by Minda Webber
Nic felt a blast of terror. "What happened? Is Alex alright?"
Observing the worry in his eyes, Sam quickly explained what had occurred outside the Statue of Liberty; she didn't want him to fear for his brother. She could wait to blast him for his wolfish secret, since everything was relative.
Taking things from the beginning, she led Nic through the night's events, telling him all that had happened, with a few minor exceptions: She left out her seeing Alex naked and Alex's head in her crotch.
As Nic listened, his fists clenched and unclenched in anger, and the muscle in his jaw began to tick. The two of them might have been stoned tonight! He was furious; but then, so was Sam. And to be honest, Sam didn't seem nearly as angry about almost being made a rock woman and losing her quarry as she was about Alex turning into a werewolf. Suddenly a thought struck him, hard, smack-dab and dead center, and he was aware of just how mad Sam really was. And why. She knew he was a werewolf.
A little late, Nic tried to gather Sam into his arms. She backed away, shouting, "You secretive sneak! You four-footed beast! You impersonating impostor! You're a wolf in creep's clothing and you didn't bother to mention it!"
She'd called him worse, Nic realized. There was yet hope. He had a lot riding on what he said next, and he needed to proceed with caution to take the bite out of his words.
Hands on hips, eyes flashing, she snarled, "You… Marxist werewolf, you!"
Nic shook his head like a dog shakes off water. Of all the names she could have shouted, he wasn't expeering that. "I've been called names before, but never that. I'll have to give you an A for originality." He laughed.
"You cold-blooded Russian werewolf! You royal coldblooded Russian werewolf! What other secrets are you keeping? Do you have a wife somewhere? Do you moonlight as a spook? Do you wear women's underwear? Were you alive during the Russian Revolution? Do you get dipped for fleas once a month?"
Nic addressed the second to last question; the others were not deserving of an answer. "I was a young boy during the Revolution, yes."
Sam's mouth opened to continue her rant—she was just getting started—but his words stopped her dead in her tracks. He'd been a boy in 1918, which made him really old. "You… look younger," she muttered finally. Was he too old for her?
Nic stared at her, as if reading her mind. "For an expert about these things, you really aren't using your head. You know we age slower than humans—about a year to your three."
Now it was Sam's turn to shake her head—like a dog, even though she wasn't related to any. Nic was too old for her; decades too old. He'd probably fought in World War II and knew Stalin personally. He'd actually had to live behind the iron curtain—not a pleasant situation for a werewolf, as they were allergic to iron. Yep, this man was old. If only he weren't also such a rugged, virile, magnificent male. "I hate your lying werewolf guts," she snapped.
She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. Well, wasn't that mature, she thought. She should have just settled for a left hook to the groin.
She clasped her fist and raised it, then lowered it again.
"Why stop pulling punches now?" he growled.
Sam sniffed. "I believe in keeping something in reserve."
"Come on, Sam, don't be mad at me."
"Mad? Oh, I'm not mad. I'm howling furious. Or I would be howling if I were one of your kind. You should be horsewhipped," she stated emphatically, then hesitated a moment and corrected, "wolf-whipped, for all the secrets you've kept from me. And now you say you care? What a dog you are."
She was wound up and going strong. "How can I ever trust you? First you pretend to be Prince of the Playbats. Well, you really are a Prince, just not Prince Varinksi, who happens to be your cousin. Later I think you're a wolfish competitor, my arch business rival. Now I find out you're a werewolf, pretending to be human, who once pretended to be a vampire. Just what will I find out next?"
When Nic opened his mouth to defend himself, Sam sliced her hand through the air. "Don't answer. I know what you are—a first-rate jerk!"
Nic thought for a minute she might punch him, but she didn't. He didn't know why he found this ranting and raving fascinating, but he did. He didn't know why he liked these violent tendencies in her, but he did. Probably it was due to his werewolf DNA. "Come on, Sammy, you're making a mountain out of a mothball."
"That's a molehill!" she shrieked. "Trust is not a molehill!"
"You know you can trust me, even with your life. I only pretended to be something I'm not because of the business situation. But that won't happen anymore. You know all my secrets," he swore, his gray eyes smoldering with sincerity and concern. "Honestly, I'm telling you the truth and nothing but the truth now."
He looked so good, standing there half-naked. He smelled so good, too, with his woodsy, musky scent. She weakened. "I might trust you now and then."
Nic smiled.
Annoyed, Sam added one final thought. "But you'll just have to guess when. Maybe I'll trust you tomorrow, maybe next year. Maybe the year 2075. Of course, I'll be dead by then, but you might still be around—alive and licking."
Eyes darkening in anger, Nic cursed. Why was she not more forgiving? It seemed he would have to crawl, something a Strakhov just did not do. "I know what you want, Sam. You want me to crawl on my hands and knees and beg your forgiveness."
"In human form," she agreed. Somehow, a begging werewolf would use its puppy dog eyes and she'd cave in and rain kisses all over his handsome snout.
Pride always went before a fall. Nic fell. Dropping to his knees, his expression taut with disapproval at what he was doing, he said, "I'm truly sorry, Sam, for hurting you, for lying to you, and for not telling you about my heritage. And that is the whole truth."
"You wouldn't know the truth if it bit you on the behind," she grumped.
Controlling his anger, Nic explained, "I meant to tell you sooner about my heritage, but I wanted to wait until you had forgiven me for all the other stuff. Stuff you had every right to be angry about." He nuzzled her hand. "You've got me down on my knees, and you can have me eating out of your hand if you just whistle, Sam. I'm yours—beast and all."
Sam almost gave up, gave in; the man had too much animal appeal. But then, that was the nature of this beast. With willpower she didn't know she possessed, she backed away, maintaining her dignity. "Get up, Nic. I'll accept your apologies, but I won't forgive you."
Nic was on his feet in less than a second, accepting her challenge. He moved quickly, gracefully, and caught both her hands and forced them around behind her back. He hauled her resisting body against his own, took swift advantage. "Whistle for me, Sam—whistle because you're going to be mine."
Lowering his head, he kissed her long and hard, a ruthless kiss. It was a kiss of possession that devoured her, tasted and lastly cherished her. He had been too long without her, and the wolf in him had finally recognized its mate.
Sam didn't want to respond, but she couldn't help herself. He tasted of the richness of the earth and dark pleasure. His arms were strong and warm against her, holding her to him, pinning her. She could feel his desire, which increased her own. She was ready and able.
Unfortunately, she wasn't quite willing. Making a monumental effort, she pulled away from his questing lips. "It's too much, Nic. I need time to think. I… You hurt me bad."
Glancing down at the huge bulge straining the zipper of his jeans, he remarked, "I'm hurting myself. How do you expect me to get any sleep?"
She grinned impishly. "You could try counting sheep. If you don't eat them first." And then she walked out of his hotel room, trying to feel proud of her self-control.
Who's That Knocking at My Door?
Twenty minutes later, Sam had showered and was pacing her hotel room. Her hormones in overdrive, her overactive imagination had Nic buck naked and cavorting upon her hotel bed. It was an appealing image.
So, he had crawled and begged for forgiveness. Well, maybe not begged, Sam admitted, but he had asked for her to
forgive him and had been on his knees. To have a werewolf prince on his knees—what more could a Paranormalbuster want?
Tapping her fingers on the headboard of the bed, she considered the situation. Could she understand why Nic had kept his heritage a secret? Sure, if she were totally honest with herself. She also believed he would have told her sooner or later. So why she was pacing in her room when she could be making love to the Russian werewolf of her dreams? Quickly she made her decision. Who was she going to call?
Nic stepped out of a long, cold shower, his body still aching with lust. The phone rang, and he grumpily picked it up. A long sharp whistle pierced his eardrums.
Sam!
After grabbing his jeans, he made it to her room in less than three seconds. Pounding hard, he found himself grinning like a fool. She had forgiven him! Hadn't she?
Behind the door, Sam wore a sneaky smile. She wasn't a dumb broad with spaghetti for brains; she knew exactly who was knocking on her door. The big bad wolf, of course, and he could come and be as bad as he wanted—provided he was bad with her. For his loving, she was a piggy, and she was ready to see him huff, puff, and get down to the blowing.
Sliding back the bolt and dropping her towel, she grinned. Werewolves sure could move fast when they needed to.
As the door flew open, Nic charged inside. His nostrils flared. He scented his prey and her spicy arousal, and his gray eyes shimmered with barely suppressed passion. He worshipped her body with those eyes.
Sam lost herself in those swirling gray depths. This man was a beast—wasn't she lucky? She could feel the tips of her nipples tingling, longed to have him bite and suckle them. The flesh puckered with white-hot heat, and she felt the area between her thighs grow damp. Parting her mouth in an open invitation, the tip of her tongue snaked out, wetting her lips.
Nic swept her into his arms, kicking the door shut and then dropping Sam onto the hotel's bed with a big bounce. The minute he had heard her whistle, he had gone into heat… werewolf mating mode, needing to possess Sam completely. He needed to mark her as his for all time. All others needed to know and beware.
Desire made Sam's eyes heavy as she stared up at her wolfman. He growled, looking like he was going to gobble her up—and now that she knew he was a werewolf, that was a distinct possibility. Thinking fast, she decided to keep still, to wait to see just what he decided to gobble.
Nic's desire crashed against him in waves, like an ocean gone mad. He didn't know how much longer he could wait; Sam was stretched out nude before him like a banquet. Growling again, he crouched between her knees, spreading her legs wider as he leaned down and took her in his mouth. Her spicy, wild scent drove him crazy. She tasted of warm honey and musk.
Nic gobbled, licked and sucked, and Sam realized she had landed smack-dab in the middle of paradise. Her nerves were screaming with pleasure. As wave after wave of ecstasy washed through her, moaning and writhing she called out his name over and over. Finally she erupted in a climax that had her crying.
Sliding up to kiss her, Nic said, "Remember, sweetheart?"
She nodded. "It's all coming back to me now. I'm a fool to have made us wait this long." She sighed.
He didn't agree or disagree; he simply parted her thighs and eased himself between them. His enormous length filled her in one thrust, and raw, primal sensations took over them both.
"Welcome home, peter," she whispered throatily.
"Oh, Sam, you feel so good, so hot, so sweet…" Nic gasped, his breaths short.
Kissing his neck, Sam urged him on. She was ready for the wild ride to come.
Sucking her nipple into his mouth, Nic laved it with his tongue, while he set up a hard-driving rhythm. His sex filled her over and over, reaching ever deeper into her wet and throbbing core.
He groaned.
She moaned.
His hand on her hips tightened as her fingers clutched his buttocks, digging in. Nic felt like he was king of the world, his emotions in wild flux. This female made him hunger like no other. She made him wild with need, and when he was inside her he was happier than he had ever been in his whole life and more fulfilled. He kept up the pace, losing himself in this paradise he had almost lost.
Sam cried out. The sound echoed in the room, and Nic saw her eyes flare. She bucked against him, soaring higher and higher into the heavens of pleasure. Her expression was like a ghost ascending who had finally found its way home after a long and empty time on earth.
"Oh, baby," she panted in violent pleasure. The world began to shimmer and fade. It was only she and Nic, together, soaring through the skies, their heartbeats matching, their movements in perfect accord.
Nic covered her mouth in a fierce kiss. His hard thrusts incited her into another long, heartrending climax, one of both emotional and physical impact. She came violently as Nic shouted her name, and his own release was so explosive that it went on and on and on.
He tenderly kissed her, rolling over, taking her with him. After a few moments of postcoital bliss, he remarked smugly, "I guess you've forgiven me."
"What gives you that impression?" she replied.
His eyes roamed her body. A smirk graced his handsome face, and he kissed her forehead. Sam loved every minute of it.
"So, I'm a sucker for a fast-running, sexy-biting, sweet-talking werewolf," she admitted.
"I take that as forgiveness."
"Smart man."
Wrinkling her nose, Sam lay her head on his chest and said, "I'm not a one-night stand, anymore—or even an hour-and-a-half lean."
"You never were, Sam." Staring into her gorgeous blues, he asked, "Do you believe me yet?"
"Yes." Nic was her wild thing. He made her heart sing, was a wild man in the bed, beside the bed, or under it. She loved him for his intensity as well as his kindness. This wolfman also got her jokes, and that was saying a lot.
Nic was the best man ever. He was one werewolf in a million, and she respected him for his business abilities, his humor and his intelligence, and she'd begun to understand his arrogance and chauvinism. She was crazy for his thick wavy black hair, the twinkle in his gray eyes and the way he looked at her like she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—even when she was having her worst hair day. And that meant something to a woman in a business where being too feminine got a girl killed.
"Forgiven and forgotten?" Nic questioned, running his fingers through the strands of her hair.
"Forgotten? Don't press your luck, buster."
Nic snorted. Sam was so wonderfully stubborn, he wanted to roar in approval since she was now his and his alone. "Don't press it? But I want to—again and again and again." He pushed his body against her.
She giggled. "Well, I might allow that. And I might consider forgetting all the bad stuff if you let me groom you when you're in wolf form."
Lifting his head, he studied the pinkish blush on her soft skin. "You're not bothered by my turning furry and clawed, are you?"
"Nope. We Paranormalbusters must take it all in stride. All in a night's work. Just another unnatural occurrence in another ordinary day."
Nic laughed and hugged her close. "What a lucky wolf I am. A human woman who doesn't mind my ancestry, and who only wants to groom me. Sure, Sam. Anytime."
"And you won't mind me putting a red bow in your hair?" she asked slyly.
Dropping his head back to the pillow, he gave her a whack on the butt. "Grooming, yes. Ribbons, no."
"Can't blame a girl for trying," she giggled.
Pulling her up so that they were turned face to face, he tenderly ran his fingers over her lips and nose. "You've bewitched me, Sam. All you have to do is laugh, breathe or wiggle your nose, and I want you." The feelings were fresh and new and frightening, but they were also exhilarating and erotic.
She kissed him. "And all you have to do is enter a room and I go all mushy inside." She was crazy about Nic, and he was crazy about her. Maybe they could merge their businesses and, even better, maybe they could merge their lives!<
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"You drive me crazy. I hunger for you so much that I doubt I'll ever get enough."
"Yeah, and you're better than a Hershey's bar," Sam admitted, half teasing, half not.
"The height of compliments. Now who's sweet-talking?"
Sam giggled.
"What's so funny?"
"When I opened the door tonight, I thought you were going to pounce on me."
"That's what wolves do when they're starving. And I was ravenous," Nic admitted. He nuzzled her ear.
"Well; I liked it. You know, Nicolas Petroff Strakhov, you can be a real jerk at times, but you're an irresistible jerk." Sam kissed his chest.
"And I think you've broken Pete. He's limp from all the hard work he just did," he teased. Glancing down at his flaccid flesh he made a face of mock sorrow.
Grinning evilly, Sam slid down his body. It was time to behead the Czar. Beginning a conversation with Pete, she praised and lavished him with kisses and sucking until he was Great again. It was indeed just what the weary, headstrong fellow had needed to rise to the occasion.
Sliding back up, she asked Nic pertly, "How's everyone down there now?"
"Perfect, just like you," Nic growled. And flipping her over on her hands and knees, he put his head of state back in the Kremlin. He was home.
Transported again to paradise, Sam laughed. Who would have thought she'd love it doggie style?
Nic at Night and Nic in the Morning
Sam awoke and glanced out the window of the hotel. It was still night, though the sky was beginning to gray. She felt fantastic wrapped in Nic's arms, her back pressed against his hard body. The light from the bathroom revealed the bedsheet had slipped down to their hips, and as she glanced down at her breasts, she saw two prominent hickeys. She grinned. If she was going to lie down with werewolves, she was going to get bit.
Eight million stories in the Big Apple, and now hers was one of them. The Russian werewolf in New York with the American Parnormalbuster from Vermont; it would make a great movie of the week on the Ghost Network.