Her Wanted Wolf

by Renee Michaels

  Holy shit, her man had a plan. She was getting the hell out of here! Aimee shed the Old Navy drawstring pants and tank she had on. She rolled them up with his shirt and jeans before she tied them into a bundle, as instructed.

  He turned, reached down as far as he could, and dangled the casement from his fingers. She reached up, nodded, and he released it. Aimee caught the metal square and set it aside.

  Micah gave the rebar grill blocking their exit several forceful punches to dislodge it from its frame. It hung on drunkenly from a few bolts. Flicking his fingers, Micah motioned for her to join him.

  “Throw me the clothes and come on up.”

  Micah didn’t have to ask her twice. She tossed him the wad of clothing and scrambled up the wall, glad for the stimulation the coffee gave her.

  Micah pitched their garments through the window and curled his arm around her waist when she perched beside him.

  “It’s a twenty-foot drop. Shift in mid-air and run like hell once you hit the ground. Do not lose sight or smell of me. I have only a thirty-minute time frame to pull this off.” His hand tightened on her hip for a second before he forced his body through the small hole and dropped out of sight.

  Aimee didn’t waste any time. She levered herself up to the gap in the wall, wiggled out and lunged head first toward the tarmac below. The wolf within her, unrestrained, took charge. She transformed swiftly, her limbs compacted, her body altered into her sleek were-form and sprouted a thick layer of protective fur. Aimee landed on all four paws, trembling from the impact and relief.

  A low growl grabbed her attention. Micah, picked up their clothes in his mouth, jerked his head and took off down the unlit alley. Aimee sprinted after him, using muscles she hadn’t used for such a long time. They burned, but in a good way.

  On Micah’s heels, she raced through the industrial complex. Their claws clicked a sharp staccato against the pavement. A wolf raced at them and she froze but Micah didn’t hesitate. He passed him the clothes from mouth to mouth without breaking stride, like the passing of a baton in a relay.

  Aimee’s nostrils filled with the increased saltiness in the air. She surmised they ran toward the sea. As they rounded a corner, Micah ran in the direction of a dilapidated trawler. With its peeling paint and rusty hull it didn’t look like it would stay afloat in a squall. But its engines purred like a Ferrari; that could only be a good thing if was going to take her away from here. In the shadow of the wheelhouse, Micah shifted. He ran over to plastic barrel and lifted the lid. Pulling out an armful of clothing, he drew on a pair of jeans and a matching denim shirt

  Barefooted, he trotted over to her and shoved some clothes at her. “Get dressed. The shit is about to hit the fan.” Doing as he asked, she shimmered into human form, and she pulled on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  Micah bounded up the rickety ramp. Taking a leap of fate, she followed him. If they took a dive into the choppy black water, they’d do it together.

  Padding onto the deck, Aimee looked around. She didn’t know much about boats, but in spite of the dated equipment the deck was clean and the ironwork reeked of fresh paint.

  “Why a boat?”

  “We can’t be tracked if we head out to sea and keep moving. It’s the best temporary solution I could come up with.” He jogged over to the wheelhouse and shouted, “Dubois, get ready to set sail.” He bustled around untying all the mooring lines but one.

  Aimee dogged his heels. “The captain is human. What’s up with that?”

  “I saved his salty hide. He offered the use of his boat when I told him what I needed.”

  The squeal of tires, accompanied by the acrid odor from rubber burning drew her to the side of the boat overlooking the dock.

  Holy shit! Aimee’s jaw dropped.

  An old Ford F-150, overloaded with Redmavens, pulled to a screeching halt on the deserted dock. A second later, a sleek expensive SUV pulled up behind the pickup. Aimee would bet her shirt it was stolen. Closely following it, a fifteen-foot Budget truck, and a school bus fishtailed before it stopped inches from the Suburban, ending the short convoy. More Redmavens came out of the shadows on foot.

  “How did they get away?”

  “One of my pals sounded the alarm that I had taken off with you. Finn used our clothes to lay a false trail to, hopefully, lead Rifkin away from this area. It gave anybody who’s breaking away from the pack the chance to get here.”

  A mad scramble to board the ship began. The Redmavens moved as if the Devil was nipping at their heels. Clutching their offspring, the women with young raced up the flimsy ramp first, followed by the unmated females, with a total disregard for its moans and shudders. The rest of the male weres followed.

  The shrill ring of a phone sliced through the tension-fraught silence. Dubois tossed a phone down to Micah.

  “What?” Micah answered brusquely into the device. “Stick to the plan. Head out for the rendezvous point to meet the boat. If they track us here, I have enough men to stave off an attack.”

  Micah turned to her, his eyes clouded with concern. “We might be getting a little uninvited company. Hustle, people, we’re setting sail in five. Dubois, weigh anchor and get going the minute the ramp is pulled up.”

  Nose twitching, Micah lifted his head and sniffed the air. His face tightened into a grim mask, and the width of his shoulders stretched the cloth covering them, which tautened as his body tensed. Shedding the shirt he just donned, he tossed it to Aimee. Micah placed his foot on the guardrail, using it as a springboard to launch himself up and over the side of the boat. He landed with a loud thump and took off at a full run. A wolf slunk out from the shadows, his lips peeled back over his yellowed fangs in a vengeful malicious smirk.

  A gasp whispered through Aimee’s lips. One of Rifkin’s cronies had tracked them. The men pulled up the ramp.

  Pointing his muzzle to the air, the were’s intention to reveal their location was apparent to anybody watching him.

  A big mistake and his last. He’d bared his neck, making himself vulnerable. Micah shot across the short distance, wrapped his arms under the wolf’s front limbs and hauled him up, so they were torso to torso. Holding the were up, with his legs hooked in the crook of his elbows, Micah placed his interlaced hands on the wolf’s throat and pushed back.

  Muscles bulging, Micah held on to the hundred and eighty pounds of snarling, enraged werekin and forced his head back until the wolf’s back arched unnaturally backward.

  Snap. Crackle. Pop.

  Vertebrae separating in the were’s spine made Aimee jump. Her fear for Micah thinned out her already shaky nerves.

  The final crack of a neck breaking reverberated, gunshot loud, cutting through the tense silence.

  Micah hoisted the body over his shoulder and trotted back to the boat. The ramp was lowered and he climbed aboard.

  “Let’s go,” he growled out gruffly, a stark haunted grief etched on his face, which she didn’t understand. He’d triumphed.

  Micah laid the corpse on the deck, stalked to the bow of the ship to stand in solitary silence and watched as they pulled away from land.

  Aimee sighed, walked over to his side, and put her hand on his sweat-dampened back.

  He flinched under her touch and shrugged her hand off. He spun on his heel to face her, his eyes wild and unfocused. “Don’t…don’t touch me right now. The blood lust is still there. What they made us rides me, pushing me to carry out greater acts of violence. The one thing I want most is to take you. I’d ram myself into you over and over again until I’ve expended this raging savagery in me. Give me some space, Aimee, for your safety’s sake, please.”

  “No, you’d never hurt me.” She wrapped her arms around his heaving torso. Micah shuddered and buried his face in her hair. He stood stiff as a board in her embrace for a long while, until he finally wound his arms around her and held on as if she anchored him.

  Aimee ran her hands up and down his back in long comfort-giving sweeps until he relaxed against h
er.

  Micah let out a sigh. “Don’t think for one minute you’re safe. I want to take you with as much intensity as I wanted to rip something apart.”

  She pulled back and grinned up into his face. “Yeah, I kind of got that impression. Your cock is drilling a hole in my belly. I can take care of that, if you want?”

  He let out a tension-releasing laugh, “Yes, I want, very, very much.”

  Micah hoisted her up in his arms. Ignoring the hoots and snickers from his stolen pack, he trotted down a short flight of stairs to take her below deck. She didn’t give a damn either. This was a long time coming. Too long.

  He stumbled into a cabin and kicked the door closed behind him. Micah took her mouth, claiming her. The fierce desire in his kiss stole her breath. His hands fumbled to remove her clothing, ripping and tearing in his haste to get to her. He lowered his head, captured her nipple and suckled on it like a man dying of thirst.

  “I should take my time with you,” he mumbled against her breast.

  Micah pushed her up against the bulkhead. His hands trembled as he ran them over the tense tendons in her thighs.

  Their breathing, harsh and harried, filled the room.

  “Don’t treat me like an invalid. I don’t need gentleness right now. I need you, want you.” She unsnapped the lone button at his waistband, lowered the zipper, and shoved his jeans down over his hips.

  He cock sprang free. The scent of his need mingled with hers, filling the closet-sized cabin. She was wet, wanting and willing. There was no need to wait. The moment their eyes connected and they’d breathed in each other’s spoor, their coming together was destined.

  Micah cradled her hips in his big hands and lifted her. Her thighs parted in welcome and he pressed his groin against hers.

  The hot, swollen column of flesh nudged her cleft. A reflexive shudder ran through her body. Aimee took hold of his member and set the satiny crown at her core. Slicking the rotund knob up and down the furrow of her slit, she masturbated with his tool. Her manipulations drew down her silky fluids, moistening him for penetration.

  Ohmigod, he was huge, and she had to have inside her. Aimee placed him at the clenched mouth of her vaginal channel and eased her hips forward, encouraging him, inviting him to do as he needed to satisfy the fierce desire that lashed them with the sweet ache of denial.

  With a deep belly groan, Micah thrust forward. Her flesh separated to give his cock’s helmet passage. Her tissues shrank after the bulbous head passed through them to enclose the shaft in a snug sheath. He sank into her until their groins connected with a soft smack.

  Micah rested his damp brow on Aimee’s forehead, their breathing mingled. Her channel rippled over the rod buried within her, eliciting a moan from her lover.

  The length and breadth of him stretched her to an exquisite capacity. A shaky laugh escaped though her lips. She couldn’t have taken more if he were bigger or longer. The added sensation he’d give when he started to move, would be icing on a very large cake.

  Aimee let out a sobbing whimper and clutched his shoulders.

  “Sorry.” His muffled voice vibrated over her breast.

  “What for?” If he’d done something wrong, she must have missed it, but if he made a mistake, she couldn’t wait until he got it right. The muscles in her channel tightened at the thought and Micah grunted.

  “No foreplay. I didn’t prepare you.”

  “I’ll forgive you, if you start moving,” she promised, her voice a husky whisper.

  “Well in that case.” He eased out of her, half way.

  Aimee writhed against Micah. With the pleading little arches of her back, she enticed him back. Seeing that she didn’t have much leeway being pinned up against the wall, Aimee used her internal muscles and milked the part of him still in her.

  He pushed a few inches back into her. “Oh, hell Aimee, take it easy or this will be over before it gets better.” He surged back into her. His thick, turgid shaft caressed the tissues hidden deep inside her pussy.

  “It gets better?”

  Eyes glittering with healthy lust, Micah pumped his hips, in an easy rhythmic glide. The slap of their pelvises, the wet sluicing sound of him thrusting and withdrawing from her sheath added to the frantic eroticism of the moment. Micah’s heavy ball sac bounced over the sensitive sinew between her cheeks.

  Deprived for so long, the friction of his cock passing over her sensitized tissues set off a series of small orgasmic explosions through her. She shuddered, unable to control her reaction. Aimee clamped her thighs over Micah’s flanks, ground her groin against him, and wrapped her arms around him.

  She caught the pace he set, and with shallow jerks of her butt, she fucked herself on his pulsing shaft.

  “I’m coming,” she warned.

  “Let it come, baby,” Micah murmured, his mouth warm against her skin.

  Blinded to anything else but the pleasure she shared with Micah, she let it take hold of her and skydived into an abyss of pure bliss. She screamed his name.

  Micah’s response was immediate. He rammed himself into her as far as he could, and spurted his warm, balmy fluids into her. This triggered another orgasm, leaving her weak and satiated. Her body lax against his, Micah’s knees buckled, and they slid to the floor.

  “Damn. Well that’s embarrassing,” he grumbled, his lips on her ear.

  Aimee let out a soft, satisfied laugh. She didn’t know what he had to be embarrassed about. Her body tingled in the aftermath of her orgasm, and his semi-hard penis jumped in her spasming pussy, promising more to come. “I kind of like the fact that I can bring you to your knees.”

  “Well, as soon as I can stand up without falling back on my ass, I’ll haul us up onto the bed and we’ll spend what’s left of the night finding out what else you can make me do.”

  “I can live with that.” She smirked and kissed his mouth.

  They’d steal these few hours for themselves, for tomorrow would bring a multitude of problems they might not be able to surmount.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In a sleek, undulating wave, the combined Lunedare and Silverwolf packs wove their way through the forest and down the mountain. They headed down to the plateau Drew had chosen for the designated rendezvous point and away from all that was familiar to Sabine.

  Homesickness left a dull ache in the center of Sabine’s chest, but she pushed it back and concentrated on keeping up with the weres hurtling forward. She didn’t have the luxury of time and solitude to grieve. Their survival was at stake.

  The tense purposeful sprint with which Drew’s fore-fighters raced to their destination was vastly different from Sabine’s customary runs. Even though the males intermingling with the Silverwolves had adjusted their gaits to accommodate the women’s much shorter strides, the pace was nonetheless punishing.

  Winded, Sabine lagged a few steps behind Drew. Her tortured thoughts turned to her father. He’d overruled her suggestion that she stay behind, agreed with Drew’s plan, and charged her with the safety of the clan before he drifted off into another doze.

  Her sister had volunteered to stay behind with her father and the unconscious girl. She felt a little resentful of her sisters’ enthusiasm for Drew’s scheme. To argue more would have wasted time and jeopardized the rest of the family.

  Drew and a few of his men moved ahead revealing their presence. As instructed, she kept the scent of those remaining behind concealed.

  Sabine saw the logic in his plan. It was better to have their confrontation with the Redmavens hidden by the trees and not out on the open plain, which might roust the townspeople. But he could be outnumbered, and if what he told her about these hell-bred Redmavens was true, they wouldn’t stand a chance if they attacked him and his fore-fighters en masse.

  As if her thoughts willed her fears into being, threatening shadows separated from the cover of the trees and lay in wait at the bottom of the pass. The Redmavens had come to call.

  Drew and a few of his pack brothers
bolted forward. He moved in a lithe display of graceful power. His werekin spread out beside him in battle formation. He issued a snarling challenge.

  The lead wolf responded with a rumbled growl.

  Without breaking his stride, Drew leapt at the were, and they rolled over in a writhing mass of muscles, bared fangs, and lethally extended claws. The scent of blood filtered over to Sabine’s flaring nostrils. Harsh howls, pain-filled yelps, and the snapping of bones resounded through the air.

  Breath caught in her throat, Sabine froze, transfixed by the raw savagery of the encounter. A nudge to her shoulder from the were beside her pulled Sabine’s attention back to the job at hand. She veered to the left to avoid the fight, instinctively dampening the additional odors emanated by the werekin with her, apprehension from her pack sisters and frustration from the males who couldn’t join the fight. They slipped past soundlessly, undetected by their pursuers engaged in the vicious battle.

  It went against everything in her not to help fight for their freedom, but Drew had impressed upon her the importance of sticking to his plan.

  Still filled with uncertainty, she moved, urged on by a throaty insistent growl. Time slowed to a sluggish, mind-numbing pace as she bounded for the open grassy field. All Sabine was aware of were the howls, yelps, and grunts shattering the quietness of the night.

  The sounds of the clash between the battling packs subsided, giving way to a rhythmic whap-whap announcing the arrival of a trio of aircraft. Sabine crouched low to the ground, her fur whipped by the wind created by the descending helicopters.

  The trepidation she’d suppressed thus far surfaced full force, her terror weakening her knees.

  Herded forward by Drew’s men, the hesitant she-wolves weren’t given a choice. The male weres transformed into men, and they bundled the women into the cavernous cabin of the unfamiliar vessels. The doors slammed shut on two of the three vessels which swiftly took to the air.

  Sabine shifted; she crawled into the craft and took a seat. She perched gingerly on the hard uncomfortable bench, eyes shut tight. Her father was right. The old ways were better. Wolves were not meant to fly. Four paws firmly on the ground was the way any sensible wolf should travel.