And Jericho Burned: Toke Lobo & The Pack

by MJ Compton

  “You believe?”

  She rolled until they lay face-to-face. “Yeah. Wild, isn’t it?”

  Wild didn’t begin to describe the elation flowing through him. He wadded his fingers to keep from reaching for her.

  “I thought there was something missing in me because I didn’t like kissing Charles. I didn’t like him touching me, even though I thought I loved him.” She sounded bewildered. “I never liked kissing anybody until last night.”

  Last night. He’d kissed her last night. Had nearly tossed her onto the floor in the dressing room and marked her right there, no matter who stood watching.

  “I’m not bad for a beginner, huh?” he asked, feeling better. Feeling maybe like kissing her again.

  “You fooled me.” Her petal-like tongue flickered over her lips.

  Her scent changed. Fear ebbed away, replaced by something more exotic. As if she thought about kissing him. Her body warmed the thin cotton of the shirt she wore. His shirt. Their scents mingled and created a new perfume.

  Oh, Ancient Ones.

  He was either going to have to mark her or go for a run and indulge in a little singing at the moon, something the pack leaders discouraged when the band was on the road.

  If he didn’t do something, and soon, someone was going to get hurt. Preferably someone from New Sinai, but Restin wasn’t too far down on the list.

  “Hank asked me if I planned to keep my promise to you.”

  “What promise?” His cousin had no business interfering.

  “My marriage vows.”

  Stoker didn’t know what to say.

  One of her hands fluttered toward him, like an indecisive butterfly. She stopped short of touching him. “I keep my promises,” she said, “but—”

  Always the but with Lucy.

  “I’m going to make my best effort.”

  He supposed it could be worse. Best effort sounded better than lemonade, but not much.

  “I’m willing to try.”

  Oh, great. “Like you tried with your fiancé?” The question popped out. One step forward, two back.

  “Well, no,” she said. “I actually married you.”

  How could someone who professed to adore her go so far out of his way to make her feel absolutely rotten? He’d started out nice, lulling her into a frame of mind where she could almost accept she was married to a werewolf, and then he went and said something that cheapened everything.

  He claimed he wanted to protect her, but who would protect her from him?

  Lucy rolled onto her side, turning her back on him to hide the emotions she knew were all too plain on her face. Her T-shirt twisted and hiked to the tops of her thighs.

  She tensed when Stoker clasped her shoulder.

  “I messed up again, didn’t I?” he asked in a low rumble.

  She loved his voice. Its timbre sent shivers through her. She could listen to that voice forever. His words, however, made her crazy.

  “I don’t want you doing your duty by me, Lucy. That’s a lousy way to start a relationship. I want you to feel like you did last night when I kissed you the first time.”

  “Then we shouldn’t speak to each other,” she answered. “Talking messes up everything.”

  “I know.”

  He sounded so incredibly sad she wanted to weep.

  No. No more. Her mother had wept enough for them all.

  The heat of Stoker’s splayed hand across the base of her spine comforted her. He snuggled closer, as if not tossing off his touch was an invitation to deepen their intimacy. The rough denim of his jeans scraped her bare thighs. His humid breath warmed her nape. Mixed emotions trickled through her, filling her extremities like a sparkly glow from a Disney animation.

  How could she not believe in this one-mate-for-life concept when all he had to do was touch her, and every hard-earned ounce of sexual self-doubt disappeared?

  “You smell really, really good,” he said before his tongue dipped into her ear, as if checking her flavor. His hand snaked from her back to her stomach, scorching her through the soft cotton knit.

  She tensed.

  “Should I stop?” he asked, his voice husky.

  Her brain screamed yes, but her body . . . her body wanted him. Her body clamored to discover what all the fuss about sex was about. They were married. She had a certificate, complete with an embossed seal from the State of Idaho.

  “No,” she said, barely able to force the single syllable through her tight throat.

  He flipped her onto her back and claimed her mouth.

  Then she forgot to think. Thinking was overrated anyway.

  One tug from his massive werewolf hands ripped the T-shirt –his T-shirt–from her, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

  Propped on an elbow, he stared down at her.

  She wanted to pull a sheet over her nudity, but the intensity of the expression on his face stopped her.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, before swooping in again for another long, deep, satisfying kiss.

  Which was odd, because how could a kiss be both satisfying and leave her hungry for more?

  Abruptly, he abandoned her to shed his jeans and briefs. Instinct kicked in, and she averted her gaze from his prominent erection then realized he’d probably consider that an insult. Besides, it was okay to be curious about your husband’s body.

  She already knew he had more to offer a woman than Charles did. Thinking about that made her more than a little nervous.

  Stoker must have smelled her panic. “It’s okay,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”

  He seemed pleased that she stared at his display.

  He was even more pleased when she reached for him, when her fingertips brushed his straining flesh. His breath whistled sharply between his teeth as she wrapped her fingers around him. “Lucy.” The single word carried a spectrum of emotion.

  When Charles had grunted her name in similar circumstances, there’d been no tenderness. No awe. Coming from Stoker, her name sounded almost like a prayer.

  Cupping her cheek, he lowered his face to hers. He kissed her. No matter what, all he had to do was kiss her, and all was well in her world.

  Ancient Ones, she smelled so good, like nothing his legendary nose had ever before encountered. Like brushing against herb leaves, each caress released more of her unique fragrance. When she’d clasped him, her scent sharpened. The intensity of emotion was almost too much for him to bear.

  She tasted even better.

  The way she returned his kiss signaled that she didn’t consider this intimacy an obligation. Action suited the words she’d given him earlier. She liked kissing him. She couldn’t hide the hormonal changes in her body, and he smelled every one of them. Reveled in knowing she understood and wanted what was to come. Maybe not as much as he did, but hadn’t she admitted she wished she’d known about the whole concept of mating before she’d gotten herself engaged to Finkler? Who was still going to have to die for hurting Lucy, but that was for another time.

  Right now, with Lucy naked, fragrant, and willing in his bed, the only thing he wanted to think about was making her happy. Doing it right.

  Right?

  He wanted to be perfect, because his Lucy deserved no less.

  Their heat collided, like weather fronts brewing a storm. Her mating aroma increased, filling every crevice in his head with fragrance so sweet, so earthy, and so compelling, he wanted to sip from every pore of her body.

  He started with her mouth. His tongue tingled as his hands finally explored the female he’d claimed. Lucy might be on the petite side, but she was all woman. Soft, smooth woman. Velvety, like rose petals. He needed to remember not to bruise her. She was human, no match for his inherent species strength.

 
Oh, there were so many things to remember, things that wouldn’t have mattered had his mate been one of his own kind.

  Lucy moaned against his mouth.

  He broke the kiss. “Am I hurting you?” The words sifted through his vocal chords.

  “God, no.”

  He wasn’t sure if she offered her blessing, but as long as she didn’t say, “stop,” he was happy.

  Her breasts fit perfectly in his palms, like fruit freshly plucked from the tree, warm not from sunshine, but from their mutual desire. He tasted her flesh–mouth, the side of her neck, and her chest.

  Lucy made another one of those little sounds, but this time, he assumed she cheered him on. Her fingers trailed over his back, exploring his contours with the grace of a butterfly.

  Her body left the mattress when his mouth closed over a tight nipple, but he still hadn’t found the source of that delicious aroma.

  He lingered on her breasts a moment or two, but instinct drove his exploration. He eagerly lapped his way across her ribs and dipped into her navel. He was closer to the source. His nose never lied. Ever.

  Wiry hair tickled his chin as he explored lower.

  There! Lucy’s natural scent deepened. He almost wept from the joy, and couldn’t keep himself from burying his nose in the sparse blond curls at the juncture of her thighs.

  Lucy gurgled. Her fingers left his shoulders and raked the hair on his head. She could scalp him, and he wouldn’t care, not as long as he could keep his nose buried in the most heavenly ambrosia he’d ever breathed.

  His tongue darted, seeking her sweetness, glorying in her small sighs of appreciation, in the sound of his name on her lips. He lapped at the nectar he uncovered, tentatively at first, but greedily as addiction latched onto his blood cells. The roar in his head nearly obliterated Lucy’s moans.

  She tasted so good. So very, very good.

  He could stay with his face buried between her legs for the rest of his life.

  So this is what Hank had meant when he said as long as Lucy was happy, he was doing it right. Well, his senses assured him Lucy couldn’t get much happier than she was at the moment.

  He wanted more. Tasting her was no longer enough. He nipped the soft flesh on the inside of her thighs before moving up, nestling himself between Lucy’s splayed legs. Her green eyes were glazed, her petal-like lips parted.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Am I doing it right?” He needed reassurance that his nose wasn’t malfunctioning. He needed her to crave him as much as he craved her.

  She nodded again and opened her arms to welcome him.

  Satisfaction swelled in his chest like a symphony, banishing more of his anxiety. He settled over her, poised to push his ‘equipment’ into her.

  He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply of her tension and seeking the precise spot where he’d mark her. He surrendered to instinct.

  Lucy swallowed her pain. Stoker’s entry hurt, but not as much as Charles-the-Fink had hurt her. And the burning was brief, almost instantly replaced by wanting more, needing more.

  Maybe she’d hate herself later for succumbing to his werewolf charisma, but when he freed her spirit to fly above their bodies in soul-shattering delight, she couldn’t worry about the consequences.

  Bubbles sparkled in her blood, buoyant and lighter than air. The bubble walls grew thinner, iridescent then fizzed like a shaken bottle of champagne.

  She clasped his thrusting body closer, tighter, moving with him to the stars then past the stars to a core of blinding heat. When her orgasm hit her, she couldn’t contain her cries. His name, like a plea, like a prayer of thanksgiving, emptied her heart.

  Stoker held her through the tremors that threatened to dismember her body. He whispered her name against her ear, a soothing chant that anchored her.

  He lay atop her, not moving. He was still inside her, still ready.

  Their gazes locked, his dark and smoldering. Triumph mingled with something else, but she knew he wasn’t satisfied. He continued to fill her, to stretch her to her limits.

  She cupped his cheek.

  He withdrew, slowly, as if he, too, could feel the raw tenderness inside her. The emptiness ached even deeper.

  Taking advantage of her boneless state, he rolled her onto her stomach then grasped her hips. Before she could form a protest, he pushed inside her again, hot, and hard, and almost desperate.

  Her breath left her lungs in an audible whoosh. She’d thought it impossible to be more completely filled, but the change of position proved her wrong.

  Stoker curled over her. Rough chest hair scraped her back with each deep thrust. He nuzzled her neck, and shivers jittered on her heated skin. Another climax distracted her until his teeth clamped onto the cord running from her head to her shoulder. Something deeper, something far more profound than mere orgasm, swept through her.

  Infinity.

  Stoker shuddered and groaned, but kept his mouth, his teeth firmly on her neck as he held himself deeply within her.

  Some alien, primitive portion of her psyche responded, and as he filled her, she met him in a new dimension; a place suspending time, where fear and worry dissipated like oxygen from the lungs into the blood.

  He collapsed, his breathing rough and uneven. Every one of her senses sharpened until they hurt. Colors had never been so bright. The pounding of his heart echoed in her ears, and the scent of something wonderful filled her nostrils.

  His rough tongue soothed the spot on her neck where, like a vampire, he’d bitten her. Marked her as his mate for life. His body pinning hers stole her air, and his shoulders blocked her vision.

  She waited for her claustrophobia to kick in. Nothing happened.

  Finally, she was safe. Secure. Protected like a caterpillar in the fortress of its cocoon.

  Chapter 6

  Restin waited until all sounds had faded away before knocking on Stoker’s door. From what he’d overheard, there was no longer any chance of keeping Stoker away from Lucy, and his timing was going to be way off, possibly embarrassing the bride. But then, he wasn’t the one who’d set the time and date of the reconnaissance of New Sinai. Lucy hadn’t left them a lot of leeway to plan, but as much as he hated to admit it, he had to give her credit for thinking on her feet.

  She was returning to New Sinai, and he hadn’t done a thing to make it happen. Maybe the Ancient Ones were finally smiling at him.

  Stoker growled at him through the door then ordered him–a delta issuing orders?–to wait just a damned minute.

  It’s a good thing Restin knew Stoker was acting out of character due to the whole mating-with-a-human scenario; otherwise, he’d have to cuff him upside the head like a wayward omega pup.

  When Stoker finally opened the door, the scent of sex was the first thing to hit Restin. Not that he’d doubted his hearing, but he noted the additional confirmation that Stoker had finally marked Lucy.

  A good leader always double-checked his facts.

  “What?” Stoker growled through the narrow gap between the door and its frame.

  “We need to discuss what you’re going to do tomorrow.”

  Stoker glared at him, but the expression didn’t mean anything. This was Scowling Stoker Smith.

  “Me and Lucy are going up to New Sinai and liberating her sister.”

  “According to what I heard, you’re supposed to take the band with you.”

  “Hank talks too much.” Stoker opened the door wide enough for Restin to slip into the room.

  Lucy sat on the far bed, a sheet drawn over her legs and lap and wearing a blindingly fluorescent, Stoker-esque T-shirt. Her short, yellow hair was tousled, her lips looked a little puffy, and her expression was more dazed than usual.

 
“Are you ready to plan your wedding at New Sinai?” he greeted her.

  Lucy shrugged. “What’s to plan?”

  “You think if we just show up that Butler will let us in?” Restin asked.

  “Probably not,” she conceded.

  “By the way, telling Butler you’d be there was not bad.” He hated admitting it to her, but he wasn’t going to be petty any more. She and Stoker were mated. He didn’t have to like it, but he had to accept it. He could also try to use it.