by V. Vaughn
“Ah, I missed you,” he rasped.
“You missed this.” She cupped her hands around his, molding his fingers over her breasts which had expanded with the twins and never gone away. Miguel had always loved her breasts. And her ass. Well, he’d never ignored any part of her.
“This is you.” His golden-ringed gaze fixed on her. “I feel your heart beating.”
He raked his thumbs over her stiffened nipples and she inhaled sharply at the jolt of pleasure. “You still like that.” The male satisfaction in his voice was almost a purr. “Do you still want more?”
He had asked her that once, before she knew better—and then bitten her. But she supposed she couldn’t catch another wolf.
And she did want more.
When she arched into his grasp with a moan, he growled back. The callused pads of his fingers abraded her skin, igniting more electric bolts through her nerves and deep into her body. Even in high school, his hands had been work-roughened but so exquisitely clever, finding all her hidden sweet spots. She’d told him it was because he was going to be a famous sculptor someday, but he’d said it was because he was a soccer player and normally didn’t get to use his hands so he had to make up for lost time.
They had so much lost time to make up for in this one night.
Her knees tightened around him involuntarily, trying to hold on, but he wriggled loose, reversing the path of his kisses down to her navel. She gazed at him, her body alight with desire. Good thing she’d already waxed the butcher block…
When his hot breath huffed across the dense curls between her legs, she closed her eyes and let her head tip back as she angled her hips. “Yes, more,” she murmured, just in case he even thought of hesitating.
With another low growl, he dropped his head between her thighs and feasted.
From the first lick, she remembered how she’d gotten pregnant so fast. He’d seen her across that soccer field and from that moment he’d known her. He watched, paid attention, shadowed her as he would one of the players on the other team: mirroring the moves, angling toward the outside line, waiting to steal a chance. Of course she couldn’t hold out against him, much less escape him.
Not that she was going to make that mistake tonight. Her hand and her toys did the work well enough, but Miguel made cunnilingus an art. Each swirl and dip of his tongue stoked the flames of delight higher, melting any lingering resistance in her bones and eating away at the chill in her heart. He hummed low in the back of his throat, a ravenous sound that echoed through her, not just physically, but in her soul.
There was danger in temptation.
But she’d always known that, even before she knew about the wolf.
Without lifting his mouth from her slick folds, he skimmed his hands restlessly over her body as if he were molding her like one of his projects. And not one of the commercial designs he gave to the company, but one of the special ones he sold in the finest shops of Vegas, Santa Fe, and the rich ski towns. Yeah, she’d wasted precious cell signal looking him up over the years. Every flicker of his fingers over her quivering belly and her stiff, aching nipples chipped away a piece of the stone wall she’d honed for her protection, to keep the memories and loneliness at bay.
To keep him locked out. To keep the wolf locked in.
Her muscles shook with the onslaught, wanting his attentions to last forever but needing to reach the pinnacle he lifted her toward. When his hand slipped lower to tease her throbbing clit, she shattered.
With a broken cry, she clamped her calves across his shoulders, drawing him close as the orgasm seized her.
The aftershocks rolled on far longer than even her best vibrator set on high, leaving her sprawled limp as day-old kale across the cutting board. He must be so proud of himself.
But when he finally lifted his head (his tongue centered on his upper lip, not that it needed any more of a workout) his expression was as glazed as hers must be.
Maybe his vibrators weren’t good enough either.
She hooked her finger under his chin and smoothed her thumb across his wet lower lip. “Come up here before the glow wears off.”
“I’ll just glow you again,” he warned.
With a kick she couldn’t see at the base of the island, he boosted himself up while yanking her hips toward his. She let out a little yip of surprise and realized he’d pulled out one of the lower drawers and was standing balanced on the sides of the drawer box.
She laughed and spread her knees, balancing her heels deftly at the edge of the counter. “I may never cook on this island again.”
“Not without thinking of this.”
That truth should’ve shut her down. She’d fought twenty years to not remember. But her blood still surged with bliss, and when he rubbed the blunt head of his erection across her swollen clit, he might as well have struck a lighted match to a pool of kerosene. She pushed up into him, driving him deeper into her core as every nerve in her body ignited.
He braced his hands on either side of her, staring down with golden hunter eyes. And she knew he’d pursue her pleasure across however many years or obstacles she put between them.
That knowledge made her turn her face aside. Just beyond the tip of her nose, the taut muscles in his forearm clenched as he stroked himself in her wet flesh. She stared at the tattoo—one she didn’t remember—that encircled his wrist like a self-inflicted shackle. It was inscribed half in black ink, half in the moonstone marking of the pack. She couldn’t see all of the swirling motif—one of his stylized moon faces, maybe?—and when he dipped his head to nip at her breast, she arched back, losing sight of it.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him fast, and clenched her inner muscles around him for good measure. He growled against her skin and lapped a wide circle around her nipple before sucking the distended nub past his teeth. She shuddered at the rough sensation and the shimmering fever left in its wake.
With each gliding thrust and every tender bite, he drove her toward another orgasm.
And toward an anguished realization that was as stark as the fresh black ink in his skin and equally enigmatic: She wanted this. After everything, knowing everything, she still wanted him.
And now she had no excuses.
Her spine bowed upward with the wild rush of release and she choked on a keening cry, frantic not to speak the words lodged in her throat. Seized by his own orgasm, he stiffened, the hard press of his straining balls jammed against her butt, his head thrown back in ecstasy. She stared up at him through a haze, blinking desperately to clear the tears before he noticed.
But he only folded over her with a grunt, without opening his eyes, still balanced precariously on the sliding drawer.
She held his dark head against her breast, their ragged breaths synchronized and slowing. He might be smaller than her, but he was just too heavy not to breathe in time with, she told herself. If she didn’t, his closeness would squeeze the life right out of her.
The thought sank into her like a sliver of broken glass, small but insidious. A cold thread of panic followed the path of that old wound, and she slid her hands to his shoulders.
Though she didn’t push, he angled himself upward, leaving them connected at their core.
His eyes still sparkled with restless gold, but the rich brown held most sway. “Solange,” he murmured. “Thank you for giving me another chance.”
Her fingers fisted against the strong bulk of his shoulders. “Oh, I wasn’t taking a chance,” she said in a flippant tone. “You were always good at this.”
A thin line furrowed his brow. “There’s more—”
“I think that's enough for now,” she said in a quelling tone.
He flinched back as if she had struck him, pulling free from her body with a juicy pop. It was her turn to wince as the slick friction sent a little pain of loss shooting from her pussy all the way up.
Not all the way to her heart. No, not that far.
Stepping down from the drawer, he grabb
ed the novelty Christmas towel hanging from the handle of the oven behind him. The reindeer's red nose lined up perfectly with the tip of his waning erection.
"Solange," he said again, and she hated that her name sounded different in his mouth—sweeter, prettier, some version of herself she didn't know. "It’ll never be enough. I came here thinking it was finally time to say goodbye, but… I was lying to myself. I thought I was willing to take the chance you'd tell me to leave. Now I want you to know; I will keep choosing you. Each and every time, no matter how far away you push me, no matter how many years pass, I'll be here for you if you call."
Her mouth twisted, not really a smile. "I don't even have your number."
He gave her a steady look. "You know that's not what you need."
She lounged back on the counter, too proud to reach for her clothes—not when she knew all her curves would jiggle when she bent down—but anyway, there was no cheerful holiday towel big enough to cover all her vulnerable parts. "It's late, Miguel. Go"—she stumbled on the word home—"away."
With a furious scowl, he disappeared under the edge of the island, out of her sight, and then just as abruptly popped up with his jeans in one hand and her tidy pile of clothes in the other. He put her stack on the counter next to her, not quite slamming since ballet slippers didn't really slam. Damn it, she’d be up all night scrubbing this counter. "We can't waste another twenty years," he warned. “We shouldn’t wait anymore.”
She grabbed the sweater she'd stripped out of just a few minutes ago, clutching it to her chest, feeling as turned inside-out and every bit the bright, raw red—bloodied. "You didn't wait," she snarled. "You left."
He stepped into his jeans and yanked them up so hard she was sure he gave himself a wedgie, though he didn’t bother buttoning them. "You told me to leave, back then, just like you did now."
She shook her head hard, her hair flying in all directions. "You asked what I wanted for Christmas, and then you went out and you never came back."
He raked his fingers through his own hair, neatly settling the tousled strands with one stroke that she envied. "You told me what you wanted. You told me you wanted to get rid of your wolf."
She curled into herself, remembering the Christmas Eve spat so long ago. "I knew you couldn't give that to me, no gift wrap, no shiny bows."
He stared at her, his brown eyes dark and shadowed. "But I did." His voice trembled. "Solange. I am your wolf."
4
Oh, merry Christmas to her. She’d gone from having one wolf she didn’t want to two!
But she did want him…
The truth whispered and whirled through her like wind-wafted snow, the kind that started out pretty but piled up over time into dangerous mountains.
They stared at each other, twenty years of separation not a wall of adobe or snow but of silence.
He took one step backward, putting more distance between them.
And then he shifted. Right there in her mostly clean kitchen. And oh boy, was she going to spend all night with the spray bleach and her anger.
Between one stuttering heartbeat and the next, his outline twisted from the wiry man to the lanky beast, and the empty Levi’s collapsed to the tiles with a denim whisper. An electric scent like ozone after a lighting strike lingered in the air but the stronger musk of the animal dominated. The wolf fused Miguel’s thick, black hair with the deeply tanned hue of his skin—if there was any gray, she didn’t see it—into a brindled beauty that made her fingers twitch with the urge to pet. She curled her hands into fists to stop herself.
All the while, her heart hammered at her ribs as if it wanted to escape. To get away from him?
Or to get away from her?
She scowled at him. “Oh nice. Now you don’t have to talk at all.”
He stood, all four legs braced, his head lowered, fur ruffled, in that way she knew was a challenge among alphas. His eyes were pure hammered gold. She hadn’t seen an adult wolf or any shifters since the boys were young and Miguel had taught them the discipline they needed to master their beasts, and she’d forgotten how compelling that power was in person. Or in wolf, she supposed.
He was making this parting her fault, like, poor me, can’t leave you again cuz ya know door, right there, and I don’t have thumbs right now sorry.
Throwing down her sweater, she jumped off the counter and marched naked across the kitchen. She threw open the side door to the garden, letting in a gust of frigid air. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she gave him an arch look. “You know what I want for Christmas this year? A new carving knife.”
He dropped his head a little more, his gold eyes still locked on her. The wind snatched away the musk of beast and sex and cinnamon, leaving only the stony essence of the empty desert. She refused to shiver though her puckered nipples poked at her wrists like they were turning to icicles.
He took a menacing step toward her. But what could he do to her that he hadn’t done already?
Her heart banged around her innards some more, pushing higher—words she wanted to scream at him but she wasn’t sure what.
He stalked past her, all dark silence. In the garden, he jumped up onto the low wall and turned to stare back at her. His tail flagged over his back, the long guard hairs caught in the wind. The flurry of snowflakes between them hazed like static on an old TV.
She blinked and he was gone.
The unsaid words cracked apart at the back of her throat.
Don’t go.
She shoved the door shut, but the winter wind pushed back and the crash was only half as strong as the breaking of her heart.
It was late, but no way would he sleep anytime soon, not with the perfume and flavor of Solange still on his tongue.
He ran across the plateau, threading close between pinyon and sage, wishing the pungent oils would douse him in a new scent, let him forget the night. But the cold had forced the plants into their own slumber, drawing their essences within, and he only succeeded in stabbing himself a few times with their winter-brittle branches.
He hardly felt the little wounds. Solange had stabbed him far deeper and she didn’t even need a knife.
Only one place would drown his senses.
He angled his run past town, to the glow of neon on the horizon.
Gypsy’s Roadhouse had been around for three generations but nothing here had ever changed. The raucous stinks of smoke, booze, and the spilled blood of old fights washed over him like a welcome.
At the small trailer behind the bar, he shifted to his two-legged form and found the key that was always under the mat. He let himself in and rifled through the box of castoff clothing commonplace at shifter homes. Just as well all of the Four Corners wore jeans, t-shirts, and various weights of flannel—western wear was its own disguise.
Properly attired, though the worn sneakers he found were a little large and bright pink, he strode up the scrubby lawn toward the bar. The parking lot was half full of pickup trucks, and the rambling front porch was half full of drinkers. They watched him walk up the steps with varying degrees of interest. Though he’d grown up in Angels Rest, he’d made himself mostly scarce for twenty years in deference to Solange. And now…
He swallowed hard, gave a nod to a few familiar faces, and slipped inside.
Gypsy’s was like the hacienda’s wicked sister: rowdy rather than truly welcoming, hot instead of warm, with dark corners and harsh neon in place of the peaceful glow. The smells of fried bar food and cheap beer lacked the nuance of Solange’s feast that had lingered in her kitchen.
But of course he gotten kicked out of that party.
Passing the pool table, he waited at the bar to catch the eye of the bartender. He knew this Gypsy by sight and reputation—both of which were rather fearsome—but she wasn’t much older than his boys and he’d never become a familiar here, so he wondered if she recognized him. Her narrowed gaze was as sharp as the multi-colored ink covering both her arms as she worked her way down the bar toward him.
&n
bsp; “What can I get you?”
Twenty years back, a real chance with his mate, a swift kick to the ass that he thought either of those were even an option? “Whiskey. Whatever’s closest.”
She poured without looking away. “You gonna pay for this?”
He opened his mouth to bite out something about the haul from his last solo art show in LA. And then remembered he was standing in borrowed clothes and pink shoes in a nowhere roadhouse. “Tomorrow?”
She pushed the glass toward him and turned to answer someone’s call down the bar.
He downed the fiery drink in one gulp—couldn’t blame her for giving him the bottom-shelf stuff—hoping it would burn away the last hours if not the last decades. When he turned to put the glass down again, another one was waiting for him.
He looked up to thank her but she was already halfway down the other side of the bar.
He’d tip well tomorrow.
On his fourth drink (fifth?) a hand took his elbow, turning him away from where he was gazing soulfully into the jukebox, wishing he could play…anything. Uh oh, she was going to kick him out. Gypsy, he meant, not Solange. His beautiful, angry mate had already kicked him out. Twice.
But the young man who faced him was smiling. “Dad!”
“Blaze.” He smiled back, so glad, but then frowned. “Why are you here and not with your mate? You have new pups.”
With a hushing noise and a nod over his shoulder at Gypsy, Blaze steered them to an empty table in the corner. “Gypsy called Annie who told me to come get you.”
Miguel scowled. “I don’t need to be rehomed like some stray dog.”
His son wrinkled his nose a little, eyeing the half-empty glass. “Maybe. If you’ve been visiting Mom…”
Bristling, Miguel leaned over the table. “Don’t talk like that about your mother.”
But his boy—not really a boy anymore, and he was older than Miguel had been when he took Solange as mate—gazed at him steadily. “We never did talk, did we?”
He slouched back in his chair, rubbing one hand over his mouth where four (five?) whiskies hadn’t killed the memory of the night. “You got the accounts I set up for your boys?”
