Creemore pack had small, high apples. I’m shapely and bountiful—a veritable harvest of flesh. And my Trowbridge was definitely a boob man. Without any urging his other paw reached for my breast’s twin. He lifted them so that they plumped, creamy and full, in his palms.
I raised my voice to get his attention. “I am the girl who crept into your motel room. Who tried to steal your amulet. Who killed Dawn Danvers. Who pushed you through the gates to hell.”
His thumb brushed my beaded nipple and I felt the tug of desire all the way to my lady parts.
“And I am no innocent.”
I coaxed his hand to trail down my ribs, to follow the sharp dip of my waist, to slow on the curve of my hip. Cheeks flushed, he rolled his head to the side and gazed down to where my legs were spread and his cock lay curved. Eyes hooded, his palms began to slide toward the temptation of the soft inside crease of my inner thigh.
“Uh-uh. You can explore that later.”
I caught his cock and held him, pulsing, in my tight grip. Silken skin over a hard, hard shaft. Scented of his lust. His knees drew up as I moved my hand along his length. My thumb found that pearl of desire leaking from the slit, and rubbed it in a circle.
“Right now, I’m going to take what I want.”
Swiftly, I rose on my knees, eased aside the leg of my panties, and brought the heat of him to tease the aching, damp core of me. Back and forth I dragged him along the folds of my pussy, wetting his cock with my own moisture. Then with a smile that promised him hell and heaven and everything in between, I guided his length to my entrance. Eyes closed in pleasure, I sank down, slowly, inch by inch, feeling the stretch, the slow hard slide, the wondrous sensation of being filled once more.
He flexed his hips so that I felt him right up to my womb.
“I don’t want to make love to the Alpha of Creemore,” I said shakily. “Any more than I want to sleep with the Son of Lukynae.”
Our gazes locked as I rose slightly, just enough to let him come close to slipping out from me, then sank again, parting my legs wide, and leaning forward so that the bud of me rubbed against him. His breath was shallow, quick and sharp, through parted lips.
“In this bed, it is just you and me. You are my Robbie Trowbridge.” I flattened my hands beside his head and bent until our mouths were inches apart. His breath and mine mingling. “And I am reclaiming you.”
Then, the terrible stillness that had held him splintered into lustful shards of lost self-control and then … there were no words.
I was being caught in a grip that forgot to be gentle and tender. He rolled me tearing away my panties as he did, and then I was flat, one arm pinned over my head. And he was leaning over me, plundering my mouth. His knees pushing my thighs wide apart. Reaching between us again. Pressing himself into my soft wetness. Entering me again, with one sweet sharp thrust of his hips.
Yes. His hips heavy on me, his weight balanced on arms bulging with muscles. Comets swirling in his beautiful, beautiful eyes. I hooked a leg over his back and pulled him close.
And then it was a blur of sensation.
And there was no awkwardness. There were no more counterfeit grins. Or a self-conscious girl, thinking herself too young, too round, too short, too small.
No strangers in this unmade bed.
There was this: the lush softness of a woman’s breast and the hard button of a man’s nipple. Sucked-in guts—from touch-me, touch-it, touch-us need. A woman’s heated core, a man’s swollen cock. Hard mouths and tender mouths. Trembling hands and sure hands.
And limbs twisting and friction mounting.
Hearts thudding. Slick skin sliding. Sweat building.
The right angle—there. The right rhythm—yes, there.
High choked baby cries and deep groans.
And finally—oh sweet Goddess, thank you—
Two hearts, beating as one.
It’s all kinds of wonderful to wake up draped over my Trowbridge. My head tucked under his firm chin, my arm over his taut belly, my short leg swung over his long one. A thump from below made me stir, yawn, and snuggle in a little closer. Drowsily, I slid my fingers under the thatch of hair growing on his chest.
I hadn’t dreamt at all during my short nap. No ponds, no pools, no pens within a pen.
Kind of amazing I’d dropped off at all, considering how the cleanup effort going on downstairs had swollen the house with sound. Unseen brooms swept the porch. Taps groaned, sinks gurgled. Scouring brushes swept back and forth. If I just listened to the noise and subtracted the people, I could almost imagine myself as Belle waking up in the Beast’s castle. Mrs. Potts puttering in the kitchen, the little hassock dog doing circles around Cogsworth. Except of course, I’d knitted the middle of the movie to the ending—my beast had already transformed into the very beddable Prince.
But the house? It was waking up under their ministrations, as if it, too, had a life.
Yet another example of how I’d gone wrong with the pack. I should have given them some jobs. Kept them occupied. Clean that hearth, scour that sink.
Another thump.
I glanced at the bedside clock then at the amulets dangling from the lampshade. We’d been snoozing for over an hour, during which time neither Ralph nor Merry had snuggled up. So clearly it wasn’t bashfulness keeping the lovers apart. Something was wrong there, but what?
Then I put my best friend’s problems in a box, labeled LATER, and shelved it.
My life had a huge knot that needed untangling, and I wasn’t sure which end to tease loose first. On one end was Lexi—so fouled and broken I wasn’t sure exactly how I was going to fix him—and on the other, My One True Thing, who came with his own list of problems. Packs and fur loyalties. Moon-runs and fleas. And in the middle of the larger knot was the small tight one of me—a girl who’d found herself tied to the old oak tree.
That made my head pound, so I went back to the problem of Lexi and Trowbridge.
Somehow, without undermining the Alpha of Creemore’s top-dog status, I had to get my brother out of that locked room downstairs and into some place of safety while he wrestled with his withdrawal symptoms.
“Mrrph,” Trowbridge sleepily sighed as I traced a circle around his nipple.
How deeply buried was my twin under the weight of his addiction? Would I ever find the boy who cried, “I’ll save you, my lady,” underneath the man who’d flung his daughter across the room like she was a used sock?
Thump. Pause. Thump.
“What is that?” I heard one of the league’s bitches ask.
“It’s the Fae,” a man replied. “He keeps throwing himself at the door.”
Covers rustled. “What’s going on?”
I hurriedly tugged his T-shirt over my head. “Have you seen my panties?”
“You don’t need them,” he murmured, sitting up and stuffing a pillow behind his back.
“Yes I do,” I replied, centering Merry on my chest. “I’m going downstairs. Lexi’s hurling himself against the door. He’s going to hurt himself.”
“You can’t help him,” he said flatly.
