Jared's Wolf (Wyndham Werewolf #2)

Jared's Wolf (Wyndham Werewolf #2) Page 7

"I'll bet. That's why you took it upon yourself to find Renee's killer. It was your job to protect her. And when you couldn't, that last time, the least you could do . . ."

"Yeah."

They were silent, and then Jared rinsed his hair and started running his soapy hands down her back, started kneading her buttocks.

Moira thought, his body is his weapon. He's been using all those fighting skills to track down his sister's killer like a bloodhound. That's why he got the drop on me so easily. My whole life, I've taken my physical strength for granted. I couldn't do a karate chop if someone held a gun to my head. He's not an intellectual, and he doesn't have circus strongman strength. He's cunning, and quick, and can sneak up on people with no trouble.

He's more like a wolf, she realized with a bolt of excitement, than I am.

Could this man be the one? She would never worry about accidentally hurting Jared; he could take care of himself. Certainly it was no problem if he were to accidentally hurt her . . . she was a fast healer, and pain was, at times, almost a friend to her. Best of all, most wonderful of all, he absolutely didn't care that she was an adding machine on legs. That alone made it worth staying with him.

Her excitement derailed abruptly when she recalled one simple, devastating fact: he had no clue what she was. And once he found out, he would at least walk—run!—out of her life forever. Unless he considered her responsible for his sister's death, too.

How, she wondered forlornly, had the tables turned so quickly? Yesterday she would have seen him dead. Today tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of him leaving.

His hands were still stroking, still soaping, and she could feel his erection against her stomach. He pressed her close to him, holding her tightly.

"Moira, Moira," he whispered, his words almost lost under the thrumming of the shower, "a guy could fall in love. But if you're holding out on me . . ." He came into her, hard, a brutal shove, and she bit back a cry of mingled pain and pleasure. ". . . you'll live to regret it."

She didn't doubt it.

He picked her up, pulled her legs around him, and held her easily, pinning her against the slick tile like a butterfly to a board. He shoved, shoved, shoved, and it hurt, she wasn't ready for him, and she loved it, loved being used roughly. Had she really disdained coupling with a human because she thought they were weak? She had thrice his strength but, without leverage, could only take it. Take him. His length filled her up, took her over, he was deep, so deep. He was shoving angrily but his hands were gentle; she had a flash of intuition

(he's angry because he wants me so badly . . . wants me but doesn't quite trust me) and then could only concentrate on what he was doing to her. She squirmed against the tile. "You're hurting me," she whispered.

"I know." He gently tongued her earlobe . . . then bit it.

Now his thrusts came easier because her body was easing his way, was flooding her with wetness.

"Damn you," he whispered, his eyes gleaming, "I never wanted this to happen . . . ahhhhhhhhh . . ."

"I'm sorry," she gasped.

"You feel so slick, so sweet. I'm really close. I'm going to come and . . . you're . . . not."

"Don't you dare!" was as far as she got before she could feel him pulsing inside her. Abruptly, he pulled away, leaving her shaking with need.

"Jared . . ."

"What the hell are we going to do, bright eyes?"

"Jared . . ."

"It's a simple question, Moira," he said patiently, giving her nipple an impudent tweak. Oh, how she hated him. "A guy could fall in love, but I've got to keep my priorities straight."

His fingers. His fingers, between her legs, finding her throbbing clit. Stroking it, rubbing it. Even squeezing, very, very gently. Her legs trembled, threatened to spill her to the tile. Her head rolled back and forth against the shower wall. "You're smack in the middle of a mess, gorgeous, and I don't envy you at all. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"Please. Please. Please." The word was wrenched out of her, shoved out. "Please, Jared. Don't make me beg."

"But, sweetheart," his mouth very near her ear, "you are begging."

She moaned, lost. He took pity on her, knelt, gently spread her apart and lapped, lapped, lapped. She came at once, a shallow spasm that did nothing, that left her wanting him inside her, her need for him a bestial craving. "More," she gasped, demanded, urged. Begged.

He wordlessly led her from the shower, both of them dripping wet. Bent her over the tub. Took her again and again, until the room rang with her screams, until her legs wouldn't support her any longer and she collapsed to the floor, still feeling the spasms from her last orgasm.

Without a word, he lifted her to her feet, dried her with a big, fluffy towel, and tucked her into bed as if she were a precious treasure. Left her to nap.

Humans are weak, was her last thought before spinning into sleep. In a pig's eye.

Chapter Eight

When she woke, hours later, she was alone in the bed and utterly ravenous. The smell of frying bacon filled the room, filled her head, and she hurriedly pulled on some clothes and flew down the stairs.

She burst into the kitchen just as Jared slid three eggs onto a plate laden with bacon, toast, sliced tomatoes, home fries, and sausage links. "Morning, sunshine. Do you want some—" Snatching the plate away from him, she sat at the table, grabbed a fork, started shoveling. "—breakfast?"

"Nnnnf."

He grinned down at her. "God, you are the perfect woman. Super smart, awesome in bed, and you eat like a lumberjack." He ruffled her curls. "A sexy lumberjack."

"Mmmfff nnnggg mmmm," she said, or something like that. She swallowed. "This is good. Thanks very much. Being hungry does nothing for my manners." Human manners, she amended silently.

"I can't believe you're not throwing food at me." He turned back to the stove. "After this morning."

"Yes, yes, very non-PC, you beast, it's over between us, hate you forever . . . salt?"

He turned, blinked at her, then shook his head and nodded toward the salt shaker.

"What, I have to get up?" she complained. "You're standing right there."

"Cripes, you've got nerve!" He whipped around, exasperated. "You know, technically you're my prisoner. I mean, I did kidnap you."

"Yes, and then you lost me." At his scowl, she added, "Plus, you're standing right there. Besides, you and I both know you'd eat your own feet before hurting any woman. So spare me the 'you are my prisoner, fear me' crapola. And pass the damned salt! Please."

"I'll do it," he said, smirking, "if you'll show me your tits." He paused, obviously braced for shrieks of feminine dismay at his crude request . . . and nearly fell onto the frying pan as her T-shirt hit him in the face.

"Salt."

"Right." He fetched it for her, gave her left breast a friendly squeeze, and returned to his eggs.

"Thank you. Now there's bacon grease on my nipple."

"I'll take care of that for you," he said, scooping eggs onto another plate. He snapped a glance at her over his shoulder, and winked. "Later." He sat down across from her and fell to.

"Great. You could just pass me a napkin, you know."

"Spoilsport."

They ate in friendly silence, until Jared finally asked, "Do you remember last night?"

"Vividly."

"I mean . . . my dream."

"Yes." She stopped mopping egg yolk with her toast and looked up. "I'm very, very sorry about your sister."

He looked at her thoughtfully. She noticed he hadn't pulled his hair back in a ponytail, and had to keep brushing back the sandy blonde strands, keeping them out of his face. "And afterward. What I said afterward . . . I'm pretty sure I told you they're werewolves. Over at Wyndham's."

"Yes, you did." She answered his unspoken question. "I already knew."

Thunderstruck silence, followed by, "And you work for them?"

"They're my family." Get it? My family? Don't make me say it, Jared. Figure it out.

He shoved his plate back, stood, started pacing. She unobtrusively pulled his half empty plate toward her. Ah, two pieces of bacon left . . .

"Jesus, if I didn't know for a fact that all werewolves are male, I'd be really worried about—"

" What? "

"Don't try to deny it, pretty spy. You know, I had to take a long and very fucking strange road to get to this house, this town, and on the way I met some exceedingly weird people. And heard some strange shit."

"Werewolves are all men." She could barely get the sentence out without giggling. "Who told you that?"

"I paid good money for that information," he said proudly. "And I got it from an honest-to-God werewolf. I watched the beast change . . . into a bigger beast. And when the moon went down and the sun came up, he told me all about werewolves."

All about bullshit, more likely. "How'd you get him to talk?"

"I was resting the barrel of my shotgun against his testicles while we played Twenty Questions."

"Yes, that would do it." So he'll never guess the truth about me. Not unless I tell him outright, or show him. So: good? Or bad? Moira practically squirmed at the odd dilemma. Good for Moira-the-werewolf, because her main goal, always, was the pack's safety. Bad for Moira-the-woman, because this put more distance between her and Jared.

And why did she care ?

He looked nonplussed at the way she hadn't been horrified to hear about the shotgun, and the testicles.

That, in fact, she seemed to hardly be paying attention to his revelations. He resumed pacing. "Which is why you shouldn't be working there. What if one of them bites you, for Christ's sake? I didn't think to ask if a woman could get infected that way . . ."