Placing her hand in his, she winced as she dropped to her knees on the sleeping bags spread on the floor of the cave.
“I wish they were softer,” he murmured.
“It’s not the bed. It’s my poor muscles. They’re wrecked.”
How could he have forgotten? Apparently the wonders of her naked body had distracted him from the pain in that beautiful body. She needed his help to ease her suffering, and then…then he could ease her more primitive ache.
With great effort he tamed the lust seething in his veins. “Lie on your stomach,” he said. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you. Here’s some lotion I brought in my pack.” She handed him a slender tube before stretching out on the sleeping bags and pillowing her head on her arms.
“Don’t thank me, yet. I’m not trained in this.” He unscrewed the cap on the lotion and squirted some into his hand.
“Just imagine I’m a glob of Play-Doh.”
“A glob of what?”
“Play-Doh. Don’t tell me you never had any as a kid.”
“Nope.” He straddled her hips and rubbed the lotion into both hands before leaning down to work on her back muscles.
“Then you were deprived.” She moaned softly as he began to knead the muscles beneath her shoulder blades.
The moan prodded his chained libido to break free. He wanted to make her moan for a different reason. “I take it Play-Doh is some sort of modeling clay for kids.”
“Exactly. Ah, that feels good, Roarke. Right there. Deeper…mmm.”
“If you want me to finish this, you’ll have to curtail the commentary. It sounds like a woman responding to sex.”
“Right. So if you didn’t have Play-Doh, what did you have?”
“Marble.”
“Marbles? That’s not the same kind of thing. Oh, God, you hit the right spot. That feels so…whoops. Sorry. No commentary. Sorry.”
“Much appreciated.” He battled his urges as he worked his way down her spine to the small of her back, which brought him close to the cutest fanny he’d ever had the privilege of touching. “Are your glutes sore?”
“Not especially.”
“Too bad. I wanted to massage them.”
Her body shook as she laughed. “Maybe later. Tell me about playing with marbles.”
“Not marbles. Marble, singular. My brother and I were allowed to sculpt in marble when we were kids.”
“Oh.” She sighed in apparent contentment as he started massaging her thighs. “That’s a step up from sculpting in Play-Doh.”
“I wasn’t very good at it. I ruined a lot of marble.” He kneaded the backs of her thighs and tried to ignore the way her body quivered in response. Her scent called to him, but he’d promised to give her a massage, and he would by damn go all the way to her toes.
“They should have given you Play-Doh, instead.” Abby sighed again. “But maybe you didn’t need it. You’re very good at this.”
“You think so?” Without quite realizing how it had happened, he’d begun stroking her inner thighs.
She must have liked having him do that, because she parted them just enough to give him greater access. But he wasn’t absolutely sure what she wanted. She’d asked for a massage, and he wasn’t finished with that. He hadn’t massaged her calves yet, or her feet.
Still, that fragrant place kept calling to him, and he began to explore, sliding his fingers between her silky thighs. Ah, there, right there. She was wet and ready for him, whether she wanted to admit that or not. And if he went a little farther…
She groaned.
“Abby.” He teased her with feathery strokes. “Tell me what you want.”
“Please, Roarke.” She lifted her hips just enough to give him all the room he needed. “Please.”
He didn’t have to be asked twice. Pushing deep with his two middle fingers, he stroked her clit with his forefinger. She pushed back against the pressure of his hand, her breath coming in quick little gasps.
As he stroked her, she moved in time with his rhythm. He could sense her reaching for what she needed, and he increased the pace. She came very quickly, her cries echoing in the small cave as moisture spilled over his fingers.
He kept them deep inside, absorbing her spasms, continuing to stroke her, making the sensation last. And when she finally sank down onto the sleeping bags, quivering and sighing, he slowly withdrew his hand.
Bracing himself on his forearms and his knees, he stretched out and settled lightly over her, giving her cover and protection. He kissed the back of her neck and her bare shoulder, but he resisted the urge to nip her soft skin.
He was flirting with disaster lying with her like this. If she rose to her hands and knees and he did the same, they would be one unzipped fly away from a werewolf binding. But he wouldn’t allow that to happen.
He would not lose his head over this woman, even though her scent filled him with longing. He would enjoy her, yes. Total denial had proved to be impossible.
Slowly he raised his hand to his mouth and tasted her sweetness as visions of thrusting into her made his cock throb and his balls ache. He would have to be very, very careful.
Chapter Eleven
So good. Abby lay in a dazed and boneless heap, congratulating herself on a most excellent idea. Endorphins surged through her body and muted the pain from the day’s hike. Roarke had given her pleasure and now he was keeping her relaxed muscles warm by resting lightly against her.
He must be supporting himself on his knees and forearms, because his full weight would be too much for her to handle, but this was nice, more than nice. She felt cared for, especially when he combed her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck and the curve of her shoulder. When he began to gently nibble, she became aware of several things.
First of all, she wasn’t quite as satisfied as she’d thought. She’d be more than happy to go another round, although that wouldn’t be very sporting of her. Technically it was Roarke’s turn.
That brought her to the second item demanding her attention. Roarke’s package rested lightly, but temptingly, between her thighs. As she knew from the blackmail pictures she’d taken in the woods, he was possessed of a very large package.
She’d promised to unwrap it for him, which she was more than willing to do. But now that his solid length was nestled against her, she’d become greedy. She wanted the full experience that package could provide, and she couldn’t have it.
Why, oh why hadn’t she tossed some condoms in her backpack? They wouldn’t have weighed much. In fact, ounce-for-ounce, they’d have delivered far more pleasure than the energy bar she’d tucked in a side pocket.
Roarke settled more firmly between her thighs as he nuzzled a spot behind her ear.
Instinctively, she shifted her weight to her knees and lifted her hips to accommodate him.
Drawing in a sharp breath, he slowly fit himself tight against her, but the soft denim of his jeans kept her from the connection she really wanted. Then he rocked forward, nudging the spot that was already wet and ready for him. She moaned in frustration.
His breathing quickened. Swearing softly, he nipped her earlobe. Then he pushed forward again, more insistently this time, and the crease of his fly rubbed in an erotic rhythm that made her gasp with pleasure.
Bracing herself on her forearms, she answered his rhythm as heat pulsed in her veins. “Roarke…I want…”
“I know.” Sliding a hand beneath her, he tunneled his fingers through her damp curls.
No, he didn’t know. She wanted more than an orgasm. She wanted him to remove the denim barrier to ecstasy and connect the way a man and woman were designed to do. But that was irresponsible and crazy, so she’d take what she could get.
Stroking her with a sure touch, he rocked against her, his jeans-clad thighs brushing her backside. “You’re killing me, Abby,” he said in a low, lust-roughened voice.
She was too far gone to respond. Instead she uttered a soft cry as the first wave of her
climax rolled through her. Then her world erupted in an orgasmic flow of light and heat that left her breathless with its power.
If he could give her this much pleasure with a mere touch, maybe she wouldn’t survive a full dose of Roarke’s loving. But she’d like to try. As she trembled in his strong grip, she longed for what she could not have.
Gradually her breathing steadied, but Roarke’s had not. She vowed to make good on her promise and give him some relief from what had to be incredible frustration after providing her with two climaxes.
She took a shaky breath. “Roarke, I—”
“It’s okay.” Slowly he released her and the air stirred as he moved away. “I need to…I need to leave for a little bit.”
“Leave?” She rolled to her back and sat up. “But it’s pouring out there.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He stood on the far side of the cave, his back to her as he pulled off his hiking boots. Next he removed his jacket, and then his shirt. He was stripping down.
Her chest grew tight. Sometimes she forgot who and what he was, but it appeared she was about to get a vivid reminder. “Are you going to shift?”
“Not here.”
Her immediate tension eased a little. Capturing it on film was one thing. Watching from a few feet away was a whole other deal.
She swallowed. “But why? I thought that you would want me to…” She wasn’t sure how to put it into words without embarrassing herself. In some ways they knew each other very well, but in others, not at all.
He kept his back to her as he shoved his jeans and briefs down. “I did. I still do. But it wouldn’t be wise right now. I’m thinking with my dick.”
“Oh.” Now that he’d mentioned it, she wouldn’t mind a glimpse of that part of his anatomy. She calculated the chances of that and decided they were pretty good considering he’d have to turn in her direction in order to walk out of the cave.
“A quick run in the rain will cool me down.” He turned.
“Stay.” It was the only word that her lust-crazed brain could come up with once she’d seen what she’d be missing if he left. The camera hadn’t done him justice. The light from the electric lantern revealed a magnificently erect penis surrounded by dark blond hair, and his balls, swollen and tight with excitement, begged for her touch.
He glanced at her, regret in his green eyes. His powerful chest, sprinkled with the same shade of dark blond hair surrounding his cock, heaved in a tortured sigh. “It would be a mistake.” Then he took his gorgeous body out of the circle of light from the lantern.
“No, it wouldn’t!” she called after him, but he didn’t answer. The bush covering the cave entrance rustled, indicating he’d stepped outside. Grabbing up a sleeping bag, Abby wrapped herself in it as she hurried after him. “Roarke, this is silly! Come back!”
But he was gone, using the cold rain, she supposed, as a natural version of a cold shower. She could use one, too, after getting a good look at Roarke’s equipment that she wouldn’t be touching any time soon.
Tossing down the sleeping bag, she shoved past wet branches and gasped as the cold rain struck her heated skin. “Roarke?” She pushed her hair out of her face and peered into the darkness.
Still no answer. She tried to listen for him as rain pelted her head and streamed in rivulets down her body. She shivered in the cold. Something rustled to her left, and she turned in that direction.
A shadowy form rose from the forest floor about twenty feet away. Her throat constricted and her heart thundered as she stared at the shadow. Was it man or beast? When it wheeled and loped away through the trees, she knew.
She stood there a moment longer in hopes the cold rain would drum some sense into her. What in the name of heaven was she thinking, getting sexually involved, on any level, with a creature that could be a man one minute and a wolf the next? Sure, he had a helluva johnson, but she was a sensible adult woman who could look beyond that kind of eye candy.
Her mission in coming out here had nothing to do with sex, and she needed to remember that. She was here because she wanted to confirm Grandpa Earl’s Bigfoot sighting. Period. End of story. Werewolf sex hadn’t been part of the bargain.
She’d allowed Roarke’s personal magnetism to cloud her judgment, but she wouldn’t let that happen again. Yes, she’d been treated to a couple of really nice orgasms without returning the favor, but that was his problem. He’d left. And turned into a wolf.
If he preferred running around on all fours in the rain to sitting in a cozy cave with her, that was his choice, but she had other plans. Food sounded good right now, along with a rub-down with her camp towel and putting on dry clothes. Moving the branches covering the entrance, she ducked back inside.
Roarke kept watch until Abby went back inside the cave. Although he didn’t sense any danger nearby, he wasn’t about to run off and leave her standing naked and vulnerable in the rain. Naked and beautiful, too.
No wonder he’d nearly forgotten himself back in the cave. He’d gazed with longing as rain had slipped lovingly over her shoulders, her taut nipples, and her supple thighs. Raindrops traced paths he longed to follow with his tongue. He didn’t dare, not now that he understood the power of this attraction to ruin both their lives.
He’d been close to unzipping his jeans and taking her. Too damned close. Realizing that had scared him enough to push him out of the cave before he acted on that impulse. He’d bought into her concept that they each needed to blow off some sexual steam, and maybe that had worked for her.
It wouldn’t work for him. She would have been more than willing to provide him with a release in a similar way, but it wouldn’t be enough, and now he knew that. Better to stay away from sex completely.
Once Abby was safely in the cave, Roarke took off at a run. How he loved the feel of his wolf muscles stretching and contracting! His large paws sent pine needles flying and filled the air with the sharp tang of evergreens.
The run would calm his unruly libido, but that’s about all he’d accomplish loping around the forest. They were too far from the Bigfoot pair to make that journey. He’d have to leave Abby alone for a good part of the night, and he wasn’t willing to do that.
She would probably be fine, but he couldn’t guarantee that, and besides, he’d promised to be back soon. So he traveled in a circle, always staying within a ten-minute radius of the cave entrance.
The rain drenching his coat kept the other creatures inside nests and burrows for the night, although a werewolf in the forest tended to make that happen, too. That meant the only sounds were those of his paws hitting the forest floor and the steady pounding of the rain against the leaves.
Then he heard a noise that had nothing to do with the forest, and everything to do with humans. Someone had started playing O Susanna! on a harmonica. And not well, either.
Roarke paused and faced the direction of the sound, wincing at more than one sour note. He was upwind of the harmonica player, which was why he hadn’t caught the scent of another human in the area. Damn. As if he didn’t have enough problems.
He’d have to check this out and then notify Abby that they weren’t alone. With luck it was a hiker and not a Bigfoot enthusiast. Either way, Roarke would have to be more vigilant and make sure he and Abby weren’t followed.
Moving silently through the trees toward the sound of the harmonica, Roarke decided that a bad harmonica player was better than someone who made no noise and could go undetected, especially if they were downwind. Roarke didn’t like to be taken by surprise.
Finally he could see the tent sitting in a small clearing. Dome-shaped and glowing from a lantern inside, it looked like a giant stoplight, except for the peace sign created with duct tape that decorated the back panel. Whoever owned the tent wasn’t going for camouflage.
Then Roarke remembered reading a gonzo article claiming that Bigfoot was naturally curious and liked bright colors and shiny things, sort of a Bigfoot-as-packrat theory. It wasn’t true, but a few Bigfoot hunters had lat
ched onto the idea because it gave them another technique for making contact.
Roarke wanted to be wrong in the worst way, but he was afraid he’d just found someone from the Bigfoot fringe element. Keeping well hidden by the trees, he circled around to the front of the tent. The front flap was propped up to serve as a canopy, and the harmonica player sat cross-legged in the doorway.
He smelled musty, as if he might still believe in storing his clothes in mothballs. Roarke took note of that so that if the guy popped up on his sensory radar again, Roarke would know who he was dealing with.
Next he made a visual check. The camper looked to be about Roarke’s age, but there the resemblance stopped. Well, there was zero resemblance in Roarke’s current state, but as a human Roarke was taller, in better shape, and had better eyesight. This guy obviously needed his black-framed glasses or he wouldn’t have them on out here in the woods.
Roarke wondered if his outfit was designed to attract Bigfoot, too. The florescent orange sweat suit made him look like a traffic cone and clashed in a spectacular fashion with the red tent. Good thing Bigfoot was colorblind. Roarke wished he could be, at least for the next five minutes.
The guy deserved props for nerve, though. Not everyone would hike into the woods alone and deliberately try to attract a creature reputed to be nearly ten feet tall and weigh close to five hundred pounds. Roarke wondered what the harmonica player planned to do if he actually attracted a Sasquatch into his camp.
He wouldn’t, of course. The creatures were terminally shy besides being colorblind. If Roarke were looking for a good match in the world of nature, he’d compare the Sasquatch to a tarantula—big, hairy, and scary, but with poor eyesight and a tendency to flee rather than fight.
As Roarke watched from the shadows, the guy tapped his harmonica on his sleeve and brought it back to his mouth. When he launched into a godawful rendition of Amazing Grace, Roarke stifled an urge to howl in protest.
Enough. He’d ID’ed the interloper and recorded his scent. If Roarke and Abby were unlucky enough to cross paths with him, Roarke would know what he was up against and find a way to send the guy off in a different direction. Melting into the shadows, Roarke headed for the cave.
Werewolf in the North Woods Page 11