by Jianne Carlo
“Mike. Mike.” She half sobbed and thumped his back.
The orgasm ripped through her like a tornado, and her pussy spasmed around his cock. The speed and intensity of her rapid-fire clench and release brought on his climax. The sensations punched up and out, pinged from the tips of his toes to the follicles of the hair on his head. His balls knitted, and hot semen jetted out of him, erupting in short, mind-shattering bursts. He threw his head back, arched, and a howl burst out from deep within him, the primordial beast freed at long last.
How long he remained like that, frozen in ecstasy, his cock shooting sperm, filling her to overflowing, he didn’t know.
Eventually his elbows gave in and he sank down onto his forearms, trying to drag air into his deprived lungs. His rib cage brushed her breasts with each jerky exhale.
He bent his head, a nipple tickled his nose, and pure reflex had him capturing the bud and laving with long, lingering licks. She smelled of him, the curve of her breast, the ridge of her shoulder, the base of her neck, the stubborn line of her chin all stamped with his scent. All his.
Mike cradled her limp thighs and flipped them over so she straddled his pelvis. She snuggled into him, and he gathered her close, savoring the postcoital tranquilizing ecstasy. A wayward curl feathered his chin. He wrapped the silky lock around a finger and curled an arm around her waist.
When her breathing evened out, he eased back on the pillow, and his peripheral vision caught the slight fluttering of a fringe of inky lashes. Mike stifled a chuckle. She’d fallen asleep. He stayed inside her hot sheath for as long as possible, relishing every little twitch of her vaginal muscles, and sighed when his prick finally went flaccid.
He dozed on and off, waking up once to trace the shape of one ear, again a second time to sniff her forehead, and the third time when she snored—no, it was more of a snortle, a chortle-snore, the most adorable sound he’d ever heard.
Around midnight she grew restless, rubbing her cheek on his chest. He stroked her spine, trying to soothe her back to sleep. But then a loud rumble vibrated from her stomach to his belly, and she lifted her head. He had excellent night vision, and the shadows didn’t prevent him from seeing her reactions. Those lush lashes fluttered like crazy, she shot sidelong glances to either side of the bed, and then, to his utter delight, she drew a finger over his left nipple.
“This is the realest fantasy,” she muttered, gave a little head shake, frowned, and then when their gazes met, her eyes went wide and her brows jerked high.
No way would he let her go all stiff and frigid on him. “I wondered when you’d wake. Your stomach’s been growling for at least five minutes.”
Her mouth fell open.
Mike grinned, chucked her chin, and rose on his forearms. Kissed the tip of her nose, and when her eyes crossed trying to keep him in focus, he laughed aloud. A blast of happiness detonated through him. He sat up, bussed her on the lips, swung off the bed hugging her tight, and spun them around the cabin.
Her bare feet caught a vase, and the empty ceramic vessel sailed into the stone mantel.
The crack of the impact was followed by a hammered, deep thunder boom.
He halted in midspin.
His hackles went berserk.
Danger.
He froze.
Every muscle tensed. He listened, sniffed, and peered through the far window, but detected nothing. No sound, save the storm crashing into dominance. No scent, save her flowery aroma and his wolf clinging to her skin. No movement, save branches swooping and bending under the force of the breezes charging through the line of trees on the far side of the property.
Melanie touched his jaw.
The tips of her fingers singed his skin, and he glanced down to see that she felt it too. Her dark eyes glistened and held a sadness that seared him to the core. She shook her head, and her gaze went distant, as if some unknown vision had her hypnotized.
“What? What is it, Melanie?”
“Hold me.” Two fat tears streaking across one cheek punctuated her ragged plea.
The storm broke. Rain pounded the tin roof. Wind gusts battered the cabin, and a loose gutter clanged a disharmonious melody.
Melanie had gone slack in his arms. He studied the twitching of her lowered eyelids, listened to the irregular rhythm of her breathing, and his worry climbed exponentially. He gave her a little shake. She didn’t respond, not a muscle moved; she just remained limp and crumpled.
Mike reached over, snatched the comforter from the bed, sank onto the mattress, and wrapped the cotton-covered down around them. She curled into a fetal position on his lap, forehead on her knees, arms hugging shins, eyes closed, locked into some other place.
“Melanie,” he whispered and ran a finger over her nape, but she didn’t react. He checked her pulse, erratic and accelerated. Every time he made contact with her, she pulled tighter into herself and became more and more unresponsive, so he held her loosely and kept his movements to a minimum.
The tempest raged around them, lightning following thunder without more than a seven-second interruption.
She moaned and curled into a tighter ball with each roar and crack. He stroked her clammy skin, enfolded her small body, but nothing seemed to help. Sporadically she shuddered and made a strangled noise, a half-sobbed whimper.
Whatever was happening went back to her white wolf heritage, every instinct told him so. Frustration had his thoughts scattered, and he battled for focus, fought to logically analyze what had happened.
The danger had hit both of them at the same time. The first image he had fixed on was the mother and cub he’d found in the vicinity a mere two days ago. Did Melanie have some sort of foresight? Many Native Americans claimed to have the ability to predict the future. Was her retreat into unconsciousness connected to the bears? How?
Mike kept petting her spine, shoulders, and nuzzling her nape as he hunted for the reason for her semicomatose state. He had to gain her trust. They had to have the truth between them, no matter what. He couldn’t protect her otherwise. Means to an end. Fuck fair play, fuck holding back and going slow, fuck not forcing the mate issue.
Sometime after one, she fell asleep or passed out, snuggled into his chest, and tucked her head beneath his chin. She no longer jerked or twitched in his embrace, and her breasts rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. Moments later the squall abated, the rain petered to a soft tinkling, and the pounding winds ceased buffeting the cabin.
Any slight relief he felt was tempered by a gnawing premonition of the calm before the storm. He had no doubt that another killing had occurred and, somehow, Melanie had sensed it.
His cell phone on the kitchen table glowed. A message. Could be someone from the West Coast, but Mike knew better. Either Doc G. or Drake. With slow, gentle movements, he shifted Melanie under the sheets and tucked the covers over her shoulders.
After he eased out of the bed, two lengthy strides took him to the table. He grabbed the phone and listened to the voice message from Drake.
Balden Sr. dead. Call.
Fuck.
Loath to either leave her alone or disturb her sleep, Mike opted for exiting the cabin and wedging the door open with a jagged rock. The temperature had nose-dived, but the icy air proved a welcome respite to his overheated body. He inhaled and closed his eyes. Mother Nature’s soothing embrace helped sharpen his concentration.
He walked to the far end of the porch, stood in front of a window that gave an unobstructed view of the bed, and hit Drake’s preprogrammed number.
“Talk to me.”
“It’s the motherfucker of a story. I’m not sure I have all the facts lined up, but this is it so far. Doc G. got a call from Old Man Balden—”
“Not Doc G. Old Man Balden called Melanie, he hung up on her, and she called Doc G. We were having dinner at the Caboose. She said he said Whisper was missing.” Melanie hadn’t stirred, but his impatience to get back to her had him edgy.
“Well, when Doc G. got to Ranch B, Old Man Balden was missing, n
ot Whisper. Everyone was there: Jim, the staff. The place was lit up like an amusement park, and a massive search was underway. Apparently Old Man Balden had wandered off, and no one had noticed until dinner. Doc G. got there when the search was in full swing. He checked on Whisper and then joined in the search.”
An acute sense of dread slithered across Mike’s bare shoulders. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“They found him in the woods about five miles from the main house. Not much left of him. Doc G.’s not talking, but Tiffany called me. Seems the remains are in the same condition as the humans and bears found over the last few months. Pincer’s requested that Doc G. sit in on the autopsy. They got the county coroner out of bed. Pincer wants the prelim report before nine in the morning.”
Mike massaged the back of his neck. “Cancel the press conference indefinitely. It won’t do to go ahead with the PR while tragedy’s evolving. Let’s hope this doesn’t get picked up—”
“Already has. The hotel’s chock-full of reporters wanting rooms, and the parking lot behind Fiesta Square’s packed with news trucks. There’re going to be cameras every which way tomorrow. Already there’s a crowd camped out at the sheriff’s office and at the clinic.”
Shit, shit, shit. Mike gritted his teeth.
“Melanie’s not going to handle that well.”
“Don’t think I don’t know that? If Doc G.’s in autopsy tonight, there’s no way he’ll be at the clinic first thing tomorrow. I’ll call him.” The clinic would remain closed the following day. Either that or he’d man the fucking place himself. “How the hell did they get ahold of this so fast? Someone had to have tipped the media off.”
“More than one person if what Tiffany’s heard is true. At least two of the barn staff took photos. It’s all over the local and county news.”
“What a mess. And bound to get worse. The whole town’s going to be under scrutiny.”
“Yeah. No way the past won’t be rehashed now. What’re we going to do about Mom? This could send her back to that place.”
Drake never, ever used the word institution. Both men had a hard time dealing with the word. But what his brother didn’t know was that the blame for pushing Mom over the edge and into a mental hospital lay squarely on Mike’s shoulders. It was the reason he had refused to give up when all the shrinks proclaimed Mom would never function in the outside world again.
“Not going to happen. I hate to do this to you, but—”
“Already planned on dropping by the house around eight for a cup of coffee with Mom. That means I’m not going to be able to finish Pincer’s backgrounder.” Stress laced Drake’s bass voice.
“It can wait. Get some rest. I have a sinking feeling that neither of us is going to be getting much shut-eye over the next few days.”
“Ditto.” Drake cleared his throat. “What about Melanie? And the perimeter?”
“My bad. Installed and activated the perimeter this afternoon. All you need to do is set up the controls. Melanie’s with me—”
“No shit. That’s one piece of great news. Happy for you, bro. ’S about time you get some. It’s been months.”
Mike grunted. “Don’t go there. And no snarky comments when you see her or us.”
“Christ on a bike, Mike. I know better than that. I’m the sensitive one.” Drake heaved an audible sigh. “’Kay. I’m hitting the sack.”
“Soon as I know my plans in the morning, I’ll call.”
“Later.”
“Later.” Melanie had rolled onto her back, and her chest rose and fell in even rhythm. Strange that he derived pleasure and comfort from the simple act of watching her breathe. This mate stuff proved all-consuming. A wayward breeze skedaddled across the porch and splattered raindrops over his back. The frosty impact of the spray jerked him back to the here and now.
The maples behind the barn had suffered a violent loss of foliage, the once-riotous blaze of fall glory lying muddied and heaped against sodden tree trunks. The air had the fragrance of nature’s cleansing—dirt, flint, and green all mingled into an aroma he relished.
Augustus Balden. Mike tried to visualize the man but failed. The Baldens hailed originally from Boston but had settled in the county near the turn of the last century. Country club members, part of the horse-racing elite due to the amazing success of their stud farm, they moved in the same circles as the Dorlands.
But while the parents might have been friendly, the generation gap between the kids had been too great for much contact. He knew little of Jim other than what Melanie had told him earlier. He, Drake, and the Internet would remedy that weakness by the end of day.
Three murders in less than three days. No pattern to the MOs. His gut told him they must be related even though the odds were stacked against that conclusion.
Eddie Mato, the murder in Hurit County, and Augustus Balden. Could the killings be random coincidences? Until he knew the details of the autopsy reports for all three deaths, no assumptions could be drawn.
Okay, scrap the Hurit slaying. Eddie and Augustus Balden. What did they have in common?
Before hiring Eddie, Mike had checked him out. Eddie had a predilection for married women and booze, but he’d never crossed the violence line. A couple of saloon brawls, but that was about it. The man had never kept a steady job after his father died in the fire. The Dorlands owed Eddie just like they owed everyone who’d been injured or killed when the mill burned to the ground.
He blew out a sigh. Should he tell Pincer about Eddie working for him? Why open a can of scorpions? Ten to one the connection would remain unnoticed. He’d dealt with Eddie only in cash, and they’d met three counties down and across. Even Drake hadn’t picked up on his communications with Eddie. There was something to be said about pay phones, snail mail, and rented post boxes.
What had he missed? Every instinct told him the connection stared him in the face. Mike went through what he knew of Eddie from every which way and then some, over and over, and came up with zero, nada, not a fucking connection.
He cleared his mind. Forget Eddie and Old Man Balden.
Whisper. Her foal.
He understood the media interest, at least from the horsey-crowd side. Before Whisper’s injury, all the talk had been of the horse being the first filly to win the Triple Crown.
That a filly could even challenge Secretariat’s record had been touted as all but impossible. If Augustus Balden had mortgaged everything on the race, then his son had little to gain from his death. Unless Old Man Balden’s life had been insured to the hilt?
Brinda.
Definitely a problem. But there wasn’t a single reason for her to blab. Not now. Not after he’d come clean about certain things.
A shoulder peeked out from the covers. She’d relaxed thoroughly and was now probably in full REM. The cell’s LED read two. Melanie’s shift at the Caboose started at six. He’d wake her in a while. Guilt attacked him. He should really let her rest, but lack of sleep would make her walls easier to bust down.
The clouds parted, and a spray of stars twinkled a magical diamond web. The rain stopped altogether, and a gentle draft wandered across the porch.
He had his laptop in the pickup; a good way to kill an hour or so. After retrieving his PC, he sat in the swing chair and researched the Baldens, Whisper, and her foal’s sire. The open door allowed him to monitor Melanie. She slept without moving, lying on her back, chin under the covers, and the tip of the pert nose—which he loved to admire in profile—showed.
The research failed to hold his interest. His attention kept wandering to Melanie, his cock kept nudging him into action, and he finally surrendered to the need to hold her. Leaving the PC on the swing, he edged into the cabin, closed the door, and made his way to the barely flickering fire. After adding a couple of pine logs and a handful of twigs, fatwood, dried leaves, and grass, Mike stoked the wood and kindling to a crackling blaze. He waited until the heat of the flames had warmed his flesh before he joined his mate on the bed and slipp
ed under the sheets.
For a while, he drank her in, relishing the opportunity to study every detail of his woman unobserved. Inky waves lapped at one bare shoulder; the contrast between her olive skin and black hair mesmerized him. Even in sleep, her jaw remained stubborn, tilted just so, and he smiled as he remembered her saying, “Apology not accepted.”
Underneath that mild exterior lay a wild woman. She’d met him move for move, biting and clawing and insistent. Mike fingered his earlobe, certain he’d bear her imprint on the morrow. The notion pleased him inordinately. He’d expected to have to woo her gently.
He slid closer and nuzzled her shoulder. His scent was stamped on her, all right. Working quickly, his touch light, he bound first her right hand to the headboard’s rail, and then the left. The ties were loose and her arms close to her head. Melanie slept on; the cadence of her breathing didn’t hitch or hesitate.
Carefully he peeled the sheets from her skin, nudged her legs apart, and settled on his haunches in the triangular space between her limbs. His cock throbbed, and precum seeped from the slit. Never would he forget the sight before his eyes. Rosy labia, onyx curls, and that mouthwatering center. Desire surged.
She wriggled her shoulders as if cold. Mike whipped the sheet from the bottom of the bed, covered her from the neck down to feet, and then slipped below the soft cotton. He began with her plump, fascinating toes, running his tongue over the creases, and then traced the arch of her foot. She squirmed and muttered something undecipherable, but her sex blossomed and filled his lungs with the perfume of her arousal. Mike adjusted his aching balls and then found that back-of-the-knee sweet spot and lovingly traced the join line.
“Mike.” Her raspy rendition of his name had his prick on fire.
He licked his way up her inner thigh and grasped the other leg when she arched off the bed. “Hmmm.”
She squealed when his nose brushed her pussy lips on the journey to her belly button, and then moaned a stretched version of, “Oh.”
“Ever thought about a belly ring?” Mike asked and traced the rim of her oval-shaped navel.
