Cowboy Wolf Trouble

by Kait Ballenger

  She followed his gaze to the massive feline, an eyebrow quirking in question. “You can’t be serious?” She gripped the cat tighter, as if to shield the flea-bitten beast from him.

  “Deadly serious.”

  “You don’t like cats?” She asked the question as if he were the monster, rather than the deranged beast in her arms.

  “I don’t like that thing,” he said.

  She pointed to the blubbery ball of fur. “You mean this ca—?”

  “Shhh,” he hissed. “Don’t say the C-A-T word. Peaches hates that. It will only make things worse.”

  “Peaches?” She glanced down at the hefty ball of patched, aging fur in her arms in confusion. The cat somehow managed to look overfed and decrepit at the same time. Its ancient yellow eyes, one larger than the other, were transfixed on Black Jack. Its mouth opened in a silent hiss, displaying a mouthful of rotting teeth complete with breath Wes knew firsthand reeked worse than the inside of the Grey Wolves’ pigpen. From the alarmed look on her face, how anyone could deem the name Peaches appropriate seemed to fail even Naomi’s tender heart…

  Wes put forward a cautionary hand. “Just whatever you do, don’t let go of her. I’m going to step toward you before he sees her.”

  Naomi looked at him as if he were insane. “Before who sees her?”

  Slowly, Wes inched forward, attempting to place himself smack-dab in the line of fire to block the impending brawl.

  But it was too late. At the sight of Wes’s approach, the furred devil in Naomi’s arms chose that moment to release a deafening yowl. The noise silenced the low chatter of the horses in the stable. Immediately, Black Jack’s ears perked up, and his black eyes fell to where Naomi stood, holding his archnemesis.

  Without hesitation, the horse bared his teeth and snarled. Actually snarled. The terrifying noise was rivaled only by the huff of an angry bull prepared to charge. Wes was fairly certain he’d never heard another horse snarl. Huff? Yes. Whinny? Yes. But snarl? No.

  Then again, not every horse was Black Jack, and not every cat was that glorified hair-ball dispenser Blaze called a pet. Whether it was a catcher of rats or not, he’d told Blaze time and time again to keep that damn beast where it belonged—far from the stables. Wes didn’t care where, though if he’d had his choice, preferably a dark trunk, a locked dark trunk without holes buried six feet underground.

  The feline locked eyes with Black Jack. Their prolonged stare-down filled the stable with unspoken tension that called to mind every film Wes had ever seen featuring a traditional western standoff. But instead of guns, their weapons were claws, teeth, and hooves. The air was wrought with tension. Naomi, Wes, and the other horses remained the helpless, terrified onlookers.

  The feline monster released another petrifying yowl in a challenge that sounded less like an aged cat and more like the pits of hell had opened and Satan himself was singing.

  Realizing exactly to whom Wes referred, Naomi sought to rectify the situation. “Oh, quit it, you two.” She cast a smiling glance at each of them. “I’m sure you can learn to be frien—” Naomi reached out a hand, attempting to stroke the battered brute cradled in her arms.

  “Naomi, no!” Wes shouted.

  The snarling cat twisted around and sank its tiny, sharp fangs into the meat of her hand.

  Naomi yelped, releasing the cat, and exactly as Wes had feared, all manner of hell broke loose within the stable.

  Free from Naomi’s grasp, the satanic feline spawn hissed before lunging toward Black Jack, attaching itself to the horse’s long face by the hook of its razor-like claws. Blinded by the fur covering his eyes, Black Jack reared up, prepared to charge.

  And Naomi stood straight in the line of fire.

  Wes dove for her just as she lunged toward him to escape Black Jack’s path. They smacked into each other in a tangle of falling limbs. Naomi shrieked, her flailing arms making them careen as Black Jack tore through the stable doors.

  In his hasty exit, the horse knocked over the wheelbarrow full of manure Wes had finished mucking minutes earlier. The manure scattered, causing Wes and Naomi to slip through the damp grass as they stumbled out of the stable. Slipping and sliding, arms still flailing, they both landed—hard—on their asses, several feet away in the mountain dirt.

  Both pairs of their boots were covered in horseshit.

  In the distance, a terrifying yowl followed another snarl. Black Jack had now shaken off the furred devil and was chasing Peaches around the patch of grass outside the stables, biting and snapping at the cat’s feet as it attempted to outpace the beast.

  And as if sitting in the middle of the Grey Wolf pasture with his boots covered in shit, his horse running wild after a half-dead cat, and the human woman responsible for it sitting at his side complaining about him accidentally groping her weren’t enough, the Montana sky chose that moment to open up.

  Rain poured down on them in torrential icy sheets, soaking through their clothes within seconds.

  “Shit!” Wes swore. “Get back in the stable.”

  Naomi finally turned toward him. Her eyes squinted past the raindrops. “What about the sweet cat?” she shouted through the rumbling of thunder.

  The woman was the worst kind of bleeding heart.

  “Forget the damn cat.” The rim of his Stetson now curved down with the weight of the rain collected in its brim. The rain beat down on their backs like small drops of ice.

  For once, Naomi did as she was told. By the time they managed to navigate their way around the manure, they were both soaked from head to toe. Wes left the stable doors open as they stripped off their mucked boots.

  The day couldn’t have chosen a worse way to end. He’d found himself in a perpetual state of misery ever since last night. Their ranch work hadn’t helped. It had left him alone in his thoughts to dwell on every what-if of their previous interaction. And if he thought her scent had tortured him before, it was nothing compared to now.

  He’d wanted nothing more last night than to lay her bare in front of the cabin’s fireplace, filling her with the length of his cock and taking her until she cried out his name. He’d fully intended to do just that, until her hand had traced over one of the scars on his chest, a silvery, crescent-shaped scar hidden beneath the material of his shirt. He’d gotten that the night he’d killed his father, the night he’d spilled an innocent woman’s blood. A human woman, just like her. So he’d broken the contact between them, because if he didn’t, he would hurt her, destroy her, just as he had the only other beautiful thing he’d ever had in his life.

  To make matters worse, thanks to Maverick’s warning and that little knife fight with Malcolm, Wes still wasn’t entirely convinced of her innocence, despite something in his gut that wanted to trust her. The question of the Wild Eight and the vampires’ deadly intentions itching at the back of his mind made him all the more conflicted.

  “You’re a magnet for trouble,” he grumbled. The Wild Eight, the vamps, and him. He was exactly that to a human like her: trouble. Pure and simple.

  He regretted it as soon as he said it. The words only served to relight an angry fire within her, and he was helpless against the draw of her flame, the passion she exuded from every pore. It somehow melted the ice around his dead heart in a way he’d never thought possible.

  Hurt twisted her pretty features instantly, causing her to lash out. “I’m a magnet for trouble?” She stabbed a finger into his chest as she stepped toward him, advancing as she threatened him.

  With her finger, her finger of all things. Like that was supposed to intimidate him.

  “You’re the one who brought me to this place. You’re the one who led those Wild Eight monsters onto my land. You want trouble, look in the mirror,” she hissed.

  They stood nearly chest to chest, the tips of her taut breasts brushing against him as that damn accusatory finger pushed between his pecto
rals.

  His eyes fell to the slender offending digit. This close and with his anger riled, he couldn’t stop himself. His eyes flashed to his wolf’s. “Unless you intend to follow through with that little threat, I suggest you take a large step back, Miss Kitty.”

  “And if I don’t?” she challenged.

  This woman would be the death of him. He gripped her wrist with his free hand, moving her small palm from his chest to his mouth. Close enough that her fingertips brushed the hair of his beard. “I devour that damn finger of yours and every other inch of you with it.” He leaned closer, drawing so near, their noses nearly touched. “A night with me would break you.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” She tore away from him with a huff.

  With a frustrated growl, he tore off his sopping-wet shirt, discarding it in a nearby pile of hay. Kicking off his water-filled socks, he trudged barefoot to a nearby saddlebag. He yanked it down from the wall and reached inside for the extra pair of clothes he always kept tucked in there in case of emergencies, or in case he didn’t feel like being cooped up in his apartment all night.

  “Here.”

  She turned, and he tossed a pair of boxers and a shirt to her, saving the jeans for himself. Though she had curves to enjoy, she wasn’t large, and the jeans would likely fall off her hips anyway.

  She caught the clothes, giving him a quick once-over. If he didn’t know any better, from the frown on her face, he would have thought she disapproved. She made a point of narrowing her eyes at him. Her gaze darted over his bare torso, lingering on the plethora of scar-covered muscle and tattoos.

  “You’ve already seen me naked.” He flashed her a smug grin, referring to when they’d been in her pasture the first night they’d met.

  Her face flushed red, and she averted her gaze. “It was dark.”

  He chuckled. “Not that dark.” He turned away from her. He’d planned on saving his jeans for once she was distracted with her own changing, but somehow, getting her ire up gave him a sense of satisfaction. In part because he enjoyed watching her squirm.

  Unbuckling his pants, he dropped them to the floor.

  If she was looking, his ass was as bare as the day he was born.

  “You’re incorrigible,” she hissed.

  So she was looking. He chuckled again as he tugged on the fresh, dry jeans. Turning back toward her, he saw that she still stood with her back to him, not bothering to address the issue of her sopping-wet clothes. The woman was just as stubborn as he was.

  “You’ve shared my bed,” he challenged.

  Naomi glanced over her shoulder toward him. All day, they’d both been skirting around what had passed between them the night before and the first night when they’d kissed, both of them painfully aware yet refusing to address it. Naomi’s eyes grew wide as if she were surprised he’d been the one to break their silent standoff.

  That made two of them.

  But the silence between them had been killing him. Normally, Wes wouldn’t have cared. In fact, before she’d come crashing into his life, he’d lived in silence, at least mostly. Isolated out in the stables, he’d only had minimal interaction with his fellow packmembers, and he preferred it that way.

  Until her. Now he craved the noise. Her noise. The incessant chatter, the questions, the arguments, and especially the little intake of breath that escaped her lips every time he touched her, as if she were both terrified of him and aroused. It didn’t matter whether it was the brush of his hand or that tight little body pressed fully against his. It happened every time. Every fucking time. And every time, it made him instantly hard.

  He perched on the edge of a haystack. From this position, he watched her framed in the doorway of the stable. The door remained open, allowing in the sound and the smell of the rain. Everything about her—from her dark hair to her even darker eyes, perky little breasts, wide, rounded hips, and smooth brown skin—seemed fashioned specifically to tempt him. And those full pink lips drove him wild, making him want a taste of her.

  He could think of more than one pair of pink lips he wanted to taste.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing his attention to the way her wet shirt clung to the curve of her breasts. “I’d hardly call a stable floor a bed, and if we’d both been in our right minds, that kiss never would have happened.”

  As if that were the end of their conversation, she walked into an empty stall, closing the wooden gate behind her. The paneling shielded her body from view from just below her chest downward. He should have turned away, but he couldn’t help himself. With hungry eyes, he watched her strip off the wet shirt, revealing smooth, damp skin and a flash of a lacy black bra. She reached behind her, gently releasing the clasp to reveal her naked back. Soft shoulders tight with feminine muscle. The inky coils of her hair appeared even darker wet. They rolled over those strong shoulders like strands of midnight. His cock grew hard in an instant as he took in the sight of her.

  Bending ever so slightly, she wiggled free of her jeans. With each shimmying movement, he became more aroused, leaving his cock as hard as a diamond. When she bent to strip her pants from her ankles, he swore. Damn if he hadn’t seen the smallest hint of the side of one of her gorgeous breasts.

  A few moments later, she emerged wearing the T-shirt and boxers. The stark white of the cotton contrasted with the dark tones of her skin. He wasn’t entirely sure which he preferred. Her wrapped in his clothes as if she was his for the taking, or the sight of her naked back…

  Naked. Definitely naked, he decided.

  Crossing over to the wall, she reached for a saddle blanket and a canteen filled with water he’d given her earlier that morning. The hem of the oversized shirt rose, revealing the tight material of the boxers she was wearing underneath. On his narrow hips, they fit well; on her, they clung to that ample round ass, highlighting its tight curve.

  The words left his mouth before he could stop himself. He couldn’t resist. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t haven’t enjoyed it.”

  “Enjoyed what?” She returned to her spot on the haystack, laying out the saddle blanket to soften the spot where she sat.

  “Me taking you. In front of the fireplace, on the ground in the stable, up against the tree in the forest. Take your pick.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” The words belied the flare of lust in her eyes. She chugged a swig from the canteen.

  He had her, and he knew it. “I can smell your desire, you know.”

  She choked on the water and coughed until she caught her breath. Abandoning the canteen, she braced her hands beside her. “Don’t toy with me. It’s not funny.”

  A devilish smirk crossed his lips. “Toys are for men who don’t know how to use their hands.”

  Her cheeks flushed, and she tore her gaze away from him. “Fine. Don’t lie to me then.”

  Wes scowled. A betrayer, a murder, a monster, yes. But never a liar. His father had been a liar. A deep growl thundered through his chest. “I may be a lot of things, but I’m no liar.”

  And he intended to prove just that.

  Chapter 9

  “What are you doing?” Naomi inched backward from where she sat.

  Wes’s eyes shifted to those of his wolf. The golden yellow gleamed, and those black pupils focused directly on her. The growl that rumbled from his chest sounded downright feral, and sexy as all hell. She half expected him to shift right then and there. But he didn’t. Instead, he prowled toward her. Her heart sped into overdrive.

  From the look in his eyes, she was fairly certain she’d turned into Little Red Riding Hood, and the Big Bad Wolf was headed straight to devour her in all the dirty ways she’d dreamed that morning. She bumped into the stall post behind her, not even realizing that she’d backed up against it. He was only a few feet away now, quickly advancing on her. She gripped the saddle blanket for support.

  “I am no lia
r.” He slid his hands over the top of hers, clamping her fists onto the blanket-covered haystack and caging her with the massive breadth of his body.

  Her breath caught.

  “There it is.” Something dark stirred in his eyes. One of the hands on hers slid up the length of her arm. In the wake of his rough fingertips, a trail of goose bumps peppered her skin. His hand caressed her arm, across her shoulder, then up the exposed skin of her neck before it came to rest on her chin.

  Between him and the stall post, there was no escape.

  She wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Heat flooded her center as the pad of his thumb gently tugged at the soft flesh of her lips. “I know you want me, because that happens every time I touch you…” His hand left her lips and smoothed down over the bare skin of her neck. “Every.” Over the curve of her breast. “Damn.” Down to the slope of her hips. “Time.” He cupped her ass, pressing her against him. The hard length of him ground into her core.

  She heard it then. The sharp intake of breath that escaped her lips. A heady mixture of impending danger and desire.

  He was right.

  Her legs dangled over the edge of the haystack she sat on, granting him easy access. His hands lingered on her thighs.

  He slipped one hand between her legs, cupping her in his palm. With her legs spread, the thin fabric of the boxers she wore was damp with heat. A devilish grin crossed his lips. “I know you want me because I can smell it on you.” He located her clit through the fabric, rubbing his thumb over the material in steady circles.

  “Wes…” Her voice was breathy even to her own ears as her back arched, and she opened her legs further for him in clear invitation.

  “Here.” His lips brushed over the skin of her ear as he drew in her scent.

  A shudder ran through her. “Wes…” she panted.

  “Here.” His mouth found the sensitive skin just above her breasts.

  She ground her hips against the pressure of his hand, the heat inside her growing. “Wes!” Her voice was desperate, pleading.