by Tina Gower
I send him a glare. “Hey? What’s so bad about being a good student?”
“Nothing, just razzing you.” He pretends to itch the corner of his mouth and hides a grin under his hand. “Must have channeled Ali or something.” He sniffs the air. “Speaking of…”
The scent hits me before he can finish his thought. A tink of the glass saucepan cover adds to the severity of the situation. Our dinner’s about to burn. I shove my computer aside and rush to the kitchen, freeing the cover by using my shirt sleeve as a mitt. Setting it into the sink, I rush back to turn down the sauce. A small bubble splatters on my cream top.
“No. No. No. Ack.” I grab the handle, but each of my burners is taken over by some pot, so I skirt it over to the sink too. In the process I clip the corner of the ceramic pan I’d chosen for the finished product. It shatters on the floor. I dance around the tiny shards, regretting not having on shoes.
Becker appears right behind me. “Whoa. Hold on.”
He proceeds to scoop me off my feet. The ceramic crunches under his feet as he hefts me over to the couch. My descent isn’t as graceful as when he scooped me up. I land on my back, his arms pinned under my lower back and butt. At first I think it’s because he didn’t expect me to weigh quite as much, but when I see his expression, I realize.
His eyes glow a deep amber around the rims of his iris, the teal center nearly vanished under his dilated pupils. The blushing Becker is gone, replaced by his more feral counterpart. He dips his head to the space where my neck and shoulder meet. I’m frozen. Part of me wants to give him full access, the other part wants to shut this down before it gets out of control. Although the part that wants to stop is a much smaller, tinier voice. One I’m frantically shoving into a closet.
His breath tickles against my veins, sending sensations straight to every erogenous zone. My heart kicks into a higher gear. Becker responds with a growl like I’ve revved the engine. Does he know what he’s doing right now? Is he aware?
“Becker—” I’d meant to get his attention, but my voices scratches, nearly husky. He leans in further to my neck like he might kiss me there. I turn to give him access. Exposing that sensitive space.
He closes his eyes, swallowing hard. One hand slides out from under me and slides over my stomach, around my side, skims the side of my breast. He pauses there.
“Ian—” I try again, not really knowing what I’m asking.
His fingers curl into my side. “Don’t.” He sucks in a breath. “Don’t ever show your throat to a wolf.”
—Again. The last word he almost says hovers in the air between us, unspoken. His eyes snap to mine. His meaning is plain. He means for me to never show another wolf but him.
I nod. One quick movement. He eases from me, keeping contact at my side, and brings his knee onto the couch. Hovering over me, his hands explore down to my ankle where he massages my feet.
“You got cut,” he says. “I could smell the blood.”
His fingers lightly explore the bottom of my feet. He reluctantly pulls himself away from me to sit and find the offending mark. In a second he presses it, to keep it from bleeding. I catch a glimpse, a small nick, nothing.
My heart beats against my throat. “It’ll be fine. It’s already stopped bleeding.” I slowly bring my body to his, curling into a ball to reach my feet at the angle he’s holding them on his lap. “See,” I move his finger aside. He lets me. “It doesn’t even need a Band-Aid.”
My words don’t convince him. He pins me down with a stare. “You’re not going back in there.”
“You’re right,” I counter. “Not without my shoes.” I pivot my legs and slide them into my slippers. They’re a sturdy leather, lined with fake wool. He watches me as I back away from him. His hands are folded in his lap, giving me the impression he’s allowing this disobedience until the next immediate sign of danger.
I make quick work of the mess, but the trash is full. Becker falls into place, removing the liner and making room for the ceramic pieces.
He cinches up the bag. “I got it.” I reach to protest, but he pulls away. “No. I need the air.” Two quick strides to the door and the turns around. “Lo—”
“I know,” I cut him off. “Lock the door and wait for your special knock.”
His lips flatten in an unamused expression. He slams the door behind him. I lock it and use the moment to calm myself. Deep breaths. Stretches. Visuals of Becker firmly keeping his shirt on.
And then stripping it off.
Okay. No more visuals.
Resisting him gets harder each day. Luckily it seems he’s also avoiding it too, whether that’s because he doesn’t feel the attraction beyond his physical need or because he knows it will be a terrible idea. Or both. The Lone Wolf explained that his sex drive should be kicking into full gear. Maybe that’s all this is. He’d see anyone as a potential partner, not just me. If it weren’t for his dedication to his pack, his only pack mate, he’d probably be out prowling for someone to scratch behind his ears and other places.
I scrape up my long hair into a high ponytail and drag up my sleeves. Time to layer some pasta. On cue Becker instigates his super secret knock. Like a good girl, as he taught me, I make sure it’s him through the peephole, and open.
He skirts around me, keeping his gaze down because he’s still got a touch of glow in his iris. “Is it all right if I use your shower?”
I nod, trying to keep away images of a naked Becker in my bathroom, doing…things. “Sure. Towels in the cabinet next to the sink.”
He heads that way.
“The lasagna will be done in about an hour. Early dinner since we didn’t really get a good lunch?”
He shrugs, not turning to face me. “Fine with me.”
The shower comes on minutes later. My brain projects a scene fit for an erotica romance. Becker slowly shampooing his hair. Becker rubbing his chest. Becker reaching below his waist….
Me surprising him, stepping in naked to help. Soaping up his back. Biting his shoulder.
The splashing water in the next room doesn’t help my imagination. Becker is in my shower. I repeat. A hot sex-crazed werewolf is naked in my bedroom and I haven’t had sex in over two years.
I march over to my television. Turn it onto the nearest sports station. Baseball works. Baseball totally works.
Chapter 11
Dinner is uneventful and quiet. Becker spends most of the time on his tablet retrieving information from my case notes. He sends screen shots to my email while I do the dishes. After, we watch a movie sitting at opposite ends of the couch. It’s difficult to sit with my legs crossed and arms in my lap after knowing what almost went down in this very same spot. The movie is some action adventure that has zero plot. There’s an uncomfortable moment where the hero bangs the female lead, who had a total of five lines, against a car in the moonlight.
Becker and I both sit stiff, pretending the scene isn’t existing or unfolding in front of us. I excuse myself once the credits roll and get ready for bed early.
“I’ll be on the couch,” Becker mumbles.
I shrug, but he’s turned away and doesn’t look at me. I wait at the door to my room, wanting to assure him he’s welcome if he needs to do his pack thing. Will it make the situation worse? Better? It might have nothing to do with sexual urges, but because he’s been forthcoming with other issues and so tight-lipped about this, that doesn’t seem likely.
It’s better to stay away. When he’s close I don’t think straight. I crave the touch, the inevitable promise of a kiss. I want it. But what we want and what we need sometimes don’t align. This is one of those times.
I sigh and decide to keep the door open. At the parking garage of his work he had an episode like the one on the couch, later Friday night he was fine. We’re probably being overly cautious. Plus access to my only bathroom is through my bedroom. Bad design, but cheaper rent.
I get into my night gear, remember the Lone Wolf book and tiptoe retrieve it from the shelf in
the living room. Becker is turned into the couch, snuggly tucked between the cushions and the backrest, arms crossed, eyes closed.
I read until my eyelids creep lower and lower, ignoring the sounds of Becker waking, pacing in the living room, raiding the fridge, tossing and turning on the couch.
Wolves become synched with their pack mates. Sleep is a difficult task without pack. This is an issue that is difficult to resolve. Some wolves resort to sleeping in secured public areas. The nearness of others and the white noise of voices ease wolves to relax and rest for an hour or two.
Movie theaters, parks, office break rooms. As long as the wolf has deemed it safe. There are a number of places that wolves have used to replace the nearness and patterns of pack sleep habits. Once pack is reestablished, sleep will synch with new pack members and come more easily.
Can humans be affected by this same phenomena? I’ve not slept well, except when I was with Becker, since he and I started this venture. It’s not like he knew enough to warn me. I concentrate on his presence in the other room, letting his proximity lull me to relax. It works. The familiar fog of exhaustion wraps around me. One slow blink, my lids glue together. I pry them open to check the time. Midnight.
I manage to shove the book between my nightstand and bed, then let go. I’m in a half-wake state when I hear Becker shuffle into my room to the bathroom. The flush is so distant it might as well be in another town. He washes his hands and this incorporates into my dream. A gentle bubble of a brook in the moonlight. My eyes blink again; he’s standing at the foot of my bed, hands in his pockets.
I’m too tired to open my eyes a third time, when the bed dips under his weight, but the familiar pressure from his body doesn’t come. Awareness, like I’m watching a dream, that he’s sagged, sitting at the edge, and sleeping upright. With my foot I guide him to lay his body on the mattress and he does, a respectable distance away. It’s enough. My mind goes blank and into a deep sleep.
Rumbling. It’s a loud even sound. Close to a snore, but more like a growl. And it’s coming from the werewolf who’s plastered himself behind me. The covers have been kicked off. I’m vaguely aware it might have been me, although I’m mixing my nights together and still drowning in a confused mental state.
Becker’s shirt is off. My tank top has ridden up around my armpits. His front to my back, skin on skin. He’s hot. Feverish. Or I am. It’s hard to tell where he begins and I end.
His hand glides over my bare stomach and his growl deepens. It’s a constant rhythm, almost like a low, gravely purr. His fingers curl, kneading. He unexpectedly presses his groin against me. He’s rock hard and this discovery sends a very pleasant zing of awareness just below where his hand is massaging. He eases, then cradles back into me: a sensual suggestive rhythm.
His cheek is pressed against the back of my neck. He rolls, until his lips replace that same spot. He breathes heavily there. Then a moan, him or me? It’s him. His breath morphs into pants, his lips shove harder into my neck, his rhythm keeping that slow painful pace. I bite my lip, willing his hand to slide down, to where I ache. Just once. One time for both of us. And then we’ll pretend it never happened. We’ll pretend it was a shared dream.
He licks. It nearly undoes me. His tongue flattens on my skin, dragging roughly up my spine. I dig my fingernails into the base of my collarbone, below my throat.
My eyes open, hazy, then focus. Four in the morning. I squeeze them shut, easing to my back. Becker follows my movements. It’s then I see his eyes are shut, his movements choppy, yet lazy. He must be asleep.
I should make sure he’s fully aware. I’d want him to do the same for me. I ask, but my mouth opens and a harsh hiss comes out instead. One leg shifts in-between mine, bumping in the exact right spot. That hand on my stomach? He skims my sides until he’s in contact with the folds of my tank top blocking my breast from his touch. He makes quick work of that, pushing it higher until one breast pops out exposing a nipple. He nuzzles it with his nose, licks it. Sucks. I’m nearly there. I’m gone. I’ve lost all ability to speak.
I should tell him. I should stop him. I should shove him where I need him. I drag my fingers through is hair, with every intention to bring his face up to mine to check to see if he’s aware. If he knows what’s happening.
“Becker,” I whisper. He resists. I arch away from his touch. “Ian,” I try a little louder.
His head comes up fast, another growl like he’s angry I’ve taken away his favorite toy. He aims for my lips, but I stretch and he comes in just under my chin. He kisses me there, with a little more urgency. Over and over and then his mouth opens and he sets his teeth there at my neck. The growls intensify. My pulse beats so hard it’s painful as it moves through my arteries. Our hips align and he pauses.
I shift, unsure what’s happening. “Becker.” I swallow, dragging in air. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you awake?”
He doesn’t answer. There’s a long beat of silence. And even longer moment where the sweat of his palm drags down my side. An even more awkward second where his glowing gaze takes in his surroundings.
Then he shoves himself off of me, covering me with the sheet in one quick movement.
He’s shaking. “I’m sorry. Oh Gods. I didn’t realize.” He brings up both palms in surrender, rakes his fingers through his hair and laces them behind his head, bringing his elbows forward. “I was on the couch, then I came to the bathroom.” He looks at the clock. “Four hours ago. I sat on the edge of your bed, like I couldn’t go any further—”
I sit up, holding a finger to quiet him. “Shh, Ian. It’s okay. It’s normal—”
“It’s fucking normal?” His voice goes an octave higher. “It’s normal?”
“We’ve been sleeping near each other for a few weeks—”
“That’s not how this works.” His fist comes down hard on my desk. “It’s not supposed to be like this. I should be able to control it.”
“I don’t think it’s that clear cut. I’ve—”
“I’m the werewolf.” He lunges at me, then draws away just a quickly. He’s like a caged wild thing. “I know how this works.”
His eye are wide, his teeth clenched. He glances worried looks at me. I’m tempted to say I liked it, that maybe his horrification is because he’s afraid he’s pushed himself on me. But then I’m flooded with self-consciousness that it’s because he doesn’t feel what I feel. His hormones are whacked out trying to regulate themselves now that he’s more stable. Or had he had been dreaming of someone else? Maybe a werewolf. Like the one they had matched him to in Turmoil. I clutch the sheets closer, higher, cover more of my body.
“You don’t get it.” His fists go to his hips and he addresses the wall. “You don’t understand.”
My cheeks are hot, but I’m past embarrassed, now anger wells up inside. “Then make me understand,” I say, my jaw stiff.
He kneels by the bed, his expression fierce, like he can force comprehension onto me. “It’s like an ache, a pain that won’t go away.”
“I’m a pain that won’t go away?” I’ve squeezed the sheets so tight, it cuts off circulation to my lower extremities.
He presses his hands around his head like a vise. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. To be without a pack is like being sick. The worst kind of sick. Body aches, fever, chills. I ache. When you touch me it relieves that pain.”
I watch him from the corner of my eyes. I can’t look at him I’m so angry. It’s not like I asked for a werewolf to attach himself to me. “I didn’t realize I was pushing myself on you. I thought it was helping.”
“It is.” He balls up the sheets near my legs into his fingers. “I don’t know why it’s working differently with you. If I’d known I wouldn’t have ever let you climb into my bed after what happened with the Roberts case. I’m sorry.”
My grip on the sheets loosens. “You already said that.”
“I’m sorry.” He repeats it, but not in a way that most people do when they can’t stop apo
logizing. It’s like there’s more that he can’t say, can’t quite verbalize. His gaze goes to my lips, lingers there.
I scoot against the propped pillows and lean back. “If you were upset for my sake, don’t be. I’m confused about this, too, but I don’t blame you. It was fine. A little concerning, because I didn’t know…if you…if you wanted it.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, ruffing his fingers over the top of his hair. I place a hand on his back and he stops the anxious fidgeting. It’s as though it melts from his body, slithering out of the room like an unwanted pest.
“We’ll figure something out.” I test scooting closer to him, he seems to tolerate it, maybe even relaxes more, so I inch a little further. I don’t dare to push it too much. “I’m sure this is only temporary. This feeling.”
He sighs. One hand hooks in mine. We stare at our connection, our hands intertwined. And then there is that change in the air again. A crackle of energy, a lot like the uneasiness right before a lightning storm.
“I think there is something different about me, too. Some change I can’t place.” I lick my lips, unable to look at him when I admit it.
His fingers lightly explore my arm, skimming upwards. I straighten my arm across his body; he continues stroking. Nerves tingle. Tiny hairs stand on end.
I swallow, my voice catching. “It might be a lot like what you must be struggling with.”
One of his hands rests in the crook of my elbow, his thumb stroking against my skin, grazing against my nipple. I’m not sure if it’s an accident.
He tips my chin with his other hand and our gazes meet. I’m lost again in the flecks of gold and teal. A slight gap in my curtains let in a steam of moonlight. The light outlines his biceps, the side of his face, his messy hair.
His thumb slides across my lips. “You have no idea. Not even a fraction.” He leans close, our lips hovering. He shivers and closes his eyes. “Say stop. Tell me to stop it.”
He gives me a desperate look. I don’t want to be the one to stop it. I can’t. Does he think I’m any stronger? I’m not. Is it because he has no willpower? I don’t buy it.