Mated to the Highland Wolf

by Leal, Samantha

  Jax sat Layne gently on a musty old couch as he searched the house impatiently for supplies. He found the linen closet, changed the sheets on an old bed, checking to make sure it wasn't too moldy, and beckoned her to lay with him. They sank into the bed together, exhausted, and fell asleep before their eyes were fully closed.

  ***

  When they awoke, it was still dark, though it was more obviously morning. They weren't well-rested per se, but they were both used to sleeping in short bursts. Survival was easier that way. She'd heard the term wolf-napping used before by one of the pseudo scientists in her tribe, and thought it applied well to their situation. The sudden thought of wolves caused her to sit bolt upright in her bed and pat her shoulder. Her bag was gone. She lost her seeds as the wolves were chasing her. All hope was lost. There was no way she could settle anywhere now.

  She closed her eyes and began to grieve in earnest, her sobs stirring Jax from his slumber. He had thought about being a gentleman the night before and sleeping on the couch, but after the close call they'd had, he couldn't bring himself to leave her sight. He sat up, troubled by her disturbance, and touched her shoulder gently.

  “It's all right,” he said softly, his voice tired and hoarse. He hadn't had any water for a while.

  “No,” she sobbed. “My seeds. My bag is gone. Everything was in there. That was everything...”

  He held her tightly but she pushed him away.

  “We need to go back,” she demanded.

  “We don't need to go back,” he said, still groggy but sitting up.

  “What's wrong with you? Of course we need to go back!” She was sitting up, staring at him wildly.

  “No, no. I mean of course we would if we needed to but we don't.”

  She was about to smack him in earnest when he got up from the bed and trudged to the sofa in the cabin's living room. He came back and plopped her bag down in front of her, then went outside to urinate and stretch. He came in and sipped his water, surprised. Layne was crying again.

  “I thought they were gone forever, my hopes...”

  “Hey, it's fine. I'll take care of you.”

  Jax lowered himself beside her and she threw her arms around him.

  “You saved my life last night. You saved my seeds. You're just so...”

  He raised his dark eyebrows and pursed his lips as if hoping she wouldn't continue. She laughed, and then her lips were against his, their warmth gripping him hard, taking him by surprise. It awoke something fierce within him, a pent up energy that he'd been ignoring for all these years, utilizing solely for the purpose of survival. She gasped in surprise as he lifted her with all his strength, settling her on his lap where she could feel the manifestation of his desire burning through their clothes. It excited and aroused her, and she pressed herself experimentally against it, flushing slightly when he responded with a kiss on the neck.

  He let his hands roam her perfect body, finally allowing himself to take a moment to appreciate it all. It had been right there in front of him all this time, but he had never felt like it was okay to look; like if he did, it would be a blinding siren's call to certain death. Not that she was a siren, it was more like he didn't trust his own mental discipline. But now it was different. They were somewhere safe. It wasn't even light out yet, they had nowhere to be in particular. And everything felt right.

  Layne shuddered, the alien feeling of another person's fingertips on her flesh making goosebumps stand out on her arms. The threadlike tendrils of pleasure he wove through her caught her in a web, and even if she tried she wouldn't be able to avoid succumbing to the guilty pleasure of his body. He was a strong man, both in spirit and body, and once upon a time she would have stared at him like he was a piece of meat, imagining what might be going on in his head and assuming there wasn't much else to him than that. But here he was, showering her with gentle kisses, his eyes sharp and senses calculating, doing just so to elicit just such a response, treating her with the curiosity and wonder of a virgin making love to his first girlfriend.

  She almost thought him timid, but no, he tore her shirt off after toying with the buttons; licked her clavicle and nibbled her ears as he pushed off his boxers, revealing his swollen member, engorged and more exciting all on its own than any one of her sexual memories. His touch was intoxicating, as if he had waited all his life just to unleash his prowess on one woman, and now that she was there, and they were together, she would receive nothing less than royal treatment.

  He was lifting her again, she was floating weightless, helpless, struggling to submit but ultimately losing the battle and happier for it. He kissed her, their tongues dancing in one another's mouths, stoking the fires inside of them until suddenly it was done – he was in her and she was moaning with a pleasure deeper than anything she had ever known. She held tightly to his bronzed shoulders as they kissed and made love, and he uttered appreciative and reverent groans as he thrust slowly and deliberately inside of her, amplifying any pleasure she might feel to incite his own.

  He stayed in control so long that she almost thought he was robotic, and then she sucked his neck, licked his earlobes, scratched gently down his back and saw his control waver. His inhibitions rippled away and he was hammering, thrusting harder, deeper, until she buckled against him, screamed in rapture, shuddered and climaxed again and again, until her contractions squeezed him inside of her, eliciting the rupture of his orgasm, filling her with an explosive flood of power. It seized her and would have brought her to her knees if she were standing up, and they collapsed, breathless, onto the bed, curled around each other like pleased kittens, nibbling each other's lips in bliss until they fell back asleep.

  Chapter 11

  It was late afternoon before they woke up again, bathroom breaks notwithstanding. The sun had finally risen, and they stretched comfortably in the cabin. They'd gotten used to the smell sometime during the night, and without it, and with the touch of the sun, it was actually really cozy. Layne laid in bed, looking at the pictures on the walls, a framed leaf plated with gold on a cream mounting board; a motivational phrase embroidered onto a scroll, encouraging everyone to live in the moment and believe the best is possible. She recognized the quote from somewhere but couldn't quite place it anymore. It had been too long since she dared to wander into a library. Most of them had water damaged books, and the smell of mold was too much for her allergies. She might as well have rolled around on a rug made of cat fur.

  Finally, she gazed at the perfect sleeping body of Jax. She let her eyes roam in full golden glory what she hadn't been able to see in the dark. It had been the best sex of her life, nothing could possibly compare. His hand was resting on his bare chest, and she touched it, unable to believe that somebody so mysteriously powerful had come into her life. But there he was.

  He gripped her hand tightly as he opened his eyes. He looked well-rested for the first time since they met. She realized that he never seemed able to fully relax – he was always on the alert, looking out for danger, watching out at all times so she wouldn't have to. It was nice to see him have a break for a change. It was something that she would like to get used to. He deserved some peace of mind once in a while.

  “Good morning,” he said with a smile.

  “Morning,” she replied.

  She was worried that her breath smelled bad. She had cardamom seeds in her bag. She hoped that once they were planted they could chew on them to improve their oral hygiene. She had a toothbrush but without toothpaste it wasn't exactly breath-refreshing. Most people didn't bother anymore, but she did her best. It was something she and Jax had in common. The people in the tribes were too miserable to care much about their hygiene.

  Jax sat up, kissing her on the cheek, and cracked the window by the bed open. They were hit with a smell that Layne found intoxicating, and she had a sudden urge to run outside and play like she would have when she was just a young girl. The fresh air and the trees awakened her.

  “Let's go explore!” she exclaimed
. “I want to see what it's like here.”

  “All right,” he said, laying lazily on the bed, everything tantalizingly exposed but his groin. Each knew what the other was thinking, and he tackled her back onto the bed.

  When they were done, they pulled their clothes back on and headed outside with their backpacks.

  “I really like it here,” Layne decided. It had a good feeling about it. Good energy, as if it had been inhabited by kind people. After a while of wandering, you got a sense like that about a place. She tried to avoid old homes because the bad feelings were the worst, especially when you were alone.

  Jax nodded.

  “Look, it gets better!”

  They had suddenly come upon a gravel pathway. They glanced at each other excitedly. Each side of the path was littered with edible berry bushes.

  “This is quaint,” Jax said, plucking a berry from its stem and popping it into his mouth. Layne laughed. Jax was the kind of person who would say “quaint and mean it.” She followed his lead, picking a handful of berries, and they began walking down the path, unsure of what they would find.

  “Why do I feel like this is Hansel and Gretel?” Layne asked as they moved forward cautiously.

  “Maybe we all feel like characters in a book when things are too good to be true, because we believe the catch will come at any minute.”

  “What if I choose not to believe in a catch this time?” The day had been too perfect.

  “We'll find out when we reach the end of the path,” Jax said with a shrug.

  They fell into a comfortable silence as they walked, picking berries and eating until finally, they reached a clearing. They stared at the sight in disbelief, clinging to each other's hands tightly.

  They were standing in front of a giant solar panel, surrounded by a garden – boxes of raised beds with old, shriveled, plants wilting in them.

  “This is unreal,” Jax said, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. If he had glasses he would put them on right now.

  “Pinch me,” Layne whispered. Jax pinched her butt and she laughed, pushing him away. “Ass.”

  He grinned, turning to her, giddy with pleasure.

  “This means running water. They would need a well out here. Layne, you can have this. We can keep it. You can have a home again!”

  The threat of the wild dogs seemed like a distant memory. Here was the remains of somebody's dreamland. A place that was already growing its own compost. The animals got into all of the food of course, they would have to be careful, but it was a start. They embraced tightly, and Layne wept tears of joy. Jax held her tightly, kissing the top of her head. She would be safe her, and they would stick together, creating a home, somewhere stable where he could bring his brother to safety.

  THE END

  The story continues in Book 2, available now from Amazon

  Into The Duke’s Arms

  Katie Maddox

  Copyright ©2016 by Katie Maddox. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic of mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  Florida, 2016

  “If I see one more piece of friggin’ lace, I am simply going to hurl. And hurl good.”

  Standing at the center of a lavish Victorian style sitting room, Jasmin Lawrence did have to take a moment and admire her surroundings; her bespectacled gaze perusing the room’s shining wallpaper of scarlet brocade, plush ivory carpeting, and central tables doused in reams of pure white lace and topped by a lavish setting of floral print china. Overseen by the glow of brass chandeliers and the spectacle of a hand painted mural that depicted angels in flight across a gem blue sky, the room did boast a lovely, resplendent décor was meant to promote a certain air of serenity and grace.

  At this moment, however, Jasmin felt about as graceful and serene as….

  Well, something that’s not very graceful or serene at all, she mused in silence with a sigh, rolling her eyes heavenward. I am in no mood to be witty or clever. I just want to clear out of here and grab a Big Mac.

  At this point, however, the only edibles in her future took the form of those Victorian era delicacies that she would not be eating herself, but instead, would be serving to patrons at Chez Victoria, the elegant Florida area tea room where she had sought gainful employment for the past year.

  Each day, she pushed a silver cast food cart that came complete with piping hot scones topped by clotted cream and jam, finger sandwiches, decorative iced fancy cakes, and, of course, tea.

  Lots and lots of tea.

  Didn’t those pesky Victorians ever drink anything else? she queried silently, continuing her tortured but nonetheless cathartic internal monologue before adding, as she winced in acute discomfort, And didn’t they ever lower themselves to the wearing of clothes that were remotely—I don’t know—wearable? Or at least comfortable?

  Again, she did have to admit that her work uniform—a true to life, cream colored reproduction of a classic Victorian gown—absolutely stunned with its fitted, lace-bordered floral print bodice with a matching flowing skirt and puffed, lace-lined sleeves. The soft cotton gown served to flatter and accentuate her rubenesque curves. And when she adorned her long mane of lustrous dark hair with a smooth floral print ribbon, she did indeed feel every inch a prim and proper Victorian lady.

  Cha! Got them fooled! She smirked now, rolling her eyes heavenward. I full well realize that this gown is infinitely preferable to my last work uniform, worn during my college days while toiling away as a head bun dresser at Cal’s Coney Heaven. Sorry, but it seems rather odd to wear a polyester Coney dog costume while one actually serves Coney dogs to perplexed looking customers. It seems almost fatalistic, to a point.

  Yet, no more fatalistic, she presumed, than the everyday wearing of hoop skirts, pantaloons, not to mention those ancient mummification devices known as corsets.

  Sheesh, no wonder those ladies were always ‘swooning,’ she reasoned as she felt her rib cage protract. Again. Who can breathe and function worth a darn while wearing a blasted corset?

  As she continued to use her tortured inner thoughts as a surefire distraction from the painful—or, at the very least, irritable—truth of her everyday life, Jasmin struggled to remember the time when she loved and lost herself in Victorian lore; those blissful teen-aged years when she lost herself in the novels of Jane Austen, also in the numerous filmed adaptations of her timeless books.

  I was bound and determined to marry Mr. Darcy, totally ignoring the three major obstacles standing in our way, she recalled now. Number one: Mr. Darcy is a total and complete fictional character, no joke. Number two: If he was not indeed a total and complete fictional character, he would be long dead by now. Number three: Mr. Darcy is already married. And Elizabeth Bennet is just tough enough to kick my heiny—though, I am certain that, with her velvet tongue, she would come up with a far more proper term for my defeated posterior than ‘heiny’.

  It was, in fact, her great love for Victorian literature that had inspired her to pursue a degree in English literature at Clearview State University, the premiere—okay, so the only—collegiate institution located in her Florida hometown.

  After working her way through school via a food service job, she graduated cum laude and immediately, scored a job—in food service.

  So now I know the true and full meaning of the term ‘literary irony’, she mused, heaving a deep sigh as she wheeled her cart, with sluggish slippered steps, between endless rows of lace afflicted tables. Now instead of asking, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ I ask customers, ‘Would you like clotted cream and chutney with that?’

  Her troubled meditation was disrupted by the sudden entrance of her supervisor; a tall, slender woman with distinguished silver hair and a flowing day dress of pure blue satin, adorned with lace and sleek ruffles.

  Although
Jessymyn O’Reilly generally had the tendency to float into a room, she, on this day, seemed to trudge a bit as she dragged a large and rather unwieldy portrait into the main dining room of Chez Victoria.

  “Can I help you with that, Jessymyn?” Jasmin queried, rushing forward to grab up the right edge of the brass bordered frame that enclosed the mysterious portrait; righting the painting as she did to take a closer look at its surface.

  She froze then, and gaped outright, as she beheld the image of the most beautiful man she ever had seen.

  His tall muscular frame was dressed resplendent, in a long jacket of azure jacquard, a white satin shirt with a stately high collar, and tight fitting taupe pantaloons adorned with brass buttons. The subject of this portrait boasted a chiseled face featuring carved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and eyes that shone as bright and azure as the image of the bluest sky.

  This face came framed with a shoulder length mane of thick ebony hair that fell free across muscled shoulders, and came adorned with a soft, subtle upturn of his full moist lips.

  “Who’s the beb?” she asked Jessymyn, all the while never tearing her gaze from the captivating man captured in the frames of the ebullient oil painting.

  Jessymyn let loose with an undignified snort, rolling her eyes heavenward as she considered her most unique turn of phrase.

  “The beb, for your information, is Lord Nathaniel Barrett; the man who originally made his home in this very building—or, at the very least, a reasonable facsimile,” she informed her employee. Adding with a proud smile, “A local historian is writing a book about this area and he interviewed the lovely elderly couple that owns this fine establishment. And, as it turns out, the structure of this tea room is based on the floor plan of a manor house they visited while on a trip to London. They had seen the home of a stately nobleman named Nathaniel Barrett, a widower who lived the gist of his days alone and miserable in his big old house. They thought that it would be a fitting tribute to build a house, much like his, then fill it with laughter, good food, and lots of company for his lonely spirit.”