* * *
The pounding on her front door brought Jenna out of a sound sleep. She sat up and reached for her new robe while she listened to the frantic thuds.
Automatically she flipped the light switch on her way to the door. Nothing. Of course, the power was still off, and at night to conserve generator fuel she left only the fridge, freezer and water pump on. But the LED lantern over the door and the stove provided enough illumination for her to move briskly through the sitting room.
Her windows were blind. She hoped that was just that dawn hadn’t come, but the stillness and silence — except for the knocking — made her think the rain had turned to snow. Nasty.
She opened her door and a snow covered giant took a step towards her. He swayed. His face was rimed with snow and his lips were blue. “Angel,” he croaked and fell forward on her.
Only long and severe training made her step out of his way. “Never, ever catch a husband,” Madge Eaton the midwife she had apprenticed with had told her. “If they injure you, who’s going to catch the baby, or prevent the mom from hemorrhaging?”
Nonetheless the man succeeded in smearing her pretty new gown on his way down. Well, snow brushed off she thought as she closed her door against the blowing storm. But the dark patches on the blue were mud. Crap. Well, it was highly unlikely that practical Sharon Bascom had made a dressing gown for her daughter that could not be washed.
These uncharitable thoughts were at the back of her mind, as she briskly rolled the man onto his back. He was breathing, but shallowly. His skin was stiff and icy, but in the limited light cast by the stove and the lantern, she could not be sure if he had frostbite. For sure he had hypothermia.
He was wet under his frozen poncho and parka. And when she stripped off his hat and gloves his head was cold as death and his fingers stiff. Clumps of icy snow clung to his face and didn’t melt. His torso was just as cold and his pulse was weak.
Jen was moving towards her bedroom and her first aid kit before she had fully taken in the fact that this man was a stranger. He looked roughly like her brothers, so likely he was kin, even if she couldn’t place him. Soon she was kneeling beside him again, cutting him out of his frozen clothes.
She wasn’t surprised to see fatigues and a military sweater under his parka. In the half-light she couldn’t read his dog tags or name tags. Because he certainly looked like a bearshifter — all hairy barrel chest and heavy, sculpted muscles. But why hadn’t the blamed fool taken bear and avoided hypothermia? Because now that his things were thawing, she could smell that he was a shifter, only maybe not such close kin as she had thought.
But certainly a shifter who outweighed her by an easy seventy pounds. He needed warming, and fast, or he wasn’t going to make it. She covered him with the rug she had brought from her bedroom to move him on, and set about sliding her couch out of their path to the stove.
Even when she transferred him to the rug, it was like moving a tree. He lay sprawled and unresponsive to her chatter as she rolled him onto the rug. And he was just as inert as she tugged his dead weight across to the stove.
“Now who sent you here, Bear?” she wondered aloud. “Who had family for Christmas? And a baby on the way? Who sent you overland, instead of driving up themselves?” She couldn’t think of any match. But somewhere on the Ridge, likely a mother lay in premature labor, waiting for help. Or someone had had a heart attack. She had to get this big lummox warm enough to speak, or somebody might die.
She finally had time to light a second lantern. He was blue with white patches. She bathed him gently with tepid water to wash the mud and snow off. His color didn’t improve. His heart continued to beat sluggishly. As she bathed him, she covered and uncovered him with the throw from the couch. It was nowhere near big enough to cover him all at once and, when she was done, it was muddy. His hairy chest and legs peeped out from under the red fleece.
He sure looked like a Bascom. Big and muscular and furry. His baby maker was a sad and shriveled sight and his balls were tucked up inside so deep he was almost neutered. His long feet were pale and cold but she figured his wool socks had saved them from frostbite. His face looked gaunt under its half-grown beard.
Now how to get this fellow warm? She didn’t need to take his internal temperature to know he was cold clear through. His heart might yet fail if she didn’t get his temperature up. She stoked the stove and added logs to get the cabin daytime warm again.
With a sigh she went for her king-sized down comforter. Then she rolled the stranger so his back was to the stove. Standing beside the soldier’s comatose body she began to remove her robe and nightgown. She turned her lantern off to conserve the batteries.
She lay down with him, skin to skin, so that her back warmed his front. It was like snuggling with an iceberg. Shivering with cold she pulled the quilt over both their heads to make a cocoon. She began to massage his freezing shins with her feet.
After a few minutes she forced herself to turn so they lay belly to belly. She cupped his frigid face in her palms and let him steal her heat. Gradually his icy body leached the warmth from hers. Under the puffy comforter, she began to shiver. But eventually she fell asleep, pressed up against this stranger who smelled just as her heart told her that her mate should smell.
* * *
The door opened as he was striking it and he stumbled forward into warmth and paradise. The cozy interior of the cabin was glowing softly and a tall angel in a celestial blue robe stood welcoming him. A dark braid lay over one round shoulder. Rosy cheeks and lips bloomed in the lantern light. She looked like all his fantasies rolled into one. He took another step.
The room before him was comfy cozy. A big bear sized couch and chair. A big round wooden table and four sturdy chairs. Rag rugs on the glowing wooden floor. Bear heaven. With his own built-for-bear angel. He opened his mouth to speak and toppled forward like one of the ponderosa pines blocking the roads.
When he woke up, he knew that he had died after all. But strangely enough he had gone to glory. He was warm, and that was a good feeling. And his built-for-bear angel was lying naked in his arms. Who knew angels felt so good? Her soft buttocks were cradling his dick like they had been made for that purpose. His arms were around her waist and her warm skin was soft and resilient under his kneading fingers.
His hands were warm. He had thought death was cold. But he was warm. And horny. And somehow he had been given this wonderful, warm and cushiony angel, who smelled like his every fantasy come true. He moved his hand upward and brushed against a big, malleable breast. The satiny skin filled him with delight. He kissed the nape of her neck where her braid had fallen away and heard her murmurous sigh of pleasure.
They were enveloped by some light and puffy blanket. The folds caught under them as he tried to turn his angel to face him. His arms were weak. He guessed that was part of being dead. Only his favorite muscle seemed ready to work. He kissed the top of his angel’s spine again but she didn’t wake. She smelled of bear. Female bear. His own personal reward.
He lifted her leg and tested her. He found her slick and swollen. He was inside her moments later, pressing inward through tight muscles. He rocked gently until she caught and pressed back. He wanted to prolong this heavenly encounter, so he took his time. His fingers found her delta and gently stroked the soft and curly hair. He probed delicately until he found her stiff little button. Its hood was retracted. He circled it with a finger he damped in his mouth.
His angel moaned and pressed into his fingers. Her supple sheath began to ripple. He felt the contractions in her buttocks as her climax took her. The delicious squeezing of his cock rocketed him into an orgasm that sucked consciousness from him again. With a roar of animal satisfaction he flooded his angel with his seed and collapsed.
* * *
When her visitor had begun to fondle her, Jenna knew she should have removed herself from their cozy nest. Why had she let a stranger make love to her? Make love? When you did the dirty rumba with a complete s
tranger, that was plain old screwing. What had got into her? Nine inches of shifter cock, that was what. And a couple of ounces of shifter sperm.
Fortunately, the stranger was asleep again. You could hardly blame the guy for taking what was offered. But what the hell had she been thinking? That she had met the mate of her dreams, that’s what. But really, how likely was it that her perfect shifter mate had just appeared on her doorstep? If she was pregnant, what was she going to do if this guy was already married? Or a jerk?
But the thought of pregnancy didn’t frighten her as it should have done. It made her feel deliciously contented. Just as lying in the arms of this big, hard, ugly stranger made her feel safe and happy.
The timer hit seven and the living room lights flicked on. They illuminated the guy wrapped up with her. A four day beard — seven if he wasn’t a Bascom — and short dark hair. High broad cheekbones. He sure looked like Ash or Gideon. Or Joe or Len for that matter. Or any of the Enrights. Or her brothers. Crap. She really had slept with a cousin.
This last thought had her in the shower scrubbing her body, as if soap and water would remove the sin of incest. And she still didn’t know who needed her help so badly they had sent a stranger to get it. Where had her brains been?
CHAPTER SIX
The stranger slept on while she made her breakfast. The smell of her oatmeal and apples didn’t rouse him. Nor did the smell of coffee. But he was warmed up, so why wasn’t she waking him to find out where she needed to go? Cowardice, pure and simple. She had no idea what she would say to her first lover.
Mind, there was no sense in trying to go anywhere until full daylight, and the dawn seemed a long time coming this morning. The sun was hiding under a heavy layer of cloud, and the snow kept falling. Her back door opened to a drift as high as her waist, and more snow shawled down. Even in bear, she would have a hard time traveling in this.
She sat at her table eating porridge and drinking coffee and looking at the stranger. He could be an ax murderer. A veteran still wearing his dog tags? Well, maybe not an ax murderer. A serviceman then, and a kinsman. Perhaps he would wake having forgotten the sexual encounter? As if.
What had happened to level-headed Jenna Bascom who always did the sensible thing, and never, ever lost her composure? Lust and loneliness. What a mess. Still feeling bemused by her first experience of sex she took her breakfast dishes into the kitchen.
How could she have enjoyed it so much? Her wanton flesh felt juicy and her passage throbbed gently. Shamefully, not even the thought that this guy was probably her kinsman could quite vanquish her continued arousal.
The clothes she had cut off the soldier were in muddy, ruined pieces. But they all had a big old name tag that announced her patient was a Bascom just like her. And another that said he was a member of Special Forces and a U.S. Army Ranger. No insignia announced his rank.
Jenna had removed his watch and rescued his dead cell from his pockets, now she examined them. The watch was a big, heavy, matte-black Rolex with three thousand dials. Pricey. Not the sort of watch her brothers and their buddies owned. His top of the line cell was incompatible with her charger, so it was going to stay flat.
She had managed to save his boots and belt, his watch cap, gloves and socks. Everything else was completely unusable. There was no sign of a wallet or any gear. She double checked the muddy scraps before she bagged them in a garbage sack. She bundled the cap, gloves and socks with the muddy throw, and stuck them in the washing machine with her soiled robe.
Time to take stock of her own situation. Her cell was fully charged but predictably had no service this morning. She couldn’t even call around to find out who was in trouble. The internet was down too. Her windup radio announced that the blizzard was expected to continue.
The highways were closed. There were reports of mudslides and a list of communities that were under evacuation orders. The power outage had spread to encompass most of northern Washington State as far as Canada. Police asked everyone but emergency personnel to stay put.
Well, that was bad as bad could get. It meant that whoever needed her was plumb out of luck. She tried to think who could be miscarrying, or having a heart attack. Who might think that it was better to send for her, than to head to Yakima City to the hospital? Someone stuck in a house full of drunken New Year’s revelers. Someone stuck behind a landslide, or the out of commission bridge.
Well, her Bascom could tell her why he had been sent for her when he woke up. Because he needed sleep to recover from hypothermia, and she wasn’t going anywhere, even in bear, until this storm was over. Her American Black was a good size for a female bear. But still far smaller than a male would be. And until the roads were plowed her truck was useless.
A blizzard could swallow her bear alive. There was a reason bears hibernated in the winter. Or at least went into torpor. If she set out in this weather, she might not be found until spring. The weather that had half-killed the stranger, could certainly kill her.
So her immediate problem was how to clothe this naked giant. Her cousins stashed clothes all over their land — just in case they were taken short in human form. But those clothes were inaccessible to her right this minute.
She had an old coat of Lenny’s hanging in the lean-to where she kept her firewood, but that was too heavy to wear in the house. There was the sweater she had knit for Uncle Pierre’s birthday. She dug it out of the spare room dresser, unwrapped it and laid it hand. It would probably be too small for this guy, but it would stretch. He would have to cover the rest of his nakedness with a towel or a blanket, because even her baggy snow pants would be many sizes too small and short.
She had her stew simmering on the wood stove, and the laundry done, when he began at last to stir. She was sitting in her recliner knitting and contemplating her patient when he roused. A massive yawn split a face covered in coarse black stubble. Hairy arms stretched and revealed deep armpits full of black hair.
He sat up. His broad, muscular chest was so covered in curls, his nipples were invisible. She drew a sharp breath when he stretched and the heavy muscle in his shoulders tensed and then relaxed. This guy was a female shifter’s deepest fantasy. A total stud.
He turned around, as if looking for something or someone, and saw her sitting in her recliner with Matt’s socks in her lap. He narrowed his dark eyes and then they stripped her naked and he leered at her. A big hand extended itself imperiously.
“Come back to bed, Angel,” he commanded in a gravelly croak.
In seconds, she was on her feet backing away. In that instant he looked so tough and mean that her sense of safety evaporated, and she began to calculate how best to get to her shotgun.
He suddenly looked stricken. “Where am I?” he asked looking about him in bewilderment.
“Yakima Ridge. This is my cabin. I’m Jenna Bascom. Who are you?” She held her breath.
A big hand felt for his dog tags. Something like relief crossed the stranger’s hard-bitten face when his fingers touched them. “Zeke Bascom,” he said curtly.
Zeke felt his memories slam back with a rush. He had been dreaming the sweetest dreams. Dreams about this beautiful woman. They had been making love in this warm room, before this blazing stove. He had had his hands full of the softest, lushest female flesh that had ever come his way. His nostrils had been full of the delicious scent of aroused female bearshifter. Now he felt as if he had been thrown out of paradise.
“Can I have something to drink?” he begged hoarsely.
His angel brought him a plastic glass of water. His hand shook when he took it from her, and the water trickled down his chin as he drank. “Sorry.” He wiped ineffectually at the mess.”
“Your muscles aren’t working properly yet,” a practical voice told him. “It’s the hypothermia. I need to know who sent you for me,” she went on briskly.
“Sent for you? he said slowly. “No one. I think.” Her question made no sense to his fuddled brain. Someone was pounding on his skull with a mall
et, and his entire body was one huge ache.
“How’d you get here?” Jenna persisted.
“I saw your light from the Ranger Station and followed it.” He tried to focus with a brain that felt muzzy.
“Ranger Station! You can’t see my place from there,” she objected.
“Maybe it’s called something else,” he allowed. “Little tumbledown shack, full of trees and coons.”
“Oh. Yeah. You could probably see the light from there. Did you walk the whole way?” She sounded incredulous to his ears. “Did someone send you for me?”
He shook his head. “I was looking for shelter. Your light was all I saw, so I made for it.” He rubbed his face again. “Look, I need the john,” he said.
She threw him the couch throw. “Use this,” she said as she strode towards the kitchen. “Bathroom’s through the arch.”
A beat up face covered in heavy stubble that didn’t conceal all his scars, looked back at him from Jenna’s bathroom mirror. He found her razor by the shower stall when he showered, and shaved himself with her shaving gel in the sink. The blade was dull enough to inflict a few nicks before he had removed the bristles from his face and neck, but at least he no longer looked like a derelict. Just like a beat-up soldier.
He wound the fluffy blanket she had given him around his waist sarong style. He looked down. It sure seemed like the case of wilt that had plagued him since his last mission was gone at least temporarily. The folds of the blanket draped over his woody, so maybe she wouldn’t guess she had him hard. But one look at that ripe, luscious body had made him recall the best dreams he had ever had.
He braced himself for more questions, and opened the bathroom door. A fluffy grey sweater and a pair of olive green socks were tidily folded on the floor before him. His watch and his cell sat on top. He picked them up. The cell was flat. He had to get his cell charged. His watch told him it was January one. Where the hell were his own clothes anyway?
The clothes Jenna had left smelled enticingly of her. But when he unfolded them they were far too large for her. Hand-knit he deduced, by her fair hands, for some lucky son-of-a-bear who had never worn them.
Dragon's Pleasure (BBW / Dragon Shifter Romance) (Lords of the Dragon Islands Book 3) Page 25