When I turned around, a glass in each hand, it was to see him standing by my bedside, his head lowered and his eyes skimming curiously across my open journal. Specifically at the sketch of his own face! Aargh!
What kind of congenital twit would leave her diary lying open as if it was nothing but a grocery list?! My sketches were like glimpses into the private vaults of my mind and heart. There were all kinds of weird drawings and doodles in there that I wouldn’t even have allowed Mom to see.
There was a pensive crease to his brow, but it vanished when he finally lifted his eyes from my most private pages. Inscrutable as ever, he moved casually towards the chair beside my dresser and sat down with a nonchalant arm thrown behind his head, scrutinizing the room as though he hadn’t just seen himself in my pencil sketch; seen me naked, figuratively speaking.
“That for me?” he looked meaningfully towards the glass of red in my hand (that I miraculously hadn’t dropped) as I continued to stand there scarlet-faced.
Making a tiny, strangled squeak of confirmation, I inched forward and held his glass out to him in such a way as to avoid his fingers touching mine. The crimson liquid sloshed up the sides as I trembled. It looked like we were going to pretend that he hadn’t just sort of inadvertently invaded my privacy? Which was fine by me.
“Thanks.” He took it, clinked his glass against mine, and then lifted the rim to his lips, locking our gazes as he tasted the wine.
I cleared my throat nervously. “So this is just a friendly visit?” Were midnight calls ever just friendly?
“I don’t know, to be honest. I just kinda found myself here.” His mouth tightened with self-deprecation, and his eyes bored into mine as though willing me to understand something. “Does that make sense?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe you’re right.” That humorless half smile materialized to taunt me.
It seemed that nothing between us made sense. Mostly our ‘relationship’ was based on a confusion of halves and almosts—almost kisses and half smiles. It was exhausting. He was mercurial and so infuriatingly mysterious about himself. Well, I wasn’t going to play games with him. He could lead this little ‘visit’ wherever he wanted and I would try to hold my cards close to my heart until he bared his.
He regarded me quietly. “What are you thinking about, Evan? I never know what’s going on in your head unless your filter fails you.”
“Good,” I said, “because I never know what the hell you’re thinking about either.” Like right now. Too bad his filter never failed him.
“I was just thinking we should go for a walk down to the lake. It stopped raining.”
Tristan had so commanded my attention that I’d not even noticed the storm’s passage. All I heard now were the insects chirping outside. “What about the bears?” I asked.
“I think I’ve proven I’m pretty handy around bears.”
“Right,” I scoffed, “the Bear Whisperer.” He still hadn’t explained his frightening metamorphosis either—the canines especially.
“I thought it was the wolves you were worried about tonight?”
What was it Dean had said? “Shouldn’t I be more worried about the wolf I don’t see than the one right in front of me.”
“Yes. Always.” He ran his thumbnail absently over the stubble between his chin and under lip—up and down, lost in thought. Finally, he said, “So, d’you wanna go? For a walk, I mean.”
I did, despite that nighttime walks in the Alaskan wilderness seemed insanely reckless, but I knew I shouldn’t, for reasons beyond the dangers that the forest posed. Being alone with him in the dark did not seem like a good idea. As opposed to alone in your room where there’s a bed at hand?
He should never have come to my room tonight! Even if Nicole wasn’t terrifying—which she absolutely was—I was no home-wrecker. And even if I was one, Nicole’s home was not one I’d ever choose to wreck; not unless I was suicidal. That chick had bunny boiler written all over her. Had he seriously not watched Fatal Attraction?
Anyway, the point was that we were here alone, which wasn’t a safe situation to be in, at least not in the ‘biblical’ sense. But at least in my room, unlike the seductive shadows outside, the lights were obtrusive and glowering.
“I think we’d better not,” I finally answered. At which point I plonked myself onto my bed, trying to look comfortable. Belatedly, though, I realized what this maneuver might infer. I didn’t understand the male mind all too well, but what if, in man code, my sitting on the bed like this was an invitation for him to occupy Vagistan?
Tristan’s eyes had followed mine, taking in the rumpled bed.
My heart leapt with panic. I wiped a clammy hand on the sheet and watched as his mouth compressed. What was he so irked about? Did he think I was going to throw myself at him? Pfft, as if I had the guts. “Relax,” I said to the floor, panic making my voice sound harsh, “I’m not about to jump your bones.”
He purposefully rose from the chair, dominating the small room with his height, and carefully set his glass on the dresser. My eyes flew wide as he prowled towards the window beside my bed.
“It’s not your self-control I’m worried about,” he murmured, watching me in the reflection of the glass.
“Then why are you here?”
He pushed away from the windowsill and came to stand next to me, pausing, as if my nearness would inspire an answer.
Too close! Yet, at the same time, he wasn’t close enough. My eyebrows were buried in my hairline, I was sure of it, and my bones felt like hot custard under that gaze. My blood had instantly left my face and drained away to Vagistan. I swallowed noisily, running my tongue over my parched lips as he studied my mouth again, a furrow pinching the skin between his brows.
“I’ve been asking myself that same question for a while now,” he said. “A man doesn’t just randomly show up on a woman’s doorstep in the middle of the night, Evan. Not unless he…unless she’s gotten under his skin.”
I held myself so still that even my heart paused to hear his words.
“And a woman,” he went on, “doesn’t just sketch a man’s face into her journal unless it means something, right?” When I only blinked mutely, he continued, “Or does it mean nothing, Evan? I’m trying to make sense over here, help me out.”
“Friendship. That’s all you said it could mean.”
He gave a curt nod. “Can I ask you something?”
I offered a slow nod.
“If you had a secret that was so colossal that it kept you from opening up to someone because you know they couldn’t possibly accept you for who you really are, would you even try to get close? What would be the point, right?”
I hadn’t expected a theoretical question. “I honestly don’t know, Tristan. What type of secret is this, hypothetically?”
“The dangerous kind. The type that isn’t only yours to share. The breed of freaky that alienates everyone normal.”
“But if it kept me from loving…?”
“And trusting,” he added. “How do you trust someone enough to get really close. Close enough for them to hurt you? You can’t love properly until you trust, right?”
Could a person love without trusting first? Was it like the chicken and the egg? Which came first? “I guess not. I don’t have a simple answer, but, for what it’s worth, I think life’s all about taking risks.” Geez, this seemed like a heavy discussion to be getting into at this late hour.
“A risk isn’t worth taking if it means possibly hurting someone who gets too close.”
“Follow your nose. Make mistakes. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“If I had a normal nose I might follow it.”
“I thought you said normal was boring.”
“It is, but most people hate what’s different. They fear different. I’ve never wanted to be normal till this moment, Evan.” He touched me with nothing but his eyes, exotic green caressing my face.
“I don’t want you to be normal.”
“Just yourself.”
“Then I have one last question for you.”
Oh boy.
“Do you believe in monsters?”
15
Eau de Werewolf
Do I believe in monsters? “If by monsters you mean psychopaths and sickos,” I said, “then yes. I believe the world is full of monsters.”
He heaved a sigh. “No, I was referring more to myths and legends.”
“Like vampires?”
“Yes. Think they exist?”
“I wish.”
“Really?” One brow was lifted dubiously. “You like glittery teenage boys?”
“No,” I scoffed. My literary needs were satisfied only by the Stoker, King, and Rice versions of the genre rather than the fluffy, sparkling types. “I’m more of a Lestat de Lioncourt kinda girl.”
“Who?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“Only the most seductive, terrible, and unapologetic being in modern literature.”
He raised a brow that implied I had questionable taste in literature. “So you don’t actually believe in vampires?”
“No, I do. People can literally suck the life out of each other. It’s despicable and—”
“Again,” he said, chuckling, “not what I meant.” He lowered himself onto the bed beside me, not close enough to send my heart into a panic, but it certainly didn’t calm me to be sitting within reach of him. So caught up in that strange fire pulsing behind the green of his eyes, I almost didn’t hear his next words. “I wonder what you’d do if I turned into a monster right now.”
“If you grew fangs and turned into a bat I’d hang you in my shower.” Le sigh. My shower was exactly where I wanted him.
“No,” he said, biting back a smile, “something hairier.”
“Sasquatch?”
“A werewolf.”
“What would I do?” I repeated thoughtfully. “Probably hope to God that bear spray works just as well at repelling werewolves.”
“It does,” he replied, mouth quirking. “We hate the stuff as much as the bears do.”
“So you’re a werewolf, are you? Well, that explains everything.”
Tristan folded his arms behind his head and leaned back against the headboard to gauge my reaction. Although his mouth was curled with humor, his gaze was strangely alert.
“Now that you mention it,” I said, deciding to play along, “I did catch a whiff of wet dog when you walked in.”
“That’s just my eau de cologne.”
“Attract the bitches does it?” Like Nicole.
He shrugged.
“I bet fleas on the crotch isn’t fun though.”
“Fleas,” he replied with a smirk, “are never sexy.”
“But a werewolf on the loose is serious business.” I tapped my bottom lip contemplatively. “A girl might worry about her virtue.”
“I would if I was her.”
My voice lowered to match his, deeply affected by the intoxicating sexual tension waxing between us. “What’s a girl to do?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“I could call animal control.”
“You could, but werewolves are cunning. And fast.”
“And has this wolf—” taking a bolstering sip of my wine “—been neutered perchance?”
Tristan’s grin darkened provocatively. “No, I don’t let just anyone near my undercarriage, Evan.”
Don’t look at his crotch. Don’t look at his crotch. Don’t look at his…
“I’m glad we got that outta the way,” he murmured languidly, moving closer. “It’s never an easy subject to broach.”
“Neutering?” My pulse spiked at his nearness.
“Werewolves.”
“Uh-huh.” I snapped my eyes shut for a moment to exorcise the lust from my brain. “Um, Tristan?”
“Yes, Evan?”
“Can I ask you something now?” Not that I hadn’t enjoyed his attempts at lightening the mood with sexy werewolf humor, but it was time to get down to brass tacks before the flirting lead anywhere else.
He bent a knee and angled his hips towards me, resting his hand between us, next to mine, so that our fingers were nearly touching. “What do you want to know?”
“Is Nicole your girlfriend?” I asked, my eyes pleading for him to discredit the idea.
There was a heavy silence in which he appeared taken aback, ostensibly having not expected that to be my question. But when the pause stretched a little further, attenuating awkwardly, I decided he was trying to figure out how best to answer. And that, in and of itself, told me all I needed to know.
“Never mind,” I muttered crossly, “you pretty much just confirmed it.” So why the everlasting fuck had we nearly kissed?! “Go home, Tristan.”
“Wait, I haven’t confirmed anything.” His voice was hard. “And I wouldn’t be here now, alone with you, if she was my girlfriend.”
“Does she know she’s not your girlfriend?”
“She knows exactly how I feel, Evan.” Another long sigh.
I scooted away a little and folded my arms in an “I’m listening” posture.
“Her father and mine,” he began, “sort of had an understanding.”
Since he seemed to be battling with how best to word his odd explanation, I decided to help him along. “What, like an arranged marriage or something?” Although I'd meant it ironically, his face colored the instant I said the words, and I suddenly realized I’d hit closer to home than either of us had expected. “Omigod! You are in a cult!”
His eyes flashed with irritation. “I’m not in a goddamn cult, and she isn’t my fiancé. And for your information lots of respected religions still practice arranged marriages, thank you.”
“So you’re not in a cult,” I allowed dubiously. “Is she pregnant then?”
“No.” His jaw tightened as if I’d just lampooned him.
“So what’s this ‘understanding’ between your father and Nicole’s?”
“It’s an alliance,” he gritted out impatiently.
“Sounds like an arranged marriage to me.”
“Evan,” he growled, “it’s complicated.”
“No, it’s ridiculous is what it is.” My jaw was clenched so hard I was sure my teeth would crack. “God, it would have just been easier if you were a damn werewolf!”
His laughter erupted unexpectedly. Just like that the heat of choler evaporated from his eyes. It was like a contagion, drawing a grudging smile from me. I tried to suppress it, but, in the end, I gave up and joined in his mirth.
“Be careful what you wish for,” he said when his laughter had finally wound down. “Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.”
So he wasn’t engaged or even dating Nicole and nor was she pregnant. Could that be enough for me? “Well, whenever you’re ready to share your truth with me, Tristan, I'll be ready to listen.”
He seemed to want to say something, but his mouth flattened in protest.
I gave a loud sigh. “Just promise me something, please.”
“Depends on what it is.”
“Promise me that the next time you knock on my door it’s because you’re absolutely sure what you want from me.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” I nodded, pulling my hair over my shoulder to twist the strands nervously. By now he’d finished his wine, so there was really no longer any need for him to stay. “So what now?” I asked, little knowing just how reactive those three little words would be.
“Now?” One corner of his mouth lifted. His pupils began to widen, the green around them becoming lambent with something that both thrilled and scared me. “Isn’t every promise sealed with a kiss?”
I squirmed nervously as he watched my mouth with keen, male interest. What was it about having a pair of gorgeous eyes glued to one’s lips that made a person want to lick the dryness away. Mine were parched an
d stained red with wine—the color of lust. The instant my tongue flicked out over my bottom lip he leaned in, as though that was the invitation he’d been waiting for. Deliberately he moved. Slowly.
I had only a moment to suck in a breath, my muscles coiling expectantly as his mouth slanted over mine. The spark that had vibrated between us all night suddenly roared as he closed the contact. My heavy lids fell over my eyes, the kiss too intense to sustain all my senses at once. My sight now extinguished, all other sensations flared.
At first, the pressure of his lips was light. All he seemed to want to do was sample and savor with silky, intoxicating caresses. Patient and seductive. When I finally opened my mouth to him he deepened the kiss. My skin puckered in eager welcome where warm fingers glided over my nape and into my hair. The weight of the other hand settled at my hip as his tongue met mine in a masterful orchestration of thrilling strokes. I sighed into his mouth and wrapped my arms around his neck to anchor myself to his solid warmth and rigid plains.
No sooner had I locked my arms in place than I was flat on my back with Tristan’s chest flush and heavy against my mine. Our fevered contact escalated then. His movements became rougher, his stubble teasing and abrasive, and all the while my fingers relished the contours of his broad back and the feel of the shifting muscles beneath his shirt. I arched into him, my breathing raspy as he maneuvered his way down my neck with hungry purpose, alternately sucking and pulling my flesh carefully between his teeth. I would have bruises there come morning, for sure, but I’d wear them gladly. I wanted him to brand me that way. I wanted to belong to him.
After a long sultry moment, it suddenly occurred to me, in the confusion of my own furious desire, that his clever thigh had somehow parted my legs and was firmly settled against the achiest, hottest part of me. Just like that, a momentary frisson of vestal fear jolted my eyes apart. But he did nothing more than lazily graze his teeth over my flesh and lavish gentle kisses at the hollow of my neck. I relaxed again and my lids fluttered drowsily back towards my flushed cheeks.
The delirium built like the pressure of a swelling balloon as he shifted his weight fully between my legs, his hips flush with mine, the glorious friction spreading red heat through my flesh like bold wine. Tension coiled almost unbearably at the junction of my thighs, like a tornado gaining momentum. Wanting both to tear his clothes out of the way and keep a barrier safely between us was frustrating.
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