Sexy Beast II

by Kate Douglas, Noelle Mack

  She took a tight turn and hard plastic rattled in the back seat—maybe her measuring cups. Since whatever it was sounded loose, not broken, she ignored it.

  Except for that, the humming of the CR-V’s tires filled the silence. She’d turned off the radio sometime back, after the mountains started interfering with reception. The cell phone in her purse was just as quiet, which was fine with her.

  She’d put everything on hold. All her clients knew she was on vacation—her first in years. Anyway, it wasn’t as if web design generated that many emergency calls.

  Hoping for a whiff of green, Deanna lowered her window to let the wind play through her hair, making the wavy locks dance across her shoulders, and angled her body so the breeze blew down the front of her tank top. Despite being on a highway, there was barely a hint of exhaust fumes in the flow of warm air that caressed her body, a welcome contrast to urban smog.

  The next turn unveiled another panorama of mountains and clear sky, an infinite palette of blues she couldn’t hope to capture in her designs. If it weren’t for the wide steel guardrail, it could have been the same sight first beheld centuries ago by the colonists who’d settled the area.

  She smiled at the romantic notion. That’s what came from knowing nothing of her ancestry: trying to connect with some history greater than her own. Growing up in an orphanage, knowing nothing much about her parents, save that they’d died in a car accident when she was four, had given her a thirst for heritage. Deep roots. But, somehow, she didn’t think anything she might learn about her parents could live up to such fantastic pipe dreams.

  A loud, protesting Blat! from behind broke the tranquil afternoon drive.

  She shot a glance at the rearview mirror and stared.

  Reflected there, a black pickup swerved onto the highway, cutting in with utter disregard for traffic and safety. To her dismay, it was speeding up as it weaved unsteadily between lanes, repeatedly crossing the double yellow lines and gaining on her.

  Deanna forced her attention back to the road in front. It would do her little good to avoid the danger behind her, only to drive off the highway or get into a crash herself.

  The road curved away from the mountainside onto a short viaduct that cut across a narrow valley. In the straightaway, she opened the throttle, coaxing more speed from her faithful CR-V, her heart in her throat, the steering wheel biting into her white-knuckled hands. Behind her, the roar came on like an unstoppable nightmare, loud and getting louder.

  Beeeeep!

  The car behind her fishtailed across the road as its driver lost control, leaving nothing between her and the weaving pickup.

  No matter how hard she looked, there was nowhere she could turn off to let the truck behind her pass, and no cops when she needed one. She could only stay ahead or hope its driver came to his senses.

  The uneven race continued off the viaduct and back on another mountainside, the truck rapidly making up the distance between it and her car.

  Deanna stomped down on the accelerator. The CR-V responded sluggishly, weighed down by her belongings. Plastic rattled, the disparate odors of cinnamon, paprika, and fennel swirling through the car. Her spice rack must have fallen over.

  The road twisted once more, another picturesque valley unfolding to her right. But she didn’t have time to appreciate its beauty or to wish away another metal guardrail so rooted in the modern day.

  Veering across the double yellow lines again, the black pickup charged on with the roar of a revving engine.

  Time seemed to stop. All sounds vanished as if Nature held its breath.

  As Deanna watched with horror, the truck’s silver grille and massive bull-bar glinted in the afternoon sun, headed straight at her.

  THUNK!

  The door slammed into Deanna’s side, a scarlet starburst of pain that drove the breath from her lungs.

  Tires squealed.

  The CR-V slid toward the shoulder, gravel pinging on its undercarriage. Another impact threw her in the opposite direction, to land on top of her bulky purse. There was a long screech, like the wailing of the damned, as her faithful car jounced around her.

  Another metal shriek filled the air, then silence.

  For a long moment, the world stood still. Then the bottom dropped, dragging Deanna with it.

  On most days, Graeme Luger enjoyed his job as a deputy sheriff in Woodrose, West Virginia. The town was perfect for his needs. It gave him a forest to run wild in, good people worthy of protection, relatively quick access to clan with a few hours’ drive—and a steady stream of potential mates in the form of hikers and other tourists. Not that he’d had any success to date, but there was always tomorrow.

  Today, however, didn’t look to be one of the good days.

  Pulling onto the gravel shoulder, he parked behind another patrol car and took in the situation with a quick glance, noting skid marks, the broken guardrail, and the black pickup opposite lying on its side up the mountain. Several vehicles were abandoned in disarray along the grassy verge, their erstwhile drivers crowding the edge of the road.

  His lips twisted in an automatic snarl at the sight.

  Henckel again. He ran a hand through his wiry crew cut. If he weren’t prematurely gray already, the scene would have given him white hairs. This time the sheriff couldn’t turn a blind eye to the young drunk’s shenanigans. Go straight to jail. Do not pass GO. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Just because Henckel had led the high school football team to state victory was no excuse for this.

  The prospect would have cheered him if it weren’t for the cost. It shouldn’t have been permitted to get this far.

  Getting out of his patrol car, Graeme hotfooted over to join his fellow deputy by the guardrail, weaving through the rubberneckers crowding the narrow shoulder.

  “Gray!” The audible relief in Mitchell’s voice made his gut tense.

  “Henckel?”

  “Over there. He’ll keep.” The older man jerked his chin at the fallen pickup. “More’s the pity,” he added in a mutter that Graeme’s sharp ears caught. “This one won’t.” Mitchell pointed downhill through the break in the guardrail as Graeme reached his side.

  On a small ridge nearly a hundred feet below, a battered gold Honda CR-V was snagged on a young pine bending under the strain. Its driver—a woman—was bashing at the windshield, clawing shattered glass clear of the frame, not waiting to be rescued. The massive dent on the driver’s door and streaks of black gouged on its paint said Henckel’s truck had rammed the car. The damage must have jammed the door.

  Graeme reined in the flicker of admiration he felt at her initiative, knowing he probably didn’t have much time. Even in the brief seconds he’d taken to study the situation, the car had slipped noticeably. It was up to him to save that woman.

  Grant Mitchell was a good man to have at his back, but agile was the last word anybody would use to describe him. Short, with most of his weight carried in a thick potbelly, the other deputy wasn’t one for scrambling down mountainsides. He left that to the younger guys like Graeme, who were in far better shape, contenting himself with providing support.

  As he did now, bellowing at the crowd to stand aside and clearing the way for Graeme to sprint back to his patrol car.

  Popping the trunk, Graeme snatched up the climbing gear he kept there for such emergencies. He raced back, rope slung over his shoulder. No time for anything fancy. Every second counted, as the tortured creaking from below attested. He wound the rope around a bent guardrail, tied it off on a nearby bumper, then started down the steep slope. The post creaked under his weight but held. Dislodged by his hasty passage, a minor avalanche of hard soil accompanied his rapid descent, clattering fit to startle wildlife.

  Adrenaline had his heart pounding, sharpening his awareness until he could pick out the pungent bite of crushed wildflowers, the sour sweat of the milling rubberneckers, and the nauseatingly sweet stench of hot rubber from forty feet away, even in his human form.

  Graeme had t
o pause to shake his head clear. Times like this, his heightened werewolf senses were a danger on the job.

  An updraft of warm air brought him the scent of flowing sap and something else that raised his hackles and—inexplicably—set his cock twitching. What a damned inconvenient time for his hunting instinct to raise its head! He ignored his reaction, focusing his attention on getting down to the trapped driver. If he wanted to save her, he couldn’t afford any distraction.

  As he continued down the sharp incline, he passed broken trees scarred with gold paint. Marked by the Honda’s passage, they must have slowed its fall, which probably explained the driver’s good condition.

  At the top of the ridge, Graeme released the rope and turned to the battered car. His heart skipped at the lack of motion that met him. The woman had stopped trying to clear the windshield. All he could see of her was light brown hair. Had she passed out?

  To make matters worse, the pine groaned, an audible warning of impending failure.

  Brushing aside the remains of the shattered glass still clinging to the frame, he tried to get a better look at the driver and assess the situation.

  Her head snapped up, revealing startled hazel eyes.

  Relief washed over him at her reaction. “Come on!” He stuck an arm through the hole in the windshield to help her out.

  “I can’t. The seatbelt’s jammed!” She’d twisted out from under the diagonal chest strap, but the lap band kept her trapped. Several frayed threads bore testament to her efforts at cutting the seatbelt.

  And he could barely reach it from where he stood.

  He’d have to go through the buckled window.

  Taking a deep breath, Graeme braced his hands on the twisted metal.

  A stirring perfume fogged his senses. It set his cock springing to steel-hard awareness, made his shoulders bunch with instinctive aggression that bypassed intellectual control. The scent honed his temper to razor edge, outrage flaring in his heart. How dare Henckel endanger this woman!

  Gripping the two sides of the window frame, he pushed, drawing on his werewolf strength to bend the steel to his will. It bit into his palms, resisting his efforts. But slowly, with shrill creaks of protest, the metal gave way.

  As if in sympathy, the tree groaned.

  The woman squeaked as the car shuddered around her.

  Finally, there was enough space for him to fit.

  “Let me at it.” Leaning forward, Graeme managed to wedge his head and shoulders inside and grab the strap. The position blocked her view of his hands, but it nearly stuffed his face between a damned fine pair of knockers and nose-deep in female ambrosia that practically short-circuited his wolf brain.

  Her! That mouthwatering, blood-hailing scent was hers! Only long training kept him from howling. But, damn, she smelled oh so good.

  “Sorry about this.” His apology was muffled by the high mounds but she must have heard him; at least she didn’t slap his mug while he worked at freeing her.

  Confident his hands were hidden, he Changed one, a tingle of heat flooding it as his fingers contracted and claws emerged. He slashed down, the band parting easily with a brief rip.

  He bumped his head on the frame as he jerked back, the jarring contact little more than a distraction. “Come on.”

  Pushing a large purse ahead of her, the busty brunette scrambled out of her seat, one hand clutching his biceps as she squeezed through the window.

  Wrapping an arm around her waist, Graeme secured her to his chest, one unprofessional corner of his brain registering the soft breasts plumped against him. Gripping her—firm, round— ass with his other hand, he yanked her clear, scrambling backwards as the ground shook.

  And not a moment too soon.

  As he set her on her feet, a loud crack announced the tree’s demise. With the loss of its support, the car slid off the ridge, tumbling down the steep ravine.

  “Oh, God!” Deanna clung to her rescuer, chilled by her close call. If it hadn’t been for him, she’d still be trapped and might have accompanied her car even farther down the mountain. She pressed closer to him, craving safety. Still feeling unsteady, she wrapped her legs around his, anchoring herself against the fear that threatened to shake her apart.

  He stroked her back, crooning wordlessly, his gruff voice reaching deep inside her, enfolding her in reassurance, his big body a shield against the horror of her brush with death.

  It had been a near thing.

  Shivering with an uncharacteristic craving for support, she buried her face in his solid chest, soaking in the aura of strength that he radiated. The scent of fabric softener, sweat, and male filled her nose, calling to her like precious perfume.

  Her empty sheath clenched, raw need coiling in her belly, sudden and unexpected. Unbidden and almost unfamiliar. It pinned her in place with a spine-tingling, knee-melting intensity that banished all thought. It had been months since she’d felt arousal, and never with such carnal violence.

  Her rescuer wasn’t immune to it either. His erection surged against her belly, swelling to an undeniable ridge, hard and thick with promise. All male hunger she wanted inside her.

  Breathless with sensual awareness, Deanna stared up at him, into blue eyes gone silvery with desire. She clutched his belt, wanting to undo it, to release the turgid flesh caught between them. To take his cock into her wet pussy and ride him to blissful exhaustion. Her thighs practically quivered with need.

  Her breasts tingled and firmed, her nipples poking through her thin bra and tank top. She wanted his mouth on them, sucking them, nibbling them until they ached. Her core pulsed with the strength of her desire.

  “Gray!” The distant yell shattered the breathless moment.

  Taking a deep breath, her rescuer turned his grizzled head to the shout. “We’re coming!”

  If only!

  2

  Graeme pulled into the clinic’s parking lot the next day, still wondering about the wisdom of what he was about to do. He could tell himself it was only neighborly to help out, but he knew his intentions weren’t that innocent. He could hardly pretend otherwise when the merest thought of her made his cock twitch like a flea-ridden cub.

  What was it about Deanna Lycan that got to him so quickly? Sure, he’d practically buried his snout in her cleavage, but that didn’t mean he had to mount her the first chance he got!

  What did he know about the busty brunette besides that she was single, pretty, steady in a crisis, heterosexual—and smelled like his most carnal dreams come to life, especially after she creamed in his arms? Nothing much, except she was headed elsewhere and hadn’t exactly chosen Woodrose as a stopover.

  But he sure wanted to learn more…like whether her legs would be just as tight wrapped around his hips as they’d been around his thigh. Or if her breasts were really a nice handful; he hadn’t felt any padding when she’d pressed against him, but that didn’t mean much these days. The only way to find out for certain was to get her naked.

  Just the thought sent a shudder of desire shooting through Graeme.

  He scrubbed his face in disgust. You’d think he was a bird dog, the way his cock went on point around her.

  Right. Just because she smelled like the next best thing to fresh venison was no reason to act like a wild beast. He’d be polite, helpful, and attentive, and if one thing led to another, great! But he wasn’t going to pressure her into anything, wasn’t going to imply in any way whatsoever that he’d accept sex in lieu of gratitude…even if it was true.

  His intentions set to rights, Graeme got out of his Jeep and headed for the low, rambling building that was the town’s sole medical facility.

  The sight that met him at the front desk made him swear under his breath. Wrinkled pink shorts hugged taut, round globes tilted up in offering, the crease between them practically begging for his touch.

  Damn it, Luger! The talking-to he’d given himself out in the parking lot went up in smoke. His cock promptly went on point, springing to rock-hard attention, quiveri
ng to be set loose and demanding immediate access to tight pussy.

  Deanna Lycan looked more than fine to him, though he knew from the evidence photos that she had severe bruising on her left side from the accident.

  Vicious, atavistic rage stirred in him at the memory, urging him to wring that idiot Henckel’s neck, reminding him it was his duty to serve and protect. He restrained it with difficulty, knowing he couldn’t allow that side of him out of leash. At least this time, the sheriff was leaving Henckel to cool his heels in jail.

  She shifted her weight, her firm ass swaying in enticement. The eye-popping vision him helped soothe his inner wolf. He couldn’t do much about Henckel, but perhaps servicing her wasn’t out of the question.

  Deanna scrawled her signature across the forms, her mind preoccupied with her aching ribs and the problem of how she’d get around town. She had to remain in the area until the police salvaged her car, so she could reclaim her belongings. Not that she was ungrateful, since she wouldn’t be alive if it hadn’t been for that deputy. But it was a good thing she’d managed to take her purse with her when she was rescued; at least, it meant she had identification and some funds.

  “Mary Lee tells me you’re good to go.”

  The gruff, unexpected drawl gave Deanna a jolt, made her nipples tighten to aching points.

  As though conjured by her thoughts, the deputy who’d saved her life stood behind her, his big body displayed in a moss-green T-shirt that clung to his rippling musculature faithfully and faded jeans molded to legs that could have doubled as tree trunks. He was built like a tank, his broad shoulders easily twice hers.

  Despite the liberal dusting of white in his short-cropped black hair and bushy eyebrows, he couldn’t be that much older than she was. He had the body of a man very much in his prime—as she well knew—and his face only had a few laugh lines.