Last Wolf Watching

by Rhyannon Byrd

  His wolf silently snarled in primal, visceral victory, and while she broke against his mouth, the sweetest, most perfect thing he’d ever tasted, Brody worked furiously at his pants with his right hand. Buttons ripped, scattered across the floor, the aching weight of his cock surging thickly into the damp heat of his palm. It had always been difficult for a woman to take his full length, seldom actually happening—and despite how wet she was, Michaela was tiny and tight. Deliciously so. He told himself he had to go easy, but as he moved over her, jaw locked, body hot and painfully hard, every muscle from his neck to his calves tensed in savage anticipation, and fit the heavy head of his cock against her—he lost it.

  Her breath caught as he surged heavily into her, stretching her, her body closing around him like an endlessly soft, silken fist, and an animal sound broke from his chest, low and deep and scary as hell. He blinked the sweat from his eyes, panicked, knowing she was going to tell him to get off her.

  Only…she didn’t. Instead, she raised her knees, hugging his hips, and sobbed, “Brody! Please…more.”

  Shaking with amazement and relief, a low, wicked rumble of laughter surged past his lips, and he pressed deeper, loving the way her eyes went wide as he gave her another thick inch. Loving the way her mouth parted, teeth stunningly white against the dark stain of color in her lips. Loving everything about her.

  And then he started to move…and it broke him down. That perfect feeling of burying more and more of himself inside her, until she’d taken all of him, every inch of his cock buried up into her warm, clutching depths. Christ, there was no way to hold himself together. With a primitive snarl, he opened his mouth over hers, swallowing her sharp cry of surprise when he pulled back, then slammed at her harder, putting all his strength, all his hunger behind it, driving into her the way he’d fantasized about doing since the moment he’d first met her, each heavy thrust sweeter than the last.

  And in the midst of the maddening pleasure, Brody felt his beast raise its head, sniffing at the ripe, sweet scent of her…and demand its satisfaction. His fangs slipped his gums, piercing and hot, tongue heavy within his mouth, his body readying itself to make the bite that would claim her as his own.

  Growling, he screwed his eyes closed and stiffened his arms, levering himself away from her. He turned his face to the side, grinding his jaw, anything to keep from giving in to that blistering, blinding urge, knowing it was wrong. All wrong—for him and for her. She’d be terrified…angry. And he’d spend the rest of his life in misery, drowning in guilt.

  Keep it together, jackass.

  Brody concentrated on his heartbeat, on the roar of his pulse—and held still, buried hot and thick inside of her, while her muscles fluttered around him in an endless, breathtaking caress that felt better than anything he’d ever imagined. And through the hazy fog of urgent, animalistic hunger, he heard her calling his name. At first it came soft and fleeting, as if she were far away, but then it gradually grew louder, until she was shouting up at him, demanding his attention.

  “Brody, look at me!” she pleaded, arching beneath him, her cool hands stroking his chest, the tight tendons in his throat, the tensed muscles in his arms.

  “Can’t,” he growled, his deep voice a guttural slash of sound, more wolf than man.

  * * *

  “I won’t turn away from you, Brody. I know what you are, and I’m not afraid. You can be yourself with me,” Michaela struggled to explain, the intensity of his possession making it difficult to put her thoughts into words. “You…don’t have to be afraid.”

  And yet, he was. She could sense his fear as his wolf struggled to break free. Could see it in the glittering, oddly glowing light in his eyes as his lashes lifted and he warily turned to stare down at her, the sharp tips of white fangs just visible beneath the sensual curve of his upper lip. Clutching his face in her hands, she held him with her gaze, unwilling to let him look away—knowing that no matter how badly he wanted it, he wouldn’t bite her. Not yet. Not tonight. “Stay with me, Brody. It’s okay. Please don’t turn away from me. I trust you.”

  Then she pulled his face close to hers and she kissed him, slipping her tongue between the dangerous points of his canines, and he growled into her mouth, the predatory sound tasting as sexy as it sounded. She couldn’t get enough of him. He was addictive, hot and musky and so wonderfully male. He made her feel fragile and feminine, and she loved it. Loved knowing that she’d brought him to this sharp precipice of control. It was a dark, forbidden kind of knowledge, like Eve reaching for the sin-cursed apple—and she knew she wouldn’t have had him any other way.

  Michaela ran her palms down the muscled length of his back, reveling in the feel of him, the power of his muscles tensing and flexing beneath her hands as he started to move again, thrusting his body into hers, his rhythm deep and powerful and strong. She loved that he held nothing back. That he gave her all of him, everything that he had, taking her with all the power and intensity of the man and his wolf. Fever hot to the touch, she should have felt scorched by the heat of his skin, and yet, the sensation of being covered by his warmth, driven against the cool wooden planks of the floor beneath her back, made her writhe, aching for more.

  “You deserve a man who’s more than an animal, Doucet,” she heard him snarl, voicing his demons, and she couldn’t help the grin that played at the corner of her mouth.

  “No,” she moaned, the provocative friction of his hard body moving inside hers making her sob with pleasure. “I deserve everything you’ve got. All of it. Don’t you dare hold back on me.”

  * * *

  She pulled him closer then, pressing her lips to his scars, the pansy-soft kisses tender and reverent, demanding his surrender. Brody marveled at the proof of her acceptance, unable to believe that even with his eyes turned the deep, glowing green of his wolf, his claws once again digging into the floor beside her, and his fangs slipping free, she accepted him, telling him that she wasn’t afraid. That she trusted him. And amazingly, because of that trust, he felt himself able to hold on to that small shred of control that kept his beast from becoming too savage and hurting her. From sinking its fangs into her throat and taking the warm, rich spill of her blood into his body.

  Grasping her wrists and stretching them over her head, he buried his face in the feminine curve of her shoulder, and drove himself into her, as hard as he possibly could; thanking God and anyone else he could think of, when a husky cry of pleasure filled his ears, instead of pain. He couldn’t get deep enough inside her, inside of the tender, clutching grasp of her body as she came, so perfect and swollen and small. Hot. Slick. Breathtaking. The stuff of fantasies, white-hot and spellbinding. She devastated him, and as he followed her over into that vicious, raging storm of pleasure, spilling himself inside of her in searing, pumping surges that had him shouting against the tender curve of her shoulder, Brody realized that he was never going to be the same again.

  * * *

  In the aftermath of the most incredible experience of her life, Michaela lay in a sprawl across the muscled beauty of Brody’s chest. They’d shed their clothes and shoes, his breathing slowly returning to normal, but she could still feel the tension in him, the hunger that lurked just beneath his calm surface. One of his hands rested possessively in the small of her back, his thumb stroking her skin in a lazy, sensual pattern that made her want to purr with pleasure, while his other hand smoothed over the long, tangled length of her curls.

  She murmured a soft, incoherent sound of satisfaction as the hand on her back slid lower, over her bottom, then lower still, the callused tips of his fingers touching between her legs, caressing screamingly sensitive, slippery flesh. Her breath caught, and her body responded with a renewed wave of warm, wet heat. He growled low in his throat, the wickedly sexy sound vibrating deep within his chest, right beneath her ear.

  And then, without a word, he rolled her over, one thigh holding her legs spread wide, his upper body resting on his bent arm, gaze vividly intense, glowing and
green. He stared into her eyes, before running that smoldering stare down her body, while his fingers pressed possessively between her thighs, playing havoc with her senses. His thumb stroked baby-soft caresses against the thrumming heat of her clit, while two thick digits thrust up into her body, penetrating her, curling until they rubbed against that one deep sweet spot that made her scream, the sensations came so sharp and bright. Then he slid over her, covering her, moving with a speed and masculine grace that should have been impossible for a man his size. And yet he was all predatory strength and power, like something escaped from a primeval jungle.

  “I’m sorry,” he groaned raggedly against her lips, pressing kisses to the corner of her mouth, before raking the inside with his tongue, the kiss as bold and hungry as it was breathtakingly possessive. “I know you’ll be tender…but I can’t…can’t be gentle, Doucet.”

  “I don’t want gentle,” she murmured, rubbing her mouth over the burnished skin of his throat, his shoulders, the muscles steel-like beneath the firm flesh. He pushed into her, working himself back inside, and she said, “I just want you.”

  “You’ve got me,” he murmured, laughing a low, wicked sound deep in his chest. Then he hooked one arm under her bottom, the other around her back, and shifted to his feet, carrying her through the shadowed rooms of the cabin, his cock thrusting deeper inside of her with each step, the pleasure as sharp as it was intense. Hazy streams of moonlight lit the bedroom, and as he pressed her into the cool, crisp sheets, she gasped, the heat of his body on top of her making the sensation of cold beneath her back even sharper.

  He held her gaze as he started moving again, withdrawing, then driving deep…thick…hard, back inside of her, stretching her to the point that it would have hurt if she hadn’t been so desperate for him, her body soft and wet and slick. They rolled across the bed, the passion between them explosive, with her head hanging over the edge at one point, while he thrust into her again and again, giving her everything that he had. Giving her all of him.

  Levering his upper body away from her, she watched him as he stared at the place where their bodies joined, and ran the rough tip of his forefinger along the strained edge of her swollen sex, the look in his eyes one of wild, primal possession. She could barely take him—and he liked it, loved it. Reveled in that dark, primitive knowledge. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in the fractured cadence of his breathing. Her back arched as the pleasure mounted, building stronger, and Michaela closed her eyes, trying to prepare for it, to hold it together when it crashed over her, not wanting to fall apart on him.

  “No,” he rasped, fisting his hand in her hair, his words gritty and thick with emotion as he growled, “Open your eyes, Doucet. I want to see it when it happens. I want to see the look in your eyes when you go over.”

  She lifted her lashes, and he went into her thick and hot, then just held there, packed tight within her, the look in his eyes so impossibly sexy, she couldn’t take it. With her next breath, she broke around him, the pleasure rushing through her with the furious energy of a storm, and she screamed, head thrown back, held in his hand, body completely overtaken by the intensity of the sensations, white-hot and blinding. Lowering his head, he growled against the tender stretch of her throat, his fangs scraping against her skin in an erotic slide of temptation, and his body convulsed deep inside of her, the wracking spasms of his orgasm spearing her own into a deeper, spiraling darkness that consumed her.

  And just as he’d predicted, she didn’t fall into his mind with this orgasm, either. On the one hand, Michaela was relieved, since she didn’t want anything to mar the stunning perfection of the moment. And yet, there was a tiny part of her that had wanted to see into him again…if only to learn more about him.

  He held hard and tight inside of her for long, breathless moments, his body rigid, then finally collapsed over her, trying to move to the side, but she stopped him with the clutching hold of her arms, wanting the delicious press of his weight. “I’ll crush you,” he grated in a passion-rough voice, the deep rasp sending erotic sensations racing across her flesh like a brush fire.

  “I don’t care,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

  * * *

  Brody moved just enough to the side so that she could breathe, pulling her farther onto the bed, then buried his face in the fragrant silk of her hair spread out across his sheets. As exhaustion overwhelmed him, he meant to leave before falling asleep, telling himself he could lie beside her for just a moment longer—taking a few more stolen moments of heaven. And then suddenly the screeching call of a hawk hunting for a late-night snack sliced across the sky, and Brody awoke with a husky grunt, jerking to consciousness. He stared at the moonlit shadows shifting across the bedroom ceiling, wondering how long he’d slept, while his chest labored to pull in deep, gulping bursts of air.

  Blinking his eyes, he glanced at the digital clock on the far side of the bed that read 2:00 a.m., then looked down to see Michaela’s dark head buried in his shoulder, her mouth parted the barest fraction, breath warm and sweet against his skin. They’d obviously moved together in sleep, their bodies naturally finding more comfortable positions. She had one fist curled in the middle of his chest, her graceful hand looking as small and delicate as a child’s, and it made his heart hurt, how trustingly she’d lain in his arms and slept with him.

  It was, without a doubt, one of the most wonderful moments of Brody’s life—as well as the most wrenching. Wonderful, because this woman was everything to him, a part of his very soul—and yet, heartbreaking, since he knew there wasn’t a chance he could keep her.

  Doing his best to slip away from her as slowly as possible, Brody eased his legs over the side of the mattress, bracing his elbows on his knees as he hung his head in his palms. He concentrated on taking deep, even breaths, struggling to ignore the tearing pain ripping across his heart at the thought of getting up and walking away from her.

  “What happens now?” she suddenly asked into the quiet, moonlit darkness, the sound of her voice wrapping around the hard, drumming beat of his heart as it pounded painfully within his chest.

  He wanted so badly to confess to her, to tell her everything that he felt inside—but held back. He didn’t know why. Fear? Caution? Cowardice? A combination of them all? Even after she’d given him everything—her passion so loving and sweet, and yet, scorching and wild, leaving him wrecked with pleasure that was unlike anything he’d ever known—even after all that, he still didn’t have the guts to be honest with her.

  To tell her the truth.

  “Brody?” she whispered, and he could hear the tears in her voice, his hands fisting as he resisted the need to turn around and take her into his arms, under his body.

  “I’m sorry, Doucet. But this…this was all I could give you.”

  “All you could give me…or all you want to give me?”

  “What I want doesn’t matter,” he stated, his tone flat, devoid of emotion. He’d taken it and buried it deep inside of himself, hoping like hell he was able to keep it there.

  “It does matter, Brody. Do you think this doesn’t terrify me, the idea of opening up to you, of letting you into my heart, of giving you that kind of power over me? I’m scared to death, but I can’t seem to stop myself from needing to be with you. I know you could hurt me emotionally. Hurt me more than any other man has ever done, but it doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “This thing between us, it just isn’t going to work out,” he grunted, moving to his feet, doing his best to ignore her wrenching confession. “It shouldn’t have happened in the first place, because I knew better. I should have stayed the hell away from you.”

  “Is it because of Dylan’s sister?” he heard her ask as he reached for the pair of jeans he’d left draped over the arm of the chair when he’d dressed for the wedding earlier that day.

  “Was she…was Jenny Riggs your mate?”

  A low, harsh laugh jerked out of his chest. “God no.”

  She absorbed that for a mo
ment, then quietly said, “Do…do you sense anything when you’re near me?”

  “Like what?” he grunted, ripping one hand through the damp, tangled strands of his hair so hard that his scalp stung.

  “Like the…others? Mason and Torrance. Jeremy and Jillian. I thought maybe—”

  “Even if I did,” he grated, not really giving her an answer as he cut her off, “it wouldn’t make a difference.”

  “Oh…” she said softly, and in that moment, Brody hated himself more than he’d ever hated anyone or anything in his entire life.

  Clearing his throat, he turned around to face her, knowing his words were pathetically inadequate. “You’re an amazing woman, Doucet.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” she hiccuped with a small, watery laugh, staring at her lap, hiding her face from him behind the fall of her hair.

  “If I could be different…” He winced as the words trailed off, painfully aware that he sounded like a total jackass.

  She shook her head, pulling the sheet up over her body, hiding herself from his gaze. “You never lied to me, Brody.”

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, as if his ability for speech had just dried up. He just stared at her, the time stretching out into a long, seamless expanse of anger and hunger, frustration and hopelessness. Eventually, he turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  * * *

  The early-morning sun struggled to burn its way through the thick cover of storm clouds that had blown in during the night, the promise of rain thick in the air as thunder rumbled in the distance. Brody stared out the window over the kitchen sink, his nerves jacked up from the two cups of coffee he’d already downed, while his brain kept replaying that final scene from last night over and over in his mind. The details were gut wrenching and stark—no fuzzy perception to blot the depth of pain, to make him feel like less of a bastard. But even more than that, he felt like a coward. In his head, he could hear his ego making mocking noises at him, taunting him for being such a chicken shit.