Enchanted By The Wolf (Paranormal Romance)

by Michele Hauf

  She scrambled off the bed, seemingly fearful of his towering form, but when she stopped at the headboard, she turned. A tiny smile curled her pink lips and she crooked a beckoning finger at him.

  The werewolf recognized that as an invitation.

  * * *

  Gasping, Bea caught her hands on the headboard fashioned from woven branches while the werewolf howled behind her. He had reached orgasm, as had she. And, man, that had been a cosmic thing. She could now entirely get behind the meaning of bonding in werewolf terms. Big furry wolf man, meet the quivering, sexually satisfied faery chick? Fur and claws? She could deal. And she had. In werewolf form Kir was mostly man-shaped anyway, and his cock was all man.

  Yet she was suddenly ravenous. And not for food. She’d been born with an inexplicable hunger, which had been sustained by drinking ichor from her fellow sidhe ever since puberty. Here, in the mortal realm, she had prepared herself for her first taste of mortal blood. Because, if not ichor, the only other option was blood. It sustained. And satisfied. It was tied in to sex and the orgasm and the desire to pleasure herself as deeply as possible.

  And she would not ignore that hunger.

  Much as Bea assumed the wolf was not going to like what she did next—she twisted about and hugged the big furry lug about his wide, panting chest. Sinking in her fangs at the werewolf’s throat caused him to whip back his head in protest. A talon cut down her thigh as he attempted to pull her off him.

  Bea clung. The blood spilling into her mouth was hot and thick and tasted better than mead or even ichor.

  Now, this was her kind of bonding.

  Chapter 4

  Suddenly the fur Bea had clenched in her grasp receded and her fingers slipped over male skin slickened with his own blood. Kir’s exaggerated form, which had been mostly human in werewolf shape, save the wolfish head, returned to his regular structure. He pulled his neck away from her mouth. Her fangs dripped blood onto her thighs.

  Her new husband pushed her into the pile of pillows jammed against the headboard. Kir slammed the mattress with a fist. “What the—” He slapped a palm over his neck, though she had landed the bite much closer to his shoulder than she’d intended. “You bit me!”

  “Yeah? What did you expect? You shagged me in the literal sense, buddy. Shaggy fur and all.”

  “We needed to bond. You knew that had to happen. You agreed to it!”

  “That I did.”

  “But what’s the bite about?” He gestured to her fangs. “You...you...”

  His panicked expression was comical, but only until Bea realized he had been blindsided, and she should have waited to answer her hunger until after he was more familiar with her needs.

  “I was in the moment.” She retracted her fangs and pushed a long tangle of hair over her shoulder. Dragging a finger through the blood droplet on her thigh, she then licked it clean. Mercy, that tasted incredible. “I needed to feed.”

  “Feed?” Kir exhaled. “What the hell are you? Oh.” He fisted the air. “Hell no! You can’t be. No, no, no. Please tell me you are not half vampire.”

  She sat up pertly and wiggled her hips, more from fresh nerves than defiance. And, really, sarcasm and snark were her best means of defense. “Did the fangs give me away? You are one perceptive werewolf.”

  “Bea? Tell me what the hell I married.”

  She definitely did not like his angry voice. But, seriously, what had he expected? It wasn’t as though Malrick was going to hand over a valued full-blooded sidhe daughter for marriage.

  “I may be half vampire,” she conceded, unable to meet his accusatory glare. “But I don’t know. I’ve lived on ichor all my life. Ichor is equal to blood in the mortal realm. And my eyes are pink. I know, right? Most sidhe eyes are violet.”

  Kir crushed his palms across his forehead and over his skull. “I can’t believe this! Malrick is your— What is your mother?”

  Bea shrugged. “Never met her.”

  “Didn’t your father tell you who or what your mother was?”

  “Daddy dearest? Pfft. He likes to keep secrets. Only, he never lets me forget what a disappointment I am to him. Which is, I suspect, why you got stuck with me. Sent the rotten egg of the bunch off to the mortal realm. Like you said—” she pointed a thumb at herself “—short stick.”

  Kir wiped at the bite marks on his neck. “I assumed Malrick would not send a favorite. But a vampire is...”

  “Not your first pick for a wife, eh?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with vampires, I just... You know werewolves develop a nasty blood hunger from a vampire bite? That is not something I want to happen to me. I pray your vampire taint did not have a chance to enter my bloodstream.”

  “Sorry.” Way to make her feel special. Not. “If it makes you feel any better, it’s never been confirmed that my non-sidhe half is vampire. But I have been drinking ichor since I was a teen.”

  “Never been confirmed?”

  “My father won’t talk about my mother. I guess she was vamp, though, because I have these fun things,” she said as she tapped her fang, and she caught her husband’s wince. “Right. I’m used to that look. Now I’m kind of glad I bit you.”

  He gripped her by the upper arm. “You will not do it again. A blood hunger is the worst for a werewolf like me.”

  “Then you’d be like me. A disappointment.” Bea tugged from his grip and scooted away from him on the bed.

  Yeah, so she’d known this wasn’t going to be a romance-and-roses wedding night. She probably should have asked to bite first. Her bad. She had barely gotten a taste, but the drops she’d licked from her lips were hot and thick and so, so tasty. She’d bite him again in an instant. But she had probably spoiled the chance of that ever happening again.

  “Yeah, whatever,” she offered, using dismissal as defense. “No more biting. I’m excited to taste mortal blood anyway, because yours was—”

  Bea caught Kir’s openmouthed gape. It was too familiar. And she did know how to protect herself by pulling on the cloak of indifference. “Quit looking at me like that. I’m not the enemy. Or evil. You’re just like everyone else. Hating me because I’m different. A dark one. Something Malrick despises. I—I hate you!”

  “I hate you, too,” the wolf muttered.

  He sat there, fingering the bite wounds at his neck, wincing and growling. She had barely broken the skin! And Bea couldn’t feel at all ashamed for taking what she’d wanted. He’d taken from her. He’d slammed her up against the headboard and filled her with that hot werewolf hard-on. And she had taken it all because—oh, mercy, it had felt great.

  Wasn’t that what a marriage was all about? Give and take?

  Very well, so she could feel the tiniest bit of regret at having possibly ignited a blood hunger in her werewolf husband. But really? Did the guy even realize his erection was full mast again? He was so ready for round three, or four, or whatever round came next.

  And so was Bea. Because the slight blood scent on him had aroused her to some kind of wanting, needy bit of lust and faery dust.

  A glance to the doorway and she did not spy the feet dangling from behind the wall. Their witness had fled, evidence secured. Would he report their wedding-night fight? Did it matter? Malrick hadn’t come to the ceremony. He’d gotten rid of the dark one. The daughter he’d wished had never existed. What did he care what happened to her in this realm?

  With this wolf. Who was sending out waves of anger that gushed from his skin and surrounded her like a foul mist. Skin that sparkled with glints of faery dust. Faeries had a tendency to release dust during orgasm. Couldn’t be avoided.

  Bea looked over her shoulder at her new husband. Stones, he was gorgeous. The perspiration pearling his glinting skin looked lickable. She didn’t need blood anymore. She just wanted more wolf cock. Inside her. Slower this time. And sans audience.

  A teasing desire lowered her voice to a hush. She traced a fingertip along his knee and up his thigh. “Want to have sex again? Promi
se I won’t bite.”

  Kir swiped a hand over his neck and studied the blood. He gritted his jaws and growled. She kissed his shoulder and slid a finger down his hard length. “I’ll let you be on top again. I’m wet for you, wolf.”

  With a shake of his head, he answered resoundingly, “Yes.”

  * * *

  A bird chirped outside the wedding cottage. Either it was too early, or Kir had drunk too much last night. Either way, he’d never felt like growling at a bird until now.

  It was the mead. Had to be.

  He strode about the cottage, picking up his clothes from the cushy moss floor. The leather pants were still clean. Good enough for work, so he pulled them on. Outside the tree-trunk-walled room, the only living beings were the birds and squirrels. The wedding guests had left throughout the night, finally giving them peace. He’d seen the red-capped brownie who had been in the alcove by the door scamper out, as well.

  The humiliation at having been watched while having sex was a new one. But it wasn’t as though hundreds of sidhe and wolves from his pack hadn’t been outside and within hearing distance. The music and revelry had been loud. But when he’d howled during orgasm?

  Don’t think about it, man.

  Well, hell, he’d not thought about it while in the moment. So maybe he wasn’t feeling as humiliated as he could.

  He retrieved his shirt from the moss, and when he stood and accidentally elbowed one of the braided tree branch bedposts, the faery on the bed turned over and stretched out an arm. Her breasts were pert and hard, and sunlight sheened across her pale belly. On the top of her feet the skin was decorated with fancy violet swirls, similar to the bond mark on the back of his hand yet much more elaborate. Everywhere she...glinted.

  “Faery dust,” he muttered, and swiped a palm over his forearm, which also glinted faintly. The stuff was fine and not easy to wipe off his skin.

  He didn’t want to wake her. He didn’t know how to do the morning thing. Were they supposed to do a morning thing? Generally on dates, if he ended up in the woman’s bed, he slipped out early or else offered to take her out for breakfast, which she usually refused because the getting-ready part always took so long. He knew the drill.

  He rubbed his neck, feeling the faintest abrasion from the bite mark. After what she’d done to him last night, he was ready to toss her out and let her sleep in the backyard shed.

  But really? The sex had been great. And he’d had more sex with her after the bite. What kind of crazy was that?

  He just wished he’d had some warning before the fangs had come out. So he could have defended himself. He’d married a half vampire? Or so she thought she was half vampire. How insane was it not to know for sure? Well, it was obvious. Fangs and a hunger for blood? Sure, there were other species that boasted fangs—even werewolves had thick, fanged canines—but how many sought blood for pleasure?

  And what now? Would he develop a nasty hunger for blood? This was not cool. First thing he would do when he returned to Paris would be to look up a wolf doctor and have himself checked out.

  Beatrice blocked the sunlight with her hands. “Ugh! The sun!”

  “Does it burn you?” He looked about for a curtain beside the windows, but there wasn’t one. The sunlight beamed through the twisted tree canopy. No way to block out nature. “Are you okay?” He grabbed the tangled sheet but wasn’t able to pull it up to cover her.

  “Dude, what’s your deal? The sun is not going to burn me. Just...who wakes up so early? Do humans actually tread the earth this time of day?” She pulled the gossamer sheet up over her face and spread out her arms to each side. Putting up one finger, she noted, “I’m only half vamp. Sunlight doesn’t bother me. I much prefer the moonlight, though.”

  He did, too. But thanks again for reminding him that he was now married to someone who could give him a nasty taste for blood. Doctor’s appointment? Coming right up.

  “It’s eight o’clock,” he said. “And, yes, the mortal realm is up and at ’em.”

  “Eight? Oh!” She buried deeper into the sheets and pulled the pillow over her head. “Wake me after high sun.”

  “I take it that’s the faery way of saying noon? I have to head into work and stop by the, er...” She didn’t need to know how freaked he was about developing a blood hunger. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “Home? I don’t have a home anymore,” she muttered from under the sheet.

  “To my house. Er, our house. Can’t stay out here in the middle of the forest forever.”

  “In theory, I could,” she said, her voice muffled. “You could leave me in this little cottage and come visit me every once in a while. When you want sex.” She sighed, the sheet billowing above her mouth. “Just so you know, the sex was fantastic.”

  “No argument on that one. Next time I hope it’s just the two of us.”

  “I can so get behind that one.”

  He chuckled at her levity. And, yes, private sex—without the fangs—was something he could look forward to, as well.

  “Seriously, Bea, I have to get going. I work six days a week. Today’s no holiday because I got married last night.”

  “Yeah, yeah. And as soon as we both step foot outside this place, it’ll cease to exist. So there goes my plans to hole up here all by myself.”

  “Really? It’ll disappear?”

  “Faery glamour, don’t you know. Is there a change of clothing laid out for me somewhere?”

  “There is.” Grabbing a pale green dress laid across the table by the bed, he tossed the garment onto the bed. “Ten minutes. I’m going out to...”

  Relieve himself and hope upon hope that his vehicle was still parked nearby and not decorated with shaving cream or crepe streamers.

  * * *

  An hour later, Kir parked the Lexus—undecorated—in front of his house and led Bea inside. She leaped from the car, not wanting to touch any part of the steel frame, even after he’d suggested that nowadays human-manufactured vehicles were produced with less iron, and none of that was cold iron. Still, she’d been cautious and fearful.

  He was already late for work, so he didn’t do the grand tour. He wanted to grab a clean shirt and head out. He needed to get away from Bea and orient himself to what had happened last night. So many things going on in his brain. He had a wife. He’d had sex with a witness watching last night. The sex had been awesome. Until the bite. A bite that he could no longer feel. His skin was healed. Would Jacques notice? Could he get in to see the doc this afternoon?

  “You’re on your own today,” he said, striding down the hallway toward the laundry room. “Take a look around the place. I guess it’s your home now, too.”

  “Peachy.” She stood in the hallway with arms crossed over the sheer dress that barely hung past her derriere. Barefoot, the markings on her feet drew his eye. “Get a new wife. Toss her in a little box and head back out to your normal life. I get it.”

  He was not doing that. Okay, he was, in a manner. He’d have a talk with her later. Didn’t she understand that people needed to work to live and survive in this realm? If she was a faery princess, the concept may be foreign to her.

  “I’ll leave my cell number on the kitchen counter if you have any questions. You know what cell phones are?”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “It’s those stupid little boxes humans talk into when they don’t want to talk face-to-face. Duh.”

  “Or when they can’t be face-to-face but just want to check in on each other.”

  “Is there iron in them?”

  “I— No. Very little iron, if any, in the house, too.”

  “Fine, but rubbing against it burns like a mother.”

  Touching iron wouldn’t kill a faery, but it would give them a nasty burn—he knew that much. And frequent contact with iron? Eventually it would bring their death. Kind of like what happened if he came in contact with silver. A nasty burn. And if it entered his bloodstream? Bye-bye, wolf.

  “I’ll try to swing by on my afte
rnoon break to see if you need anything,” he said, tugging on a clean shirt and buttoning it up.

  “More sleep for me, less wolf. Peaches and cream, buddy. Peaches and cream.”

  “Right.” Slapping a hand to his neck, Kir wasn’t so fond of the faery right now, either. Despite the satisfying sex. He headed down the hallway toward the front door. “I’ll see you later.”

  “I hate you!” she called out from the kitchen.

  “I hate you, too, Short Stick,” he answered.

  A smirk lessened any vitriol he felt with that statement. He’d never hated a person in his life. Hate was not good for the soul. But extreme dislike felt damn good when it involved a bloodsucking faery who had no compunctions about taking a bite without asking first.

  Chapter 5

  The wolf owned a lot of hair products in bottles that listed so many strange ingredients it made Bea’s eyes cross.

  “Makes sense,” she said as her eyes wandered over the array of scented shampoos, conditioners, creams, potions and lotions lined up on a glass shelf in the huge walk-in shower. “The guy is a wolf. I wonder if his werewolf ever showers in here?”

  She’d initially been shocked after Kir had shifted to werewolf form. Oh, she’d seen werewolves before and had known what they looked like fully shifted, but she’d never stood so close to one before. Or gazed upon his magnificent hard-on. Or, for that matter, touched said hard-on.

  Giggling, she flipped on the shower stream, which blasted her from the walls and overhead.

  “Yes!” She skipped about within the water, dancing, arms flung out and head back. “It’s like a rain shower. I could so get used to this.”

  She unfurled her wings and let the water spill over them, which sent scintillating shivers along the wings and at the muscles and bones where they connected to her spine. She’d worn them out all the time in Faery yet had been warned that in the mortal realm it was not wise, even if she wore glamour.

  She’d never been one to follow the rules. Like what was so wrong with biting your new husband if you hungered for a little sip?