his iron will to keep him from chasing after her.

  More will than usual, come to think of it.

  One growled, deep in his chest. He didn't like being out of control. The loss of her before their consummation had nearly ripped him apart. The thought of returning to that dark time nearly drove him mad all over again. But no good would come of blowing her cover, such as it was. He had asked her to trust him when they had been prisoners together, and he must do the same for her.

  Subject Number One commanded his body to take a step backwards, to retreat further into the shadows of the trees where he could be well hidden.

  His body did not obey.

  A hard knot curled in his stomach, hot and urgent, telling him to leap out of the trees, dash across the field, smash into the little building, take his mate, take her back, take her, mount her, fuck her until they were both whole and well again, take her back, take her, take her, take her—!

  A tiny whine escaped from his throat, instinct to reach his mate rising up within him and obliterating the cool, measured man he had once been, that still lived within him, beneath the fur and the brute strength and the howling instinct to mate, mate, mate...

  Slowly, One lowered his head and looked down at his hands, commanding them to move, and dimly, through the sudden, ripping, roaring rush of instinct, he realized his hands were almost entirely paw-like now.

  The moon, he remembered. The moon must be rising soon. Tonight he would be a full wolf, the man folded entirely inside, and they would be at their most vulnerable. A wolf could never mate with a woman. He would never, ever ask her to do so. But how could he heal her and protect her if their bond were not in place?

  Silently, One cursed himself. He should have tried to persuade her to mate with him again, should have tried to explain himself better, but words were so hard to form, and she was already justifiably wary of him.

  Mistakes. Missteps. He couldn't afford them, and when the moon came out he wouldn't be able to communicate with his mate at all. They needed to move, to continue moving, but now she had fainted and the door was shut and he was alone out here in the woods, mateless, mindless. What if she decided she didn't want to stay with him? What if she turned him in to their captors? What if she betrayed him?

  He should never have let her go.

  A deep, insistent itch rose in him, a bone deep command: Go to her.

  One looked down at his paws and willed them to stay planted in the fallen leaves.

  Michelle awoke.

  She was lying down on a couch in an office, and the kindly-looking man was standing a few feet away at the desk, frantically dialing a telephone. Immediately Michelle concluded that she hadn't been out for long, and that there was still time to salvage the situation before the man called the cops and word of her presence here filtered out into the world and beyond her control.

  "No!" she croaked.

  The man dropped the handset, startled, and turned his attention to her. "You're awake!" he said, somewhat superfluously.

  Michelle forced herself to roll over and struggle into an upright position, though every movement caused a shrieking agony in her shoulder. But she had been forced to hide her feelings for a while now—hiding her pain was almost too easy, though it caused a cold sweat to break out on her brow.

  "Please," she forced herself to say. "Don't call anyone."

  He looked uncertain. The office had been decorated to be homey and warm, and the indirect lighting made him look very much like someone's father. Which he was, she thought with a vague smile as she spotted a clerical collar peeking from underneath the hooded sweatshirt he wore. She hadn't been able to see the name of the church from the cover of the trees, but above the man's desk hung a crucifix, so she was willing to bet he was a Catholic priest. Her mother was Catholic. This was probably a huge stroke of luck. She swallowed and tried to look as vulnerable as possible.

  "Please, Father," she said again. "Please don't."

  The priest watched her for a long moment, then, clearly unhappy, replaced the handset in its cradle.

  Michelle let out a breath. "Thank you, Father."

  "Child," he said, then paused, as though he wasn't certain how to proceed. "Child, what brings you here?"

  She looked away. "I need help."

  "I can see that. What are you running from? Here, have a, uh, another blanket."

  Michelle glanced down at herself and was mortified to see she was naked from the waist up, though a corner of the blanket still clung to her scabbed shoulder. With a squeak she covered her chest. "Oh my Go—goodness!" she said, changing the blasphemy at the last possible second. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..."r />
  The priest cleared his throat and she looked up to see him staring intently at the wall, proffering another blanket. Michelle snatched it from his fingers and dragged it around herself as best she could with one useless arm, drawing her feet up and sitting back on the couch so she could be as covered as possible. She cleared her throat. "I'm decent, Father."

  The priest turned back to her and gave her a warm, kind smile. "I am Father Tom. And you are...?"

  She opened her mouth, but remembered she couldn't tell him her real name. Instead she cast about for a fake name to give him, but she hesitated too long, the moment dragging out. The priest raised his hand and she shut her mouth again, shamefaced.

  "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. You are welcome here. Let me get you some water."

  He turned toward a water cooler sitting in the corner of the room, and it was a good thing he did because tears sprang to her eyes at his words. His kindness pierced her heart, and for a moment Michelle wavered. He was a priest. Could she confess to him, safely?

  He began to fill a paper cup with water, and she suddenly wanted to tell him everything—everything. About the facility and her old job, her old life, the experiments she watched, the creatures she stood by and watched tortured, the fear that hung over her every day of losing her memories. About her unchaste lust for Subject Number One, and the connection she felt to a monster. About their escape, and their run from the people who had used them both so poorly.

  Then the water cup was full and he turned back toward her, holding it out, a kind smile on his face, and she knew she couldn't say a word. What would he think of her, a woman who would lay with a monster to save her own skin? Dropping her eyes, she took the water and gulped it down. It filled her mouth and sweetened her parched throat. Oh, she had been dry. She felt the life-giving water seep into her cells, filling her up, revitalizing her. Lifting the cup, she pleaded wordlessly for more, which the priest gave her. At least five times he filled the cup and she drank it all down, until she was finally satisfied. "Oh, thank you, Father," she said. "I didn't know I was so thirsty."