by Michele Hauf
At his mouth she drank from him deeply. He wanted to taste her again, and this time remember it all.
* * *
“Is this okay?”
For some reason her big, strong werewolf seemed nervous. Not to touch her, but perhaps to take things slowly. His erection pressed hard against her thigh and she wanted to feel its power, sooner rather than after prolonged foreplay.
She slid his hand over her breast and he squeezed it softly, but not hard enough for her, so she showed him how she liked it. “Mmm, like that, Ridge.”
“You like it rough?”
“I’m a big girl. I like a man who takes control.”
He buried his face against her neck and his tongue dashed against her skin, tasting her. He sucked, and she squiggled against him, pressing her breasts hard against his chest. He grabbed her ass and pressed her hips against his. “Feel this, witch.”
“Mmm…” Draping a leg over his hip, she studied his rigid hard-on with a slide of her hips. “So hard. Want you inside me. Now.”
“Condoms?” he groaned out.
“Yes.” About thirteen years too late.
Dismissing the thought, Abigail leaned back and pulled the drawer open by the bed. Foil crinkled and she slipped out the cool, lubed circlet. “Let me put it on you.”
His drawn-out moan bellowed as she slowly slid the sheath over his shaft. He was there, waiting to meet her at the precipice, and she was ready to jump.
“Need you.” He lifted her and, as he rolled to his back, settled her to straddle his hips. She wanted to slide onto his thickness and feel him part her wide, but he controlled her with both hands to her hips, allowing her only to crown the thick, hot head of him. “Christ.”
He teased her by pressing into her, not deeply, just enough to make her body pulse with frenzied want, and she dug her nails into his forearms. But still, he moved her slowly. The look on his face was fierce. He looked at her, but not really at her. All focus had to be at the head of his cock. She loved that look of lost passion.
“All of you,” she gasped. “Please. Let me…” She wanted the control. She needed it.
So when he flipped her and pinned her wrists to the bed, her world flipped too. He was taking control, as she’d wished, but… But what? She had no argument.
“Ridge, I— Oh…”
He slid a finger inside her and set her every nerve ending ablaze. Her core hummed and she arched her back, pressing her shoulders into the sheets. “So wet,” he murmured. “My pretty little witch is ready for me.”
“Yes,” she said on a sigh and clutched the pillow with both hands. She wiggled her hips. “Come inside me, wolf. Please.”
Ridge speared her with his hot, thick manhood, gliding in all the way until their hips hugged. The heat of him seared her so she cried out in delicious ecstasy. He filled her, and commanded her.
Grabbing her hips, he pumped quicker, moving her body back and forth upon his powerful erection. A wolfish growl startled her, and she clutched the sheets in a tight fist.
Ridge growled again, and this time it was deeper, more animal-like. She heard him gnash his teeth.
His body tremored and he gripped her tightly, his jaw tense. He cried out in ecstasy, but abruptly cut it off. He pulled out of her and punched a fist into the headboard. “Sorry.”
Abigail fell from the high of near-orgasm to the light catch of the bed. “Are you going to shift?”
Gasping, he huffed out, “No. Maybe. Damn.” He retreated into the bathroom and slammed the door.
She blew the tousle of hair from her lashes. What a way to end a perfectly exquisite session of lovemaking. Poor guy. Could he not control his wolf when the two of them got naked?
Chapter 12
The sun hadn’t risen, but Abigail couldn’t sleep any longer. She woke nuzzled against the hard, warm back of her warrior werewolf. She felt good pressed against his muscles, leeching his body heat into her own. His heartbeats were slow, as were his breaths.
At some point she had rolled over and closed her eyes, listening as Ridge had sneaked back into the bedroom and crawled into bed with her. She hadn’t heard anything in the bathroom like wolf howls, so she figured he’d stopped himself from shifting.
The guy had issues if this happened every time he had sex with a woman. Or was it just her?
Reaching around over his torso, she glided her fingers along his abdomen, rigid with muscle. Probably not the reason he was called Ridge, but an apt example.
“Not sleeping?” he wondered lazily.
“I did for a bit. I got enough. I feel rested and my nervous energy leveled out. It was the great sex.” She couldn’t complain. No orgasm didn’t necessarily mean no pleasure. And man, had he felt great inside of her.
He turned and kissed her on the forehead, then her nose, then bent to kiss each of her breasts, laving them slowly. “It was great until my werewolf wanted to come out and play. I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing for an awesome session of sex. Instead make me understand what happens in your body while having sex with me. Is it just me? Why did you shift in Vegas? Is it so uncontrollable sometimes?”
“Not usually, but it was the full moon that night, and alcohol loosens my better judgment, and when I feel the compulsion to shift, well, I can’t think to fight it when drunk.”
“Yet you didn’t shift earlier.”
“Didn’t want to freak you out. I had control because I wasn’t inebriated. But man, the pull to bond mate with you was strong. It’s never been like that for me.”
“I thought wolves needed that kind of mating sex only before the full moon?”
“If I want to keep my werewolf at bay, I need to have sex until I’m sated the nights before and after the full moon. If not, the werewolf comes out, which I don’t mind at all.”
“I suppose you gotta let the guy out once in a while.”
“Never around people. And only around a woman when I know she can accept it. You’re the only woman who has ever called to my werewolf’s desire to bond, Abigail. It startled me as much as I’m sure it did you. When we make love, my beast wants out. Wants to claim you as my mate.”
“I see.” It sounded dangerous, a little exciting, but also…committal.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to force myself on you. I know this was just…sex.”
“Yes, it was.” Mostly.
Abigail wasn’t going to face the emotional truths she felt would negate that answer. Too many other worries. That was her story, and she was sticking to it.
She trailed a finger down his stomach and along the pale scar tugging at his skin. A flash of sunrise shone on it and for the first time she saw it clearly. “Wow, that scar really did cut close to your—”
He slid a hand over the scar. “Don’t say cut.”
“And you think it made you infertile?”
“I know it did because you put a spell on me. I didn’t say anything when you asked me to wear a condom, but Abigail, it wouldn’t matter. I’m serious. Thanks to that damned spell you zapped me with, I can’t have kids.”
He took her toying fingers away from the scar and kissed them gently. “If I ask nicely, would you please remove the spell?”
“Ridge.” She didn’t want to do this right now. Not after they’d shared so much, and she was feeling close to him. And yes, she had lied. It had been more than just sex.
But she hadn’t any right to keep what she knew from him. By not correcting his false assumption, she was as good as a liar. And that was no way to treat the man. “Okay, fine. I have a confession to make.”
She sat nestled against the pillows, and Ridge leaned on his elbows. He looked too delicious with the sheet half covering his legs and his carved-from-stone body exposed to the sunlight like some kind of god. His ass was so fine, and those powerful thighs. Mercy.
Tell him now, Abigail. He’s been too kind to you to deserve your betrayal.
“I didn’t put a spell on you in Vegas.”
He shook his head, chuckling. “I know differently.”
“Seriously, Ridge, there wasn’t time to summon one. I reacted to seeing you wolf out and zapped you with an electrical charge. As I’ve told you, I often channel electricity when I’m afraid, and if I’m near a leyline it all goes haywire. Reactionary magic is the official term, though I usually call it accidental magic.”
“Reactionary?”
“You said you were too drunk to control your werewolf. Do you think I was so sober I had the ability to cast a spell?”
“Abigail, I know you did something to me, because I can’t have kids.”
“Maybe it’s just…trauma. From the event, you know. You were almost gelded.”
“Don’t say gelded,” he ground through a tight jaw. “You said you would remove the spell after I helped you. I’m helping you. Show me some good faith and remove it.”
“How many times do I have to say it? There was no spell.”
“You specifically said you’d remove the spell when I came looking for a divorce,” he growled. “There must be a spell.”
She shrugged. She didn’t like when he spoke to her so forcefully. And just when she was starting to fall for the big lug. Honestly though, she was to blame. She had used his belief in the spell to get him to do what she needed him to do.
He swept a hand down the scar and tugged the sheet to cover it. His somber expression hurt her heart. “You lied to me?”
“I was desperate. A knight in shining armor happened to knock on my door in a time of desperate need, and—Ridge, I needed your help!”
He got off the bed and paced before her, unmindful of his nudity, of his gorgeous, toned muscles and impossible body. Despite the damage she had done to him, his penis had taken no harm, and right now it was hard and bobbed with each step. He was marvelous to look at, even scarred and angry. Even more marvelous, for the anger tensed his muscles and gave him a fierce mien.
She couldn’t have damaged him. Or had she?
Oh, what are you doing, Abigail? You lied to a wolf!
“You’re not going to wolf out on me again, are you?”
“No!” he snapped. “No spell? Then why can’t I have children?”
“Have you tried?”
“I’ve been with plenty of women.”
“No birth control?”
“Not always,” he said, twisting his mouth and shaking his head to negate that statement. “Usually the woman says she’s on the pill, but then later she’ll be like, ‘I’m so relieved, I’m not pregnant,’ so I have to assume she wasn’t on birth control. It’s never happened.”
“Well, it doesn’t happen every time. Are you saying you actually wanted to have a baby with some random stranger?”
“No, but I had a girlfriend for a year. A werewolf, even.” His sigh spoke volumes. It was rare that male wolves hooked up with the even rarer females. “She wanted to have kids, and so did I. She broke up with me because it never happened. You know the females are particular about finding a virile mate. I just— Are you sure?”
She could but nod. The air in the room felt heavy, depleted by Ridge’s disappointment. And she had been the cause of it.
“Abigail, the pack relies on me to be their leader. Part of leading is being a family man, growing the pack with my children. And, hell, I would love to be a father.”
He sat on the end of the bed and hung his head.
His confession burned in her throat, yet in a good way. He would make a wonderful father; she felt it. If there were a chance he was Ryan’s father, she’d choose Ridge over Miles any day. Well, she had chosen no man, so the point was moot.
His werewolf thought her his soul mate?
She knew wolves mated for life but generally preferred werewolves. Sure, they hooked up with mortals and even faeries. But a witch and a werewolf? Not too common. Although, stranger things had occurred, such as wolves and vamps pairing up. Blu Masterson and Creed Saint-Pierre being one such exemplary couple.
“I don’t know what to say,” she offered quietly. Stroking a finger down his back traced the heat of him, the strength of him. She wanted him again, but he was in no mood. And she’d ruined her chances by using him. But it was better than continuing the lie. “There was no spell. At least not a spell designed to make you infertile. I did zap you with some rough magic. Maybe the scar tissue goes in so deep it’s affected your ability to procreate.”
He swung an angry snarl at her. Either way she worked it, she was still the big bad witch to blame.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have led you on. Maybe we shouldn’t have had sex. It was just sex—”
“It was not just sex.” His fists clenched and unclenched. “Do you think so poorly of me that you assume I can have sex with anyone, whenever I please, without a care? It meant something, Abigail. Here.” He smacked his chest with a fist. “And I know it meant something to you, too.”
Stomping off toward the bathroom, he didn’t offer another word. She heard the shower flick on.
Plopping back onto the pillow, Abigail mentally kicked herself for handling the situation so poorly. Usually it was the knight who had to win the lady’s favor and prove himself in battle. So why did she feel as if the tables had been turned and it was she who needed to prove herself to Ridge?
Making love had meant something to her. And that it meant so much to him meant the world. And when had she begun to care what he thought?
Always. You were never brave enough to admit it to yourself before. You’ve always hoped he could be the one.
Turning to her side, she sniffed a tear. “He has to be the one,” she whispered.
And yet if he were Ryan’s father, her son could be in grave danger, for she’d not prepared him for life should puberty bring on his latent werewolf.
* * *
Ridge snarled at the witch when she laid a plate of scrambled eggs on the table before him. She set the carton of orange juice down, followed by a glass, and said something about checking on the vampire in the basement.
A hot shower, followed by a long cool rinse, had done nothing to chill his simmering emotions about the woman. No spell? Impossible. Though he was informed enough to know a pregnancy did not always come easily, and oftentimes couples had to spend years trying, and invest in medical means to encourage conception.
He’d never gone to a doctor to verify his infertility; it had always been something he’d felt. Instinctually, he knew he could not father a child since the witch had scarred him.
Maybe her suggestion that the scar had cut deep and damaged his insides was close to truth. It was the only thing that made sense if, indeed, no spell had been conjured.
And he could believe she hadn’t had time to concoct a spell. He’d wolfed out. She’d zapped him. It had all happened within seconds.
On the other hand, Abigail Rowan had lived for centuries. Certainly she had an arsenal of spells on hand, ready to throw immediately should the situation arise.
He prodded the eggs on his plate, wishing for some sausage or bacon, any kind of meat. Vegetarians. He didn’t trust them.
So he was back to not trusting the witch, not only because of her lacking interest in meat, but because he wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth. But that didn’t change his mind about saving the boy.
How odd would it be if the one child he had fathered had been with the woman who had rendered him sterile immediately after that conception? The mortals’ God must be having a chuckle right about now.
All his life he’d gotten the short end of the stick. No reason for life to start serving him the long end any time soon. It was to be expected. He should accept his rotten fate.
Yet he’d thought life had taken an abrupt turn when he’d taken over as principal of the Northern pack and started on a new path. He wanted to make things better. And that goal hadn’t changed, either.
Downing the glass of orange juice in one swallow, he shoveled in the meatless breakfast and left the counter as he heard the witch ascendin
g the basement stairs. He wasn’t ready to look at her yet, and stomped toward her bedroom.
He put on his jeans and shirt, which he’d claimed from the dryer—she must have tossed them in for him while he showered—and scavenged for a toothbrush in the bathroom closet, finding a couple of unopened ones next to the stack of soap, floss and bath oils.
He looked around for signs of a preteen boy’s things, but found nothing. This was Abigail’s bathroom, but it was weird he hadn’t seen anything of the young male’s things yet. Did she keep them all tucked away in his room? Was the boy never home? If she sent him to Switzerland for school, when did she spend time with him?
Poor kid. He was literally an orphan in a strange country. No kid should have to endure distance from his parents, or even a long-distance relationship with his mother. It wasn’t right. Children thrived under their parents’ guidance.
He hung the toothbrush next to Abigail’s brush, and swished around a swig of mouthwash.
He knew a lot of parents did raise their kids in such a manner. Privileged yuppie sorts he could never relate to in a million years. He didn’t pin Abigail as that type, but then, she was a cool number. Yet if she was sending the boy away to protect him, then he’d give her that.
If Ryan was his son, he knew one thing for sure: the kid would never set foot in Switzerland again. He’d move him into the compound and give him his own room with all the things a boy could ever want. He’d take him out to toss a football every day. Help him with his homework, teach him how to drive and how to respect others yet remain cautious of strangers. He’d teach him to chop wood and start a fire, and to fix cars and take care of the household. He’d teach him how to be a man, and not a coward. He’d proudly teach by example—an example he’d been denied growing up.
Ridge stared at his reflection. “Could he be mine?”
He wanted that more than anything. Even if Abigail still signed the divorce papers, if the kid was his, he’d be the best damned father to him.
“Ridge?”
He popped out of the bathroom. “Thanks for the breakfast. Do you have a picture of Ryan?”
“I— Oh.”