Look Before You Bake: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (Honeycomb Falls Book 2)

by Cassie Wright

  Arthur is just watching me from across the fire. That comfortable ease we were sharing is gone. Something predatory has come close to his skin, and I don't feel like I can relax. I don't want to run away, either, though. It's a strange sensation – arousal, nervousness, a touch of fear, and more excitement than I can imagine. I can't meet his eyes. Does he really think I'm beautiful?

  I watch the sauce, and when it begins to bubble I remove the pot from the fire and serve two big bowls. The smell is divine, and the tension abates a little as we sit and eat. For a few moments there's nothing but the sound of us slurping and chewing. The ravioli is wonderful, so filling and heavy after the daylong trek, and the sauce, I'm happy to note, isn't too shabby either.

  "My god," says Arthur. "How am I going to go back to trail rations after this?"

  I laugh, simply happy again. "I love a man who enjoys good food."

  Arthur lifts his fork, three raviolis impaled on its tines. "You'd have to be inhuman not to love this."

  "You'd be surprised. Some people just aren't into food."

  "Fools," says Arthur, chomping down. "Crazy people wasting their lives."

  I smile as I chew. I couldn't agree more. I have two full plates, and Arthur has four, cleaning the pot and looking like he would lick it were it not for my presence. When we're done, I feel absolutely content, my tummy full, my legs achy, my mind drowsy. I haven't felt such a rollercoaster of emotions and exercised so hard all in one day in forever.

  We sit companionably again in silence, watching the fire die down. The stars overhead are indeed amazing, and it feels so natural to rest my head against Arthur's shoulder. Again he drapes his arm around me, and I snuggle in, loving his smell, the mix now of wood smoke and masculine scent. He's warm, hot like an oven, and with the fire right before us and the chill wind blowing, there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

  Part of me is hoping that he'll return to telling me how hot I am. The muscles of his shoulder and chest where my head rests are large and thick, and I idly think about him naked, but it's impossible to hold on to the thought. My mind drifts. I'm exhausted. I'm well fed. I'm happy and warm and comfortable. Arthur holds me close, and I drift off to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  It comes to me as I sit there, Anita snuggled into my side, the fire warming my boots, my stomach filled with good food, the night sky glorious overhead, that I haven't been this happy, this content, in forever. The only sound is the occasional snap or pop from the fire when sparks shoot up into the dark. I don't know what I expected of tonight. Whether my simmering desire for Anita would prove too much for me to control. I knew she was interested, no, more than interested. I could read it in her face, could smell it in her scent whenever I came too close. And I almost lost control. I close my eyes and remember how her face went pale then flushed a deep red when I told her just how beautiful she is. Can she really not know? Can she really be oblivious to the kind of bombshell she is? Petite and curved and wickedly innocent?

  Her body is soft and molds just right to mine. As if we're two puzzle pieces that have finally found each other, and now interlock perfectly. I look down at her face. She's still wearing her glasses. I reach over and carefully take them off. She wrinkles her nose in just about the cutest way I've ever seen, and snuggles in closer to my side. The fire paints her cheeks in dusky rose and dusty orange hues. There are blue glints deep in her black hair. Her lips look so kissable. There's a tigress hidden under this quiet exterior. I can sense it. Years of passion have been repressed, held back. When that passion is finally allowed to escape, it won't be a trickle. It won't be a slender river. It will be a torrential flood, and it will wash away the years of timidity and pain.

  My heart is starting to speed up. These thoughts won't lead anywhere good. I can see just a hint of cleavage above her top button. I swallow and avert my eyes, staring into the depths of the fire. But my imagination is heating up. In the dancing flames I can see two naked bodies coming together, sinuous and alive, mating with the energy that I know flickers between us.

  My bear growls deep in my chest. I may be holding back, but he doesn't understand human restraint. He just knows that the perfect mate is lying against my side. He knows that she would welcome my advance. He wants her. He wants her on all fours, looking over her shoulder at me, a wicked smile on her beautiful face.

  I shift my hips, my cock growing hard and constrained within my jeans. Holding her this close is becoming a torment. I can feel my own skin growing flushed, warm, beyond that which the fire can provoke. Would she be able to take all of me? She's strong. This day of hiking showed me that. She's got surprising reserves. I'm sure she'd welcome every inch. How many years has it been since I've mated? How many solitary winters, lost in the depths of winter, alone in the dark and the cold, warmed only by fading memories of my few times with Selune?

  My bear is rising to the surface. If I don't move, it will take over. So, carefully, I shift up onto my knees and scoop Anita into my arms. Hold her against my chest. She's so light. She nuzzles against me, rubbing her cheek against my shirt. I rise and move to her tent. Kneel by the front flap, and gently duck into it so as to lay her on her sleeping bag. She sighs contentedly, and her eyes open for a moment before closing again, her lips moving into a smile. Is she asleep? Awake? I can't quite tell. She moans and cups my cheek, before dropping her hand to her breast. I watch, my eyes going large as she squeezes it, and then slides her hand down between her legs. She rubs herself there before turning onto her side, trapping her hand between her thighs, and drifting off to sleep.

  My heart is a sledgehammer, pounding at the walls of my chest. Each thud leaves cracks in my resolve. My mouth is dry. My bear roars within me, wanting out, wanting release. Wanting Anita.

  Carefully, slowly, I withdraw from her tent, and shaking, stand tall under the stars. I feel feverish, unhinged. The contentment from before is gone, burned away by the forest fire of my lust. My desire. I've had plenty of opportunities over the years to mate. To take any number of willing human females who fall for my looks, my reluctance. Something about my reserve seems to draw them on. But none of them have tempted me, because I've always wanted more than just sex. I've wanted communion, a connection, to bond with a mate who loves me for my soul, just as I love her for her own.

  And in Anita, my bear tells me, I've found her. The human side of me may still be figuring things out, but my bear knows when it's found what it wants. A woman strong and soft, a woman whose passion is betrayed by her cooking, a woman innocent of her own seductive whiles, her own wickedly sexy body, her curves, her lips, her breasts –

  I groan. I can't hold back any longer. Reaching over my head, I yank my shirt off without bothering with the buttons. The hair is already snarling over my chest, growing thicker by the second. I unbutton my jeans. Kick off my boots, and shuck my pants and boxers. Stand naked before the fire, muscles growing thick as my bear emerges.

  My cock is rigid, hard as granite. I clench it in my hand, but I won't burn off my passion that way. I fall forward onto all fours, my hands turning into massive paws. My talons dig into the rock as my body swells, my pelt grows, my shoulders become massive, my jaws heavy. A moment longer, and my bear and I am one. There's nothing larger, more dangerous, or more powerful out there in these woods than me.

  Restless, savagely glad to be back in my bear form after days of being trapped at Honeycomb Falls, I head into the dark. I'll hunt. I'll kill. And come morning, I'll be myself once more. Controlled. Calm. My fever broken.

  Chapter 8

  I wake up feeling so sore I can only lie there and groan. My ass. My hamstrings. My calves. Deep in my thighs. Oh lord. I feel like a band of gnomes spent all night whacking my legs with rolling pins. I sit up and wince as I rub at my eyes. OK. So maybe I was a little ambitious yesterday, thinking I could just dive right back into the hiking life without any consequences. I take a deep breath and sit up. Is that coffee?

  I crawl out of my tent like the girl from The Ring,
then groan and moan like an old lady as I climb to my feet. Arthur is sitting by the fire, wearing his usual combo of jeans and plaid shirt. He turns to me and smiles. "Good morning."

  "Maybe when I've had some coffee it'll be good." I limp over.

  "Sore?" He pours me a mug. I don't even care how he's made it. I just take it in both hands and then hiss as I lower myself onto a rock.

  "Coffee," I say. And take a sip. Dark and thick and rich. Perfect. Medicine for the soul.

  Arthur sets his mug aside and moves over to me. "I should have reminded you to stretch last night."

  I grumble and say nothing. Sip my coffee, and allow its heat to wake me. How did I get into my tent? The last thing I remember is falling asleep by the fire. For that matter, I'm still in my hiking outfit from the day before. My eyes open wide as the coffee starts cranking my brain into action. I must look awful!

  "Here," says Arthur, taking up my left leg and setting it over his thigh. "Let's see what we can do."

  Then, holy jumping flapjacks, he starts to massage my thigh, his powerful hand digging into the muscle, working it slowly and inexorably, breaking down the stiffness, and in the process making me sit upright in pain.

  "OH." I try to sound ladylike. I fail. "Oh. Right there. Ow. Owwwww. Ow ow ow."

  Arthur grins, looking all hunky as he does so. Where did he sleep? I don't see another tent. Another sleeping bag. Did he sleep? His hands move down to my calf and begin to knead the muscle. My eyes almost roll up in my head as he works the knots, his fingers like magic, finding the soreness and dispelling it.

  "How's that?" His voice is vaguely amused. I don't blame him. I look a hot mess, and now he's got me writhing under his hands. "Want me to stop?"

  "No." I almost growl. Grab the coffee, drink half of it down. I feel like I'm in a movie, like I've been wounded, and Arthur's the medic who's going to do something horribly painful but necessary to fix me up. "I'm ready."

  "I'm not about to saw your leg off," he says, laughing.

  "Do you have a belt I can bite?" He laughs again, louder, and works on my other leg. "Ow! Oh! Owwww. Oh, god. What did I do yesterday? Are we doing the same today?"

  "Yeah, we sure are." His fingers probe and massage my other leg, and I shift and wriggle as the intensity of his touch shoots through the roof. A part of my mind suddenly wonders what it would be like to have those powerful fingers work my body in another way, and I immediately blush. He cups my calf and pushes in deep, and I almost yell, jumping an inch up from the rock.

  "There," he says, setting my leg down. "See if that's better."

  "I'll never walk again," I say, closing my eyes.

  "I have faith in you," he says, moving back to his rock.

  "Go on without me." I don't know why I feel so comfortable with him, showing this silly side of me that nobody else ever sees. "You have a whole life ahead of you. Don't waste it by staying here with me."

  "And never taste your cooking again? Unlikely."

  I open my eyes, mock-serious. "I'll mail you cookies. We can work this out."

  He stands, steps over to me, and then to my completely surprise lifts me to my feet as if I weigh nothing. "Never. Mail order cookies can't replace the real thing."

  I go to say something, a witty response, but my tongue trips all over itself. His hands are wrapped around my upper arms. His face is looking down into mine. His eyes are wide, and there's something in their depths that stills my voice. I gulp. Did I fall asleep against him last night? Will we have another night together tonight? I can't breathe. I look at his lips, and almost succumb to begging. Please kiss me, I think, and then remember how awful I must look. I blink and step back, wincing with each step, but he's right, it feels much better.

  "Maybe I can hobble," I say, turning away to cover my arousal.

  "I'll go slow."

  "Only at first," I say. "Then we can go faster." Where did that come from?

  "As fast as you like," he says, and I hear him step up behind me.

  I can't seem to control myself. I turn and look up into his face. "But not too fast. It's good when it lasts."

  His eyebrow goes up, and then a smoldering light catches fire in his amazing eyes. "Oh, we'll make it last. Don't worry about that."

  I'm horrified at myself. Scandalized by own words. Did I just say that? Out loud? It's good when it lasts? I always think those lines when I'm reading my romance novels, when I'm watching movies, but did I just – wait – and did he –

  It's too much. I snatch up my coffee, drink it in one gulp, scalding my tongue, then rush past him. "Time to pack! Early morning start! Fresh air! Trees!" I dive into my tent, zip the flap shut, and then bury my head under my pillow. Trees? Did I just say 'trees'? Oh god. Kill me now. How am I ever going to emerge from this tent? I can't. I'll have to live in here for the rest of my life.

  OK, play it cool. Just act like nothing happened. Pack up, all professional like, and then pretend to have some dignity.

  Ten minutes later we set out from camp. I keep a straight face and absolutely don't look at Arthur, who is clearly fighting back the urge to grin. I lead the way, ignoring the pain in my muscles, and thank god the trail heads down the mountain for the first hour. By the end of which my soreness has faded, I'm warmed up, and I'm actually enjoying the hike.

  The wilderness is beautiful, and during fall especially so. We hike for a good four hours, and eventually stop for lunch at a small lake that could be right out of a fairy tale. Surrounded by rushes, ringed in by mountains, on a grass-covered bank by the water's edge, we sit and picnic and I somehow manage not to put my foot in my mouth the whole time. Arthur asks me more about my past, and I dance around Gerry, Harold, and my father's obligations, while he in turn proves remarkably shy about giving any information about the werebear we're en route to find. After only half an hour we pack and head on to the final campsite.

  We arrive just as the sun's going down, and I'm quietly proud of how well I've managed to keep up. I feel like I'm rediscovering my old hiking muscles. Arthur leads us to an enchanted spot where a small stream waterfalls into a magical pool, then drains out into a taller waterfall that dissipates into mist before hitting the ground far below. I get close to the edge and peer over, and again marvel at the view, but the sheer height makes me pull back till Arthur takes my hand and leads me to the very edge. Holding his hand gives me confidence, and together we gaze out over the woods, an actual eagle wheeling in the air below us.

  Stepping back, I wipe my sleeve across my forehead. Though I can't smell anything, I know I have to stink like two days' worth of hiking. Arthur spends about five minutes building up the fire, then stands, reaches over his head and pulls his shirt off. I nearly slip and fall over the cliff. Watching the muscles of his chest, arms, and core ripple as he slides his shirt off is almost more than I can handle. Would it be weird to ask him to do that again while I record it? And then dive into my tent to play it over and over again in slow motion?

  He drops his shirt on his pack and stretches. I fight back a groan, eyes riveted by his sculpted body. How can such a massive man be so perfectly proportioned? There's a gorgeous symmetry to him that mesmerizes me, and though he's massive, his chest covered in a delicious furze of hair, he's not fat, not even around the waist.

  He interlaces his fingers and reaches for the sky, and then with a grunt relaxes. "I'm going into the water," he says. "It's a little ritual I have here."

  "Oh," I say, nodding and trying to look casual. "Little rituals are great. I'm all in favor. I'll just, um, sit here and –" And watch, I almost say, but I manage to cough and change tracks at the last moment. "And start cooking."

  "You sure?" He moves his hands to his belt buckle, and my mouth goes dry as my throat squeezes shut. I can't respond, so I just nod frantically and gesture that he should continue. He shrugs and unbuckles his wide leather belt, then drops his jeans so that they puddle around his ankles. I'm alternating between raging hot flashes and bouts of panic. A smoother operator tha
n I would be helping him get undressed or something, or putting on her own strip show. I try to think of my favorite romance heroines, the brave, bold, sassy women I always wish I could channel, but none come to mind. I just sit down hurriedly on a rock and grab my pack, yanking it open.

  Don't look at Arthur's huge package, visible even under his boxers. Don't drink in his muscled thighs, his broad calves. Don't think about running your nails lightly over his body, scratching him and feeling his muscles, his hot skin beneath yours.

  There's a splash, and I look over to see Arthur's broad back sinking into the pool, till only his head remains above water. He pushes away from the edge and into the center, where he turns with a happy sigh to look back at me. "It's freaking delicious."

  "Oh, good!" I try to sound casual again, and fail abysmally.

  "You know, the water would be good for your feet." He doesn't sound like he's trying to seduce me, but still my heart races even faster. "It would help prevent any swelling."

  I've read literally hundreds of romance novels, and none of them feature pick-up lines that mention swelling feet. But something about his eyes, the knowing smile on his oh-so-kissable lips, and the fact that my feet are in fact throbbing helps finally push me over the edge. Why not? I can at least dip my toe in the water. I can get a little closer. What am I, a nun? What more invitation do I need to have a little fun than the hunkiest man on the planet – or at least Franklin County – inviting me to dip my feet in the pool he's enjoying?

  So I pull off my boots and socks, and walk tentatively over to the pool's edge. "It's slippery," I say. Slippery is an understatement. It's mossy, the rocks emerald and soft. I tread carefully, and Arthur swims a little closer.