Wolf's Song

by Taryn Kincaid

  “Dog brought me here today. He wanted to see you.”

  “Not you?” Disappointment shaded her voice.

  “I’m a lone wolf. I’m not good with…relationships.”

  “I see.” She nibbled on her full lower lip and he thought he’d lose it. “Then let’s not go there….” The yet remained unspoken but he heard it in her sweet, soft voice. “But I’m a cat. I’m touchy-feely sometimes.”

  “You’re—” He shook his head, having a hard time wrapping his brain around that one.

  “I’m a skinwalker, born into Clan Goldspark, a cougar, like my mother was. The raven’s my preferred form. It was my father’s Spirit Guide.”

  “There’s gonna be a war,” he muttered.

  “Not between us.”

  “Calhoun Seven—”

  “Forget him. Please, Brick. Let’s just deal with this…” she gestured between them, “whatever it is. This…heat.”

  He groaned. She swayed, as if the sound he’d made burned through her, setting her on fire. Sexy. So hot he had to look away from her again.

  “Didn’t know you were here at first,” he growled. “But the shower in the cabin wasn’t on the agenda when I could splash around in the lake.”

  “And now that you do know?”

  Again with the groan. She tilted toward him.

  “Like I said….” He hesitated, then went for it. “Perfect.”

  She heaved a huge sigh, her relief obvious, and then blessed him with one of her radiant smiles. “You call him ‘Dog’?” An eyebrow lifted like a bird in flight.

  Brick shrugged. “Seems appropriate. Don’t you have a name for yours?”

  She shook her head. “No. She’s too much me. Too much ‘Summer.’ So…you still haven’t told me why ‘Annabel Lee.’”

  “Oh.” His lips quirked and he guessed his expression looked more sheepish than lupine. “You know that Edgar Allan Poe poem, ‘The Raven’?”

  “You’re kidding, right? ‘Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”’? But the raven was a demon and the woman in the poem was ‘the lost Lenore.’”

  “Yeah, but you’re no demon. You saved my worthless life when I’d crashed to rock bottom. And you didn’t seem either lost or Lenorish to me. So I went with the only other Poe poem I knew: ‘Annabel Lee.’ ‘And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.’”

  “You know that one ends badly, too.”

  “But it begins well.”

  She nodded. “I like the thought.” She grinned at him. “Don’t you know this one?” She began humming, then singing, her voice crystalline, flawless as a many-faceted, museum-caliber diamond. His entire body relaxed as the sweet, traditional lyrics of the old Civil War standard Aura Lee washed over him: “As the blackbird in the spring ’neath the willow tree sat and piped I heard him sing praising Aura Lee.”

  “Oh, fuck, yeah.” He swiped a hand across his mouth to apologize for the F-bomb. “Much better. ‘For to me sweet Aura Lee is sunshine to the heart.’ Damn straight. Works much better. Aura Lee it is. If you hadn’t awakened me and gotten me off that porch like a beam of sunshine ten years ago, hell knows what would have become of me.”

  “I think you’d have done all right.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Well, as long as we’ve got that settled…you think you might kiss me again?

  “Yeah. I could do that. Oh, hell, yeah.”

  His mouth closed over hers. Hard.

  Chapter Three

  The feel of his lips. Oh, holy hell. Bliss. Sheer. Soaring. Bliss.

  Hard, strong, rough, smooth. Gentle. So gentle. Commanding and brutal. But careful, terribly careful. As if he were consciously preventing himself from overpowering her whenever he felt himself grow too fierce, too alpha-dominant, too ready to stamp her with his mark of possession. To leave his scent on her, his bite on her neck. But also as if he wanted to savor the moment, make it special and delicate, and free of any power play, free of any regret.

  He ran his tongue softly over the seam of her lips, tracing their bow, their curve, nipping at the plumpest part of her lower lip, playful, sweet, then harsh, aggressive, his low growl vibrating against her skin.

  The whole hard and soft, harsh and sweet thing of contrasts and contradictions had her mind spinning, her head about to explode, her emotions scrambled like a carton of broken eggs.

  He smelled of pine and frost, like the little carved wolf she slept with under her pillow. He tasted sharp and crisp as juniper berries and made her drunker than a bottle of gin. She plunged her fingers into his thick hair, so baby soft fine on his nape, another counterpoint to how hard he appeared everywhere else. And he was hard. And huge. Her arms barely circled his broad, muscular chest as he gathered her to him.

  Locking onto him, she dancing on the edge, as he brought her close to the brink with his sinful, decadent kisses alone. Waves of his spicy mating scent sloshed over her, made her drunk, made her drown in him.

  She opened her mouth to give him greater access, welcoming the toe-curling penetration of his tongue. Stabbing past her lips, her teeth, a driving, insane force she met with her own needy hunger. He pulled her in so tight against his body she could barely breathe. And yet, not close enough. Not nearly close enough. She was ready to be devoured.

  As if he guessed, he broke off the kiss, working his way along her jaw, taking a shallow little nip from her neck as he kissed and licked across her collarbone, then lower, to latch onto her breast. God. Sucking, circling, teasing. His tongue flicked over her nipple. Then the other. He had her panting, dragging in great draughts of oxygen that further intoxicated her with his essence and brought her chest rising to his mouth.

  Her hair still wet from the cooling dip in the lake, her body naked in the fresh spring air…and yet, she burned. She absolutely burned. For him. And him alone.

  Brick Northridge. Her wolf. Her big, bad, devastating, and gorgeous lone wolf. The male she’d so long loved from afar, his coffee-colored hair and his brandy-bright eyes, the grizzled stubble shading his firm jaw. The elusive mischief of his too-rare smile. An explosive tower of warmth and large, powerful muscle. In her arms at last. Kissing her like a totally sexed-up, sex-crazed male possessed. Like a huge, hunky male wolf in his prime. Like her man.

  He rubbed his body against hers, letting her feel the heat, the demand, the urgency of the hard cock trapped between their bodies.

  “Is this really happening?” she murmured, the fire of him all but consuming her question.

  “Oh, hell yeah. It’s happening.” His whisper was husky and deep, hungry against her mouth. “Unless….” He pulled back, gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes, reining in. “You don’t want it to?”

  “You’d be okay with that?”

  His eyes popped open again, staring into hers with deceptive calm. All those long hours of t’ai chi training at dawn, she thought, that now let him call upon some deep well of stillness and emotional repose.

  “No, it might kill me,” he said. “But yeah, I’ll back off.”

  She ignored all the something deadly lurking beneath his reasonable words and tranquil surface and slid a hand down his broad chest, over his taut belly, following the dark sin trail as if it were a neon treasure map to X-marks-the-spot. She palmed him, her fingers barely able to close around the thick girth of his sex. The groan she wrested from him set her ablaze.

  Arching up on tiptoes, she grazed her lips against his. “How fast can you get me to your bed?”

  He offered her a wink and one of those rare wicked smiles she craved. “I’m a wolf, sweetheart. I’ve got game. Not to mention speed.”

  In two seconds flat, he flung her over one brawny shoulder. In two more, he carried her through the cabin door. Up the rustic log stairs to his loft. He tossed her flat on her back in the middle of a king-sized bed and kicked off his jeans, lunging for her. Beside her. On top of her. His long legs tangled with hers, his heavy weight pinning her to th
e sheets, his cock jabbing the soft part of her thigh.

  “Jesus, you smell good,” he said.

  “You do, too. I could bathe in the scent of you.”

  She wriggled beneath him, trying to unpretzel their legs to give him greater access to even softer parts, trying to spread her legs.

  “Condom,” she squeaked.

  He had his hand on his sex, guiding it unerringly toward her entry like a heat-seeking missile. The word turned him to stone, made him go all deer in the headlights on her.

  “I don’t have any.” His voice sounded strangled. “Fuck. Motherfucking fuck.”

  “Probably not then.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Silently echoed his dark curses, adding a few of her own.

  For a couple of seconds she contemplated unprotected sex. They were shifters. Paranormal creatures. Did it really matter? She’d love to mother his young.

  Something niggled in the back of her mind, something about the wolves and their sexuality. She’d heard whispers, rumors, but she couldn’t quite bring the elusive thought front and center. Not with Brick melting her, turning her brain to mush. Did the wolves even get sexually transmitted diseases? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure Brick knew himself, living up here alone so long.

  But she remembered his monthly trips into town, where he almost certainly visited Cal’s whores from time to time. Cal’s girls were clean, and Brick’s wolf ability to heal would probably make him pretty invulnerable. And as for young…. This was their first time. And, much as she might want that, it was far too soon to contemplate. They needed to build their relationship first. Make it strong and durable. Whether or not anything was possible or impossible…they couldn’t take that chance.

  “Won’t risk you, sweetheart. Will always take care of you.” He collapsed on his back next to her and flung an arm across his eyes. His chest heaved, rising and falling as if he’d run a marathon.

  “How could you not have any?”

  “I’m a fucking lone wolf,” he reminded her. “I don’t bring anyone here. At least not since….”

  Oh, yeah, right. Not since the one aborted attempt when she’d dropped her sticky little care package into that bimbo’s over-teased beehive.

  “No female’s ever been in this bed before.”

  Oddly, his little admission kinda inflated her. She nearly smiled. Until she remembered there’d be no somethin’ doin’ in this bed this afternoon, either.

  She looked around the loft. Spacious, comfortable. Besides the large bed, massive bureaus, a table of polished oak, chairs, all of which she suspected he’d built himself. Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the room with sunlight—and moonlight at night—and offered a view of the lake, the mountains beyond. Built- in shelves. Her trinkets arrayed like precious, hard-earned trophies.

  “Like what you’ve done with the place,” she offered.

  “Seriously?” He groaned again.

  “Well, what then, Brick? We’re both just gonna lie here hurting?”

  “Hell, no. I’ve got this, sweetheart.”

  Rolling onto his side, he loomed over her, large and unyielding, and planted a long, hard deep one on her lips. He raised his head briefly to wink at her. “Be sure and let me know if it hurts too bad.”

  When he’d kissed her until her lips felt bee stung and swollen, he worked his way across her jaw, to the soft skin below her chin. She tilted her head and shut her eyes. Now, she thought. Now he’ll bite me. Brand me. Claim me. Make me his. But he didn’t. The little nips he left on her throat teased her until she groaned.

  “Does it hurt?” Pools of mischief lit up the brandy-colored eyes. Too deep and brown for her to see the wolf. Chocolate and coffee and all things delicious.

  “No.”

  “How about this?” He lowered his head to her chest, his mouth closing over first one breast and then the other. His kisses scalded her. He tongued her nipple to an erect peak, as he had down by the lake, but so different, so much hotter when his weight pinned her beneath him, the mattress of his bed below her back, his long length flush against her, skin to skin. The friction of his body against hers shot indescribable sensations through her. He kissed and sucked her other breast and tentacles of burning pleasure spiraled within her, binding every nerve and cell, building a sweet ache between her legs that had her squirming.

  She moaned, wanting, needing more. So much more.

  “Yeah?” he mumbled, his lips vibrating against her flesh. “But not enough.”

  He traveled down her length, his hands as busy as his mouth. Past her navel. Her hips. The tops of her thighs.

  She wriggled under him, pushing at his shoulders to shift his position and allow her to part her legs for him. “Damn it, Brick.”

  “Ah.” He bent over her and dropped a brief kiss on her mound. “There. Is that where it hurts, sweet Summer?”

  “Like I’m on fire.”

  “Should I kiss it and make it better?” He slid farther down her torso, gripping her thighs, spreading them apart.

  “I think you should stop talking, wolf.” She grabbed his hand and guided him to her sex. He slid his blunt fingertips over her wet folds, her slick, sensitive skin. His touch nearly had her coming off the bed, despite his weight.

  He leaned over to kiss her, his tongue lapping at her, swirling up and back, in circles, until he’d rendered her mindless. She gasped, crying out with pleasure as he closed his lips around her swollen bud, toying with her, tongue and teeth. She writhed and thrashed as he licked and sucked, his groans of passion echoing hers. The delicious pressure within her bordered on pain, and Brick took her to the point of no return. She grasped the back of his neck, holding him against her as the orgasm built and ecstasy coiled through her. As she bucked against his mouth, he inserted a finger inside her, then a second. And she was lost, hurtling into an ocean of rapture that fired off a chain reaction of impossible contractions and clicked the off switch in her head.

  When the lights came back on after the most spectacular orgasm of her life, she opened her eyes to see Brick hovering frozen above her, as if he’d been shot full of lead, his face slick with her, contorting, as he grappled for control.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. I want to devour you. You’re so beautiful. I need to taste you again. To drink you. To eat you. To be inside you. I need—” He broke off and muttered another curse. Another string of curses. This time she saw the wolf in his eyes, dancing, pacing, unable to work off the fierce hunger holding him in its grip. “I need a fucking condom,” he snarled.

  “So…you’re hurting a little, too?”

  “Hell, I’m way past hurt, Aura Lee. I’m so far into permanent blue-balls territory, I may be howling soprano for the rest of my fuckin’ life.”

  “Yeah, um, no. Not if I have anything to say about that.” Before he could react, she reached up and took his cock into her hands, her fingers barely able to close around the wide, hard length.

  He howled, his voice rough and hoarse, so filled with raw sex the sound almost made her come again. She slid her hands up and down his erection from base to head, watching his expression, the reaction of the wolf within his eyes. When she hefted his tight balls in one hand and pumped with the other, the harsh cry torn from his throat rewarded her. She leaned over, taking the thick tip of his cock into her mouth, and swirled her tongue around it. He gripped her hair and pressed her to him until she took another inch. And another inch. He pulsed against her and she felt the first drop of salt splash onto her tongue.

  With a sudden roar, he lifted her off him and pushed her away, his hips bucking wildly as he came against the sheets. She waited until he flopped onto his back next to her again, panting, the breaths seesawing in and out of him.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” she told him.

  He gathered her against him and tucked her under his arm, his huge muscles locking her at his side. “Yeah. It was.” His voice rumbled uneven and ragged. But so deep and low there’d be no mistaking him for soprano. Ever.

  She ne
arly laughed. But he looked so tortured she wanted to cry. “I think we’d better go into town. Get those condoms. So we can take care of each other right.”

  Chapter Four

  Calhoun Bartholomew Seven studied the huge map covering one wall of his office at The Graymarket Trading Company Saloon and Casino. Once, the skinwalker town of Shady Heart had accounted for only a small corner in the upper right quadrant. But the march of red pins reflecting the expanding territory and influence of Goldspark Enterprises—named after the shifter clan he headed—drove relentlessly outward and down, until only the town of Los Lobos, on the southwest side of the mountain, and the woodland area surrounding it, remained in the hands of the Black Hills Wolves and out of the perimeter Cal’s influence and control.

  He needed all of it. Needed the wolves out of the way and off the map. Only then could he ensure the cats’ survival.

  Within him, his cat paced restlessly. He took a long slug of the 40-year-old Scotch in his tumbler and set the empty glass on his desk. Immediately, one of the saloon girls disengaged herself from a corner of the room, where she’d been pretending to be wallpaper, and sidled to his side, crystal decanter in hand.

  “Refill, Bart, honey?” she crooned. “Or some other…refreshment?” She thrust her chest forward, her ample breasts all but spilling from her low-cut blouse to graze his arm. Another male might have pounced. But Cal felt…nothing. Except possibly annoyance at the interruption of his calculations.

  “Leave it,” he muttered, taking the bottle from her. The top of her head barely reached the level of his clavicle. Which didn’t much matter when she dropped to her knees in front of him and reached for his belt.

  He brushed her hands away and yanked her to her feet.

  “But I’m so hungry for you, baby,” she whined. “It’s been so long. Emmy says you did her last week.” She rubbed herself against him. Typical feline. Her mewling morphed into purrs of pleasure.