“I'll call you as soon as I get a handle on the situation.” Gray threw the words over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bedroom.
Sorcha emptied both cups of coffee into the sink, and the brown blemish on the white porcelain seemed symbolic of her catastrophic actions tonight. Wishing she could avoid having to face him again, she wiped her hands dry and started walking to the couch, only to be swept off her feet when Gray tumbled her into his arms.
She blinked, and an immense rubber band tightened around her chest. Lips battened together to face the coming storm, gaze down, she had to meet his eyes when he tipped her chin. “I'll be back whenever I'm done. I intend to wake up in your bed tomorrow, honey. You have any objections to that?”
God no.
God yes.
God no.
Not able to trust her voice, Sorcha shook her head.
His cell rang again; he glowered and set her down. Before he answered the phone, he said, “I'm going to have to make a fast exit.”
And he did.
Dazed, she stared at the closed door for long moments.
Had she dreamed everything?
Was she so far gone about Gray, she'd now begun to fantasize while awake?
She had actually made love to Gray White.
For a second, Sorcha wished she'd purchased brandy or scotch, alcohol capable of burning reality on the path down to her stomach.
Get a grip. First night in your new home. Sit, sip wine, try not to panic.
Breathing returning to normal, Sorcha poured a glass of the merlot and meandered over to the couch. After she sat, White climbed onto the sofa, curled into a ball, and dropped his jaw into her thigh. Absently, she scratched his head.
Mind numb, both unable and unwilling to contemplate the repercussions of screwing Gray within thirty minutes of their reacquaintance, she switched on the television and flipped channels.
The telephone on the wall rang before she'd managed three sips of wine.
Levering off the sofa, she ran to the counter and managed to answer on the third ring. “Hello.”
“Sorcha, my love,” said Miss Lillian Louisa Herrington. “I forgot to give you Harold's medicine, and he has to take it before midnight.”
The LED clock on the microwave glowed 7:45. “No problem. I'll come and pick it up.”
Five minutes later, as she bundled White into her 2007 Hyundai Sonata, Sorcha eyeballed Harold and Kumar's cage to make sure the dead bolt was in place. Both cockatoos were still awake; she drew an oversize woolen blanket over the birdcage.
Miss L, as Grams's best friend was fondly known throughout Twisp and the county, had kept the parrots after Aileen O'Riley's death.
When Sorcha arrived at Miss L's bungalow, the door stood wide open and she couldn't find the older woman in the house. Wandering back to the front porch, she caught sight of Miss L on the clay path leading to the house opposite.
She whistled, White heeled, and the two of them jogged across the road.
“Miss L, Miss L,” Sorcha called, waving both hands over her head.
“Sorcha, my love,” the petite woman said as Sorcha bounded in her direction. “The most awful thing's happened. Mr. Morgan's shop's been vandalized.”
Mr. Morgan, Twisp's answer for clothing alterations, shoe reheeling, and other ad hoc repairs, had been around for as long as Sorcha could remember.
“Hooligans.” The man standing next to Miss L raised a fist in the air. “This town's becoming like the big city. It's going to the dogs.”
“Do you mind if I take a look, Mr. Morgan?”
Although Victor Morgan had run his shop for decades, he hadn't remembered her when she picked the cockatoos up from Miss L's this afternoon. Miss L had done a masterfully diplomatic reintroduction.
“Go ahead. Ain't nothin' left to steal, that's fer sure.” About four inches taller than Sorcha and Miss L, Mr. Morgan had the stooped back of a man in his declining years. He waved a gnarled hand at the darkly shadowed steps bordering the porch, which fronted his cottage.
“Don't make another move!”
One foot in midair, Sorcha froze, and her pulse broke into a Kentucky Derby gallop. Hand to her chest, she squinted, chin tilted, trying to pinpoint the source of the barked command.
Peering, she made out the vague outline of a man.
“Idiot,” Mr. Morgan mumbled under his breath, and he shuffled back a few steps in response to the belligerent tone of the cop's command.
No one bullied Miss L. She moved to stand in front of Mr. Morgan, arms crossed under her breast. “I don't see why you need use that tone of voice, young man.”
“I apologize if I offended you, Miss Herrington.” Sarcasm coated every word the man uttered. “You and Mr. Morgan and your friend need to wait elsewhere while I examine the scene of the”—he paused—“crime.”
Ooooh.
Sorcha's nails hurt when they dug into her palms. She couldn't believe the obvious disbelief and contempt in the man's voice. He hadn't even attempted to hide his disdain. The audacity of the man. In unison, Miss L, Mr. Morgan, and Sorcha edged backward.
“You slept through this, old man?” Scorn and doubt laced the man's voice.
“Who is he?” Sorcha whispered.
“Newest member of the sheriff's department. None too smart up here, I reckon, as his mammy didn't manage to drum any manners into him.” Miss L tapped a finger to her skull.
“I was out visiting.” Mr. Morgan's low baritone held a defensive note. “And it ain't none of your business where I was. Your business is to find out who did this.”
Sorcha didn't want to be part of a squabble with one of Gray's officers.
“Victor, you look like you could use a cup of tea,” Miss L muttered as she curled a thin arm around the man's elbow. “Come on. Let's leave the police to their work.”
Miss L dragged Mr. Morgan down the short driveway. Sorcha guessed the older woman intended to take him across the road to her house. But Mr. Morgan kept glancing over his shoulders and halting, and Sorcha feared he'd return to confront the policeman.
Her stomach growled, the sound as loud as cannon thunder in the quiet.
“Sorcha, my love, you haven't eaten, have you?” Miss L jammed her hands onto her hips. “And it's your birthday. Come on home with me, and I'll fix you up some meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
Determined not to put the older woman to such trouble, Sorcha countered, “No, you won't, Miss L. The diner's still open, and I'm more in the mood for dessert instead of meatloaf. Why don't I drive us all up there, and I can eat while you two have a cup of tea?”
Less than three minutes later, they were ensconced in one of the diner's red leather booths.
At eight forty-five, Twisp's evening meal rush was winding down. Most patrons had empty dinner plates in front of them, and busy busboys hurried here and there, the clinking of glasses against cutlery drowning the piped country music background. Redolent of the stale smell of fried onions, garlic, and beef, the diner had changed little in fifteen years.
Sorcha glimpsed a familiar face behind the counter. “Don't tell me Mr. Whitener is still the cook?”
“Bought the place out about ten years ago,” Victor said. “Paid cash too. Always wondered how he came up with that money.”
A waitress bearing a plate with a thick slice of pie decorated with a dollop of ice cream and a fat maraschino cherry whipped by. Sorcha sniffed. Pecan. Her mouth watered. “I remember his cooking. He made the best pies. I'm going to have a slice. Anyone else?”
They ordered three slices of pie; Miss L had apple, Victor had peach, and Sorcha had pecan.
When the waitress deposited their respective orders in front of them, Miss L made a derisive sucking noise with her lips. She and Victor exchanged a peculiar glance.
“What?” Sorcha dangled her fork over the piecrust, her eyes moving between the two individuals on the opposite bench.
“Look at the size of our portions compared to Victor's,” Miss L orde
red. “That's the reason we don't come here unless we have no other choice.”
“I don't believe it,” Sorcha exclaimed. “Yours is half the size of ours. Have you and Mr. Whitener been quarreling, Mr. Morgan?”
Petty feuds popped up regularly and without reason in Twisp, she remembered.
“That man ain't right in the head,” Victor muttered.
“Mr. Whitener doesn't go to church, Sorcha. Most folks round here resent that.”
All the claustrophobic small-town habits she hated welled up in her throat. Memories she'd suppressed for years surfaced.
Don't go there.
Sorcha fastened a smile on her face and asked Mr. Morgan how his daughter fared.
Some things never changed, Sorcha decided. Her one question prompted a bottomless well of county gossip and scandals. While she munched on molasses and nuts and pastry so light and buttery, her taste buds orgasmed with each bite, Miss L and Victor dished up the latest county scandals.
Mr. Whitener rambled around the diner greeting patrons, and when he stopped at their table, Sorcha shook his hand, even though the first whiff of him made her breathe through her mouth. The man had obviously cooked specials laden with onions and garlic that evening.
By the time Sorcha dropped Victor and Miss L off, exhaustion had seeped into every pore. Autopilot took her back to the cabin, and she shucked her shoes, stumbled to the sofa in front of the TV, and sat heavily. The doorbell rang the minute Sorcha cocked her bare feet on the coffee table.
“Honey, it's me. Open up.”
An adrenaline surge shredded any hint of fatigue at the sound of Gray's deep voice. Blood strummed through her veins. Lurching off the couch, mind on empty, she marched to the door and opened it.
“Hell, it's good to see you.” He hauled her into arms of steel. One hand stroked her back, the other curled one ass cheek and drew her against his aroused cock.
“I don't do this.” The words fell out of her mouth. “I'm not a slut. I don't sleep with guys I don't know. I mean I haven't before. Oh God.” Sorcha didn't know what to do with her hands and knew if her fingers made contact with those hard pecs or the ridges of his six-pack, she'd lose it.
“That makes two of us, honey. Stop worrying.” His forefinger smoothed her forehead. “Let's get one thing straight. This is not a one-night stand. I plan to be around for the duration. Yeah, we got off to a fast start, but it's not as if we're strangers. I've known you since you were a little girl.” Gray touched his mouth to the side of her neck and held her still in an openmouthed, toothed clamp.
Her heart just about leaped from her chest.
“Deep thoughts?”
“Yes,” she whispered, feeling the wet swipe of his tongue on her nape all the way to her curling toes.
“Hold them for a while.” He bent and scooped her into his arms. Stepping inside the cabin, he kicked the door shut and strode across the living room.
“Where are you going?” She met his intense stare.
“We're going skinny-dipping. I want to take my siren in the lake.”
Gray had a strange set to his mouth, and he glanced at her every so often as if searching for answers to an unasked question. Planting her on the dining room table, he ran his thumb over her lower lip and said, “I haven't been able to stop thinking about you.”
As he turned to open the sliding glass doors, he asked, “Did you miss me?”
She opened her mouth to tell him about Mr. Morgan and the break-in, but no words came out. After Gray'd opened the doors, he'd chucked his socks and boots and was working on his shirt.
The sight of him stripping made her swallow her answer. Sorcha commanded her dropped jaw back into place. She'd never been with a muscle guy before, and she ached to touch him, to glide her hands over the hardness of his biceps, his pectorals, his… She gulped.
Did cocks have muscles?
The tent in his underwear made her mouth water.
Gray stepped between her thighs. He nuzzled her nape, and then his eyes locked onto hers. “I want you to trust me, honey. I want you to know I'll always protect you.”
She didn't know what to make of his words but remembered how he'd guarded and shielded his sisters and his mother. Until they moved when she turned fifteen, the Whites' house had been her second home. Maybe he lumped her in with his sisters in his brain.
No way, not after what they'd done tonight.
Gray carried Sorcha out to the deck and set her on her feet. He proceeded to undress her. His mouth scattered kisses over her face, her throat, as he unclothed her, slipping the buttons of her blouse free, sliding the soft cotton off her arms. Intent on his task, Gray tugged her jeans over her hips, his lips and tongue lingering over her belly ring before he took off her bra, then her thong.
When he hooked his fingers into the waistband off his boxers, she stopped him, capturing his hands. He gave her a strange look but released his grip on the cotton.
Sorcha knelt and inched the soft garment down his thighs, her face at his sex. A half-moon bathed his beauty, the long, muscular legs, the hollows of his hips, the ripples of his chest, his broad shoulders gleaming in the iridescent light.
His organ twitched, the wet tip brushing her cheek. She leaned into his groin, her tongue licked his crown, and he groaned aloud.
Her sex wept, ached, and burned. Her lungs rose and fell faster and faster. She'd never felt so aroused, so needy. Sorcha closed both hands around the base of his organ; his fingers tangled in her hair, urging her closer. She tasted him, exploring the head of his cock, sipping the seam, the saltiness of his precum lingering on her tongue, and she inhaled the spice and musk the dark curls nestling his prick emanated.
“Sorcha, honey.” He pulled her up and cupped her buttocks, pressed her into his arousal, and growled, “No more. I need to be inside. Now.”
Lifting her legs, he wrapped them around his waist, entered her in one hard thrust, and walked into the water until the lake lapped at her shoulders. She kissed him frantically, his throat, his ear, sucked on his lobe as a climax ripped through her in a kaleidoscope of white light, blinding her vision. Her nails raked his back. His cock widened inside, stretching her walls, and his teeth nipped her flesh.
The aftershocks continued, each climbing higher than the previous one. Sorcha's thighs trembled. A shudder racked him, shaking him so violently, she felt when his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the lake bed. He nuzzled the side of her neck, licking and nibbling a path to her ear; shivers and sparks spiked. Sorcha bit her lips to stifle a moan of sheer pleasure.
An icy wind whistled over her shoulders, cooling her heated flesh. She used all the energy left in her body to raise her head from his chest. His features were contorted in a grimace of pain.
“Gray?” She touched his face. “What's wrong?”
When he lifted his eyelids, she cringed. “Your eyes, Gray. They're sort of yellow and glowing.”
“Night vision,” he said, his voice feral.
Sorcha's pulse wouldn't stop hammering in her ears. Her chest ached from inside, and she knew he had changed and so had she. Fear started a panicked whimper in her throat that she couldn't stifle.
“Don't be afraid, honey. Shush,” he whispered, his voice more normal, not as savage as before. “I told you. We'll work everything out.” His mouth soothed the skin he'd bitten earlier, his tongue drawing small circles up her throat.
She shivered, more from a sudden trepidation than from the remnants of winter in the air or from his licking caresses.
“You're cold.” Gray shifted, gripping her hips firmly. He rose and the lake cascaded from their skin, leaving trails and rivulets along her sides. Still locked together, he walked into the house, snatching towels and a blanket hung out to dry from the railing as they passed.
He lowered them to the carpet and sat, leaning against the couch. With a careful intensity, he dried her face, her neck, patting her nape gently.
Why wouldn't he meet her eyes?
She knew w
hat they had just done was not normal, the strange color of his eyes, the fact they were still joined together.
All at once, all the old gossip came back to her. The whispers behind Gray's abnormal speed and strength, Susie always knowing ahead of time when Sorcha would appear, his mother with all her dire visions, which most everyone put down to her drinking.
“How are my eyes?”
Startled, she examined him and choked back a gasp when she found his irises all obsidian once again. “Fine. Black. Good.”
Waiting, she rested her palms on his chest, relishing the strong beat of his heart as it strummed beneath her fingers. The steady rhythm took the edge off her rising alarm.
“You must have heard the rumors about me and the girls while you were growing up.” Gray knuckled her cheek, touched a finger to her lower lip.
“The white wolf,” she whispered.
Chapter Three
Gray's skin gave off a clean spring aroma, as if the lake had cleansed him. An owl hooted nearby. Sorcha flinched and swallowed, trying to moisten her suddenly dry mouth.
“I can hear and see and smell and taste better than anyone I know. I could smell your arousal when you covered yourself with that blanket earlier. I could smell your fear before I left earlier, and in the lake a few moments ago. Our family has always had an affinity with the animals of this land. The members of my family have bonded with the spirit of the white wolf for generations. I am no different.”
“I don't understand.” Her palms grew damp.
He draped the throw around her shoulders, separating the blue fabric so it framed her breasts.
“I have all the magnified senses of a wolf.” Gray tipped his head back and studied her through hooded eyes. “I don't run on all fours, but I can identify your scent in O'Hare on its busiest day. My night vision allows me to see for miles. My hearing is so acute, I heard you ask God not to let you fall in love with me all over again in the bathroom earlier.”
Bitterness washed over her tongue; he knew, he knew she'd always loved him. She cupped a hand over her mouth, a move akin to closing the barn door after the horses had escaped. Shame channeled into a rising temper, and she smacked his shoulder with an open hand. “I'm not going to, you know. Not if I can help it.”
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