Werewolf in the North Woods

by Thompson, Vicki Lewis

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 rubdown 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 “Oh! 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 latched on to 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’d 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.

  Partway there, he caught the scent of food warming. Abby must have decided to fix dinner. Good. They could occupy themselves with eating and cleaning up. He’d tell her about the harmonica player, and then they could both go to bed. Separately.

  But the closer he came to the cave, the less he believed in that scenario. Food wasn’t the only thing he could smell. Apparently Abby’s special aroma had become firmly seated in the pleasure center of his brain. One whiff and he was a moth to flame.

  By the time he reached the spot where he’d shifted earlier, he’d started to rationalize. He’d been hiking all day and now he’d just had a good run, so logically he’d be tired tonight. If he had sex with Abby, no doubt he’d conk out immediately afterward. No special significance, no big deal, just good hot sex.

  But he needed the full program to be completely satisfied. He’d have to explain to her why they could do that without a condom, but that might not be difficult. So they’d have sex once and both fall asleep right after. It sounded like a reasonable plan as he lay on the wet ground and moved through his shift.

  Moments later he stood and brushed away the pine needles clinging to his skin. The rain continued to come down, a
nd it washed away streaks of mud on his arms and legs. He scrubbed his hands through his wet hair, working out any leaves tangled there.

  As he plucked a leaf from his pubic hair, he was forced to acknowledge that his interest in having sex with Abby was already evident. But fortunately he wouldn’t walk in quite as aroused as when he’d walked out. The run had worked temporarily.

  Her scent drifted out to him from the cave, and his penis twitched in response. He decided at that moment that dinner could wait a while. Sex first, then food. After that, they’d be sated from both activities and they’d fall asleep immediately. It sounded like the perfect ending to the evening.

  His goal clearly in mind, he held back the branches of the bush covering the opening and called out to her. “Abby, I’m back.”

  “Good. Don’t fall over your clothes. I found some dry ones in your pack and put them right by the entrance for you.”

  “Thanks.” That didn’t fit in with his plan, but he could carry them into the cave and put them on later before they ate dinner.

  “Be sure to get dressed before you come in here, Roarke.”

  “Why?” He picked up the bundle of clothes he found neatly stacked and waiting for him.

  “Because we’re both staying dressed from now on. Having sex is a complication neither of us needs, and you obviously realized it earlier.”

  “No, I just wanted to dial it back some.” He continued walking into the cave.

  She glanced up from the pot she was stirring and frowned at him. “I’ve decided to dial it back completely. So put those on, please.”

  She’d braided her wet hair into a single strand hanging down her back, which made her look prim and almost virginal. He took that as a challenge.

  “I mean it, Roarke.” She tapped the spoon on the side of the pot and laid it on a metal plate beside the camp stove.

  “I’m sure you do.” He studied her outfit—green knit shirt revealing the unmistakable outline of a bra, black Lycra pants, probably with panties underneath. At least her feet were bare, but he had some undressing to do before he could institute his plan of action.

  She stood and folded her arms. “I realize that in a sense, I owe you a . . .”

  He smiled. “In a sense, I suppose you do.”

  She glanced at his thickening penis and looked away again, her cheeks flushed. “But we’re very different, Roarke.”

  “I should hope so. That’s why things fit so beautifully.”

  “You know what I mean. We’re from completely different worlds. Better to leave well enough alone.”

  “You’re the one who blackmailed me into bringing you along on this trip, Abby.”

  She focused on the cave wall rather than look at him. “For Grandpa Earl’s sake.”

  “Then how about the fact you’re also the one who suggested not so long ago that we could fool around and release some of our pent-up sexual energy?”

  She blew out a breath and gazed up at the ceiling of the cave. “I made a mistake, okay? I now realize that there’s too much temptation to throw caution to the wind. Without any condoms, we’re taking a huge chance that we’ll get carried away and I know neither of us wants to deal with that consequence.”

  “What if there was no consequence?”

  Her startled blue gaze met his. “You found a box of condoms in the woods?”

  That made him laugh. “No.” He dropped the clothes to the floor of the cave. “There’s something I didn’t explain about werewolves. We can’t impregnate anyone until we find our mate and pledge ourselves for life. It’s a great system.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. That story’s even worse than the old standby of having mumps as a kid. I know guys will go to great lengths to get out of wearing a little raincoat, but I thought you’d be different, considering the stakes.”

  “You don’t believe me.” He’d hoped after all they’d shared, she would. “Look, I can understand your skepticism, but I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Sorry, Professor Wallace, but if what you say is true, you would have told me when I first brought up the issue of condoms. You neglected to do that, so ipso facto, you’re making this up as you go along.”

  “I am not! I thought we needed to have some sort of braking system on our relationship, and that was a good one to use.”

  She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “So you normally go around having condom-free sex, do you?”

  He had a feeling he’d said the wrong thing. “Only with other werewolves when we’re both in human form. Obviously I can’t explain this to a woman without revealing I’m a werewolf, so I use a condom with humans. You would be an exception to that rule because you know I’m Were.”

  She stepped back and held up both hands. “Spare me from being the one exception! Condoms serve another purpose besides birth control. If you’ve had lots of free love with your werewolf girlfriends, bully for you, but I’d rather not participate in that boinkfest, thank you very much.”

  “I haven’t had lots.” He was getting testy from sexual frustration combined with a need for food. “And werewolves are resistant to disease, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “How convenient to be disease-resistant as you put notches in your belt.”

  “Notches in my—Damn it, Abby, I’m not that kind of guy!”

  “Then you would have leveled with me in the beginning, wouldn’t you? Look, you might as well get dressed, because I don’t buy your story and we’re not having sex. You’ll have to settle for reconstituted beef stew.”

  “Whatever happened to the concept of me teaching you about werewolves?”

  “Let’s just say that you have a credibility problem. When you’re dressed, I’ll dish the stew.”

  He stared at her. The set of her jaw and the glint in her eyes told him that she’d dug in her heels and wasn’t going to budge. He wasn’t giving up, but he might as well back off for the time being. So they could have dinner, and then sex. That could work, too.

  Chapter 12

  While Roarke pulled on his clothes, Abby ladled stew into two tin bowls. Thank God that hikers were always famished when they finally ate a meal, because there was no way a reconstituted stew could compare to something simmered on the stove for hours and served straight from the pot it was cooked in. At this point she would have eaten crackers and peanut butter if that’s all they had.

  But thanks to Roarke hauling the packages of dried food, they had something more interesting than crackers and peanut butter. She reminded herself of his willingness to carry most of their supplies and gave him a larger portion of the stew. Although she didn’t believe a word of his werewolves-don’t-need-condoms story, he was still the lynchpin in the Sasquatch operation and she needed him energized and healthy.

  She just wished he hadn’t insulted her intelligence with that ridiculous story. He might be willing to play Russian roulette with his future, but she’d worked too hard to establish herself as a responsible adult who was a credit to her family and her community. Becoming pregnant by accident would be bad enough. Becoming pregnant with a werewolf’s baby had repercussions that extended far beyond the average problem scenario, and she had no intention of going there.

  Decently attired in a black T-shirt and gray sweats, Roarke approached the camp stove. “Need any help?”

  She glanced at him and revised her opinion of decently attired. He was clothed, but the T-shirt was a little snug and the soft material of the sweats emphasized the generosity of his endowments. “Thanks, but everything’s under control.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Count on it.” She handed him a tin bowl full of hot stew and a spoon. No randy werewolf was going to screw up her life. “I would offer you a glass of the house red to go with this, but the wine cellar seems to be empty.”

  “Damn shame.” He raised the bowl and took an appreciative sniff. “A good red would be the finishing touch.”

  A good red would finish her off, that was for sure. She
didn’t believe his story concerning werewolf safe sex, but she wanted to. The more he moved gracefully around the cave, the more she fantasized about what sex would be like with a man so powerfully athletic.

  Picking up her own bowl, she lowered herself into a cross-legged position on the stone floor of the cave. The cool surface helped soothe the heat building inside her, despite her vow to remain celibate from this moment on.

  Roarke sat across from her in one fluid movement that made her mouth go dry. Why did he have to be so damned sexy? Why did he have to sit cross-legged like that, which caused the fleece of his sweats to outline the very part of him she was trying to ignore?

  He took a spoonful of his stew and closed his eyes. “Mmm.”

  She had to look away. His open appreciation of the food reminded her of the way he’d openly appreciated her response when he’d stroked her to a shattering climax. Twice. Now he’d come up with a story about sperm that knew when to swim upstream and when to stay in the tank.

  He rested his spoon against the side of the bowl. “Ever read Margaret Mead’s studies of the Trobriand Islanders?”

  She glanced at him. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Turns out those people have something in common with werewolves.” He took another mouthful of stew.

  “Is that so?” She started eating her stew and fought against the potent combination of virility and intelligence that was Roarke Wallace. If he couldn’t seduce her with the first quality, he wasn’t shy about employing the second.

  “The society doesn’t curtail sexual behavior among young people, but they don’t use any physical method of birth control. From the time they hit puberty, they’re allowed as much sexual exploration as they want.”

  She put down her spoon. “Let me guess. Nobody gets pregnant.”

  “That’s exactly right.” He pointed his spoon at her. “Can you guess why?”

  “They’re all werewolves?”

  “Not to my knowledge, but I should probably check into that to be sure. According to Margaret Mead, the girls don’t get pregnant because it would be socially unacceptable to do that until they’re married. They can control conception mentally.”