Wolf Pack

by Bridget Essex

  And I don't want to be in my head. I don't want to think about the million strange things of this night, the million things that don't make sense.

  I want to forget about all of them. I want to be right here. Right now.

  With her.

  Shannon seems to sense this, because her movements, her touches, were starting to get quicker, full of wanting, but she backs off now, back to a slow, sensual seduction as she captures my mouth, as she teases me with her tongue, parting my lips, pressing into my mouth. I gasp against her, my fingers wrapped up in her wet curls as I draw her head down to me, tightening my leg around her hip, straining, pushing so that my center can feel some release, moving against her.

  Shannon reaches up, her fingers on the zipper pull of my fleece jacket, and she tugs it down. I wasn't wearing anything underneath, so she pulls the rest of the thing off, over my shoulders and arms, until it settles into a wet puddle on the floor of the shower. She also undoes my fly with a single, practiced hand, and then she's tugging the jeans off, over my hips, and they, too, form a sodden mass at my feet as I kick them away.

  She holds my gaze as she presses me against the wall again, as she picks me up, hooking her arms under my thighs, settling my legs around her waist.

  And she presses her hips against me hard, grinding them against my center.

  “Oh, my God,” I whisper, my head rolling back, my eyes closing as I gasp, as that exquisite sensation of her hot, wet skin against mine causes my eyes to roll back in my head, causes my body to arch, of its own accord, against her own. My legs are so widespread because she has me pressed against the wall, and that sensation is exquisite as she begins to slowly—at first—and rhythmically grind her hips, pulsing her center against mine.

  The friction is delicious; the sensation of her hands, long fingers beneath my thighs, causes every single inch of my skin to come alive. She bends low, capturing my left nipple in her mouth, and she doesn't wait to savor anything. She doesn't tease me. She bites.

  It's exactly what I need, and somehow, she seems to know that. It's sensual enough that it doesn't hurt, but it's almost at the threshold of pain. With perfect pressure, she uses her tongue to press my nipple against her teeth, flicking it, sucking at it. Both of my nipples are straining, peaked and hard, and she seems to know exactly what she's doing to me as she glances up at me from where she is, bending low to tease me, with such a beautiful smirk.

  The water pummels us, raining down on my head, sliding over my shoulders, my breasts, with intoxicating heat, as Shannon bends low again and gives these same ministrations to my right breast. She starts by tracing her tongue up and over the curve of my breast, at the same time that her right hand leaves my right thigh. I still have my leg hooked over her hip, and I keep it there, even as her fingertips trace up and over my skin. She rounds the top of my thigh, and then she dips her hand between us, making space for her arm, just as she takes my right nipple in her mouth.

  She bites down, hard, and she slides her slick fingers over my clit.

  I gasp out against her, bucking my hips as she slides her fingers, with absolutely no resistance, deep inside of me. She starts with two, but it's obvious that I can take more, and can take more quickly, because she's adding a third as I moan, pressing the back of my head to the wall, gripping her shoulders so tightly with my fingernails that I'm going to leave red crescent moons in her skin...

  She gives me short, hard strokes, her thumb sliding over my clit each time she enters me, the heel of her hand pressing hard against it each time she rhythmically strokes in and out. It is exquisite, exactly the right pressure, with a finesse that makes me gasp, makes me cry out unintelligibly.

  The water sliding over us, the touch of her teeth against me, how she licks and teases my neck, finally capturing my mouth with hers again, consumes me. I feel everything, the heat of that water, the press of her fingers against my thigh, the way she curves her fingers inside of me, thrusting up and in, using her hips to press her wrist hard against my center, the pressure utterly intoxicating.

  The orgasm that hits me then is surprising in its ferocity as I tilt my head back, as I gasp, my entire body transcendent. She presses into me with such intensity that it draws the orgasm out, out, out, and every inch of my skin is shivering from the experience. My legs are quaking as she draws the crescendo out until the very last second...and then she stops. Her wrist no longer presses against me, and she pulls her fingers out of me slowly, softly, almost reverently.

  She curves her hands around both of my thighs now as I lean against her, my head pillowed on her shoulder. I wrap my arms around her neck, feeling every last inch of me against every last inch of her.

  I take a deep breath, want still pulsing through me, pulsing in time to the aftershocks of that exquisite orgasm. That want should be sated, but it's not. Because I want to feel her beneath my hands, beneath my mouth. I want to feel her.

  I push off a little from the wall and slide my legs down hers until my shaky feet rest against the ground again. Then I glance up at her, give her a small smile as the hot water continues to pummel us, and I reach up, standing on my shaky toes, wrapping my arms tightly around her neck. And I kiss her.

  This kiss is slow, a dance of tongues as I taste her, as I lick her and tease her, my kiss leaving her mouth and tracing down the curve of her strong chin. I kiss her neck, feel her jaw clench against me as I trail my fingernails down her front, over the outside curve of her right breast, over her ribs and down to her stomach. She doesn't make a single sound as I reach up again, taking her right nipple in my fingers, twisting it softly.

  Then harder, as I watch her, as my other hand draws nails down, over her left thigh.

  Finally, she gasps against my hand as I pull and pluck and tease that nipple, and I smile against her as I lean down, taking her left nipple in my mouth. Like she bit mine, I bite hers, teasing with my teeth, again starting very slowly, sensually, softly, building up the pressure of my love bites harder and harder until she's gasping against me, wrapping her fingers in my hair and pressing me down, harder, against her breast.

  I oblige, sucking hard at her nipple, then biting down again. She hisses out, ending with a moan, as I wrap my fingers around her hips, digging in with my nails. I turn and press her back against the wall, too.

  And then I crouch down smoothly, the water running over me with the same force as a waterfall. I stare up at the gorgeous woman leaning against the wall above me.

  She looks down at me with eyes full of desire, her hands still in my hair. I have my head to the side. A question. Can I? I'm crouching in front of her, my fingers digging into her hips; there is only one question I could possibly be asking. And she nods, biting her lip, pushing against my head gently with her fingers.

  Yes, yes, yes. All she is is yes as I lean forward, onto my knees, as I trail my fingers down to the insides of her thighs, gently pushing her legs wider, opening them to me.

  And I lean forward all the way, lifting up my face as I press a kiss to her clit.

  She shudders against me as I flick my tongue out, as I taste her. It is decadent, the taste of her, musky and sweet and everything I crave as I curve the fingers of my right hand around, touching her center, twisting my fingers as I feel her wetness, pressing up as I press my head forward, as she pushes down on it with her hands, asking, begging with her fingers that twist tighter in my hair.

  So I answer her wants with my own. I taste her as the water washes over us; I taste her wetness, electricity crackling inside of me as I realize exactly how wet she is, as my fingers drift over her center. I tease her for a long moment, nudging a knuckle against her opening, but then I can't take it anymore: I want to feel her against me. So slowly, reverently, I turn my hand, curl my fingers up and inside of her.

  I move in and out of her at first slowly, but eventually, I build up the rhythmic pace until she's bucking her hips against my mouth, against my hand.

  Her taste, the velvet softness of her against my mou
th, is a thrill that races through every vein inside of me, my skin hot, electric, as I touch her, as I taste her. The musky wildness of her taste is something that I am going to crave, I realize, as my tongue moves against her, as my fingers feel inside of her.

  I am going to crave this again.

  I can feel her pulse around my fingers right before she moans, long and low, above me, and then I can feel the orgasm moving against my hand, can feel her entire body pulsing against me as she comes.

  I lick her slower, then, drawing my tongue over her clit very, very slowly as I try to play her like a musical instrument, as I try to draw the orgasm out of her for as long as possible. And only when she's shaking against me do I stop, her fingers slack in my hair now, her body loose-limbed and relaxed, as she leans against the wall, as she glances down at me with a slow, lazy smile, tugging my hair a little as she draws me back up her body. I lick my lips as I come up and out of the crouch, and I press my body against her as she smiles against me, wrapping her arms around my neck and shoulders, drawing me to her for a kiss.

  She tastes herself on me, because she licks my lips, my chin, drinking it all in as she kisses me fiercely then.

  For a long moment, we stay just like that, locked in this warm embrace, weak and spent and so deeply sated...but then the water is starting to turn lukewarm, and bracing cold is next on the agenda, so I take a small step back from her, and I wipe my wet hands up and over my face, giving it a good scrub in the water, before glancing back at her. She nods, and I turn the knobs off.

  And then we're standing there, the both of us, wet and naked and utterly sated. She laughs a little, stepping forward, wrapping her arms around me again, her front pressing against mine, her breasts against me, her hips against me. Everything feels so good as she kisses me again softly, slowly.

  “You're delicious,” Shannon whispers to me, letting her lips find my earlobe and sucking on it gently before she kisses my cheek almost chastely, her mouth closed. She then takes a step back, her mouth curling up at the corners mischievously. “Thanks for that,” she tells me, as she slicks her hands over her hair, letting the waves fall over her shoulders as she shakes her head, still smiling softly at me.

  But then she sighs out, and though her eyes are still sparking with fire, it's more subdued now. “I...I guess I'll be seeing you,” she tells me, almost regretfully, as she steps out of the shower.

  “What?” I ask, blinking after her, but then I scoop up my sopping wet jeans and fleece jacket, and I follow out after her, into the searingly bright bathroom hallway.

  “You're just going to...just going to leave? Just like that?” I ask her, spluttering, staring at her gorgeous backside as she walks away from me. She stops, turns, taking me in, too, and she smiles appreciatively at me.

  “I have someplace to be,” she tells me with a small shrug, though her eyes are, again, regretful.

  “But...you need clothes,” I point out to her, gesturing to her nude body. “You can't waltz like that out into the woods. You'll catch your death.”

  “I assure you,” she tells me, her mouth twitching upward at the corners, “I'll be fine.”

  “You just can't go out into the woods like that,” I tell her again, and it sounds like I'm pleading with her, and that grates on me. But what we just did meant something to me. And I don't want her to disappear.

  I'm not a love-'em-and-leave-'em kind of girl. And I'm trying not to be clingy, but was that it? What about the connection I feel with her?

  What about, “Do you trust me?”

  She turns back to me, hands on her hips, chin lifted, her chest rising and falling as she breathes. And as I stand there, as I take in her commanding presence, I'm made breathless by her physique, her breasts, the swell of her hips. Every curve she possesses draws me to her, like a magnet. I realize, as I'm staring at her, that I've been looking for this woman my whole life, and never knew exactly how much I wanted to find her.

  Her golden eyes flash with bemusement as she catches my gaze roving over her body. “Well...do you have clothes?” she asks me, her head to the side as she assesses my body, too, partly because she seemingly likes to look at it and partly—I think—to gauge my size. “I don't know if I'd fit in them. I'm bigger than you,” she says, gesturing to her height, “but if you'd let me borrow some...”

  “Yes!” I say quickly, then gulp down air and smile a little self-consciously. “I mean, I don't have them with me... I have towels here,” I tell her, gesturing to my pack, “that you could wrap around yourself, and I have one change of clothes for me, but everything else is in my car.”

  She nods, glancing to my pack. “Well,” she tells me, giving me that lazy smile again as her eyes rove my length once more, causing me to shiver. “Let's go,” she murmurs, crossing the space between us, cupping my chin in her hands and tilting my face up to meet hers.

  She kisses me slowly, lingeringly this time, before she steps back, scooping the towels out of my pack, handing one to me and taking the other and wrapping it tightly around her body. I towel my hair off, running the fabric over my body quickly as I keep stealing little glances at her. She's leaning against the wall next to the door, and she's watching my motions with hooded eyes.

  I don't want to let her out of my sights, but I have the feeling that if she wanted to leave, there's not a single thing I could do to stop her.

  It strikes me, as I toss the towel onto the bench, sneaking a glance at her one more time, that she reminds me of something.

  She reminds me of something, well...wild.

  I rummage around in my pack and take out my clean pair of panties, my other pair of jeans and a dark gray sweater. I slide everything on, leaving my sodden jeans and fleece where they lie on the bench (I hope they're still here tomorrow—I'll bring them back then), and I toss my towel into my pack.

  When I turn to look back at her, Shannon is no longer leaning against the wall; instead, she has the door open just a crack, and she's staring out at the darkness surrounding the bathroom with a frown, her chin lifted, her nose to the air.

  She's also...sniffing?

  “I'm ready to go,” I tell her, and she glances back at me, a warm smile spreading over her face as she nods.

  “Let's go together,” she tells me, and when I nod, ready to walk past her, she reaches out, curling her fingers over my upper arm gently.

  “Stay by me,” she tells me, her gaze flicking out to the darkness. “If anything happens,” she says, working her jaw, “I will keep you safe.”

  I blink at her, but then I'm shaking my head. “You don't need to keep me safe,” I say gently, reaching up and covering her hand on my arm with my own, squeezing. “I can take care of myself,” I say, and I mean it. Also, what was she talking about? There's nothing dangerous out in the woods. It's Allegany State Park. We have rotund, lazy black bears, and that's about it.

  She glances at me with surprise, her brows up. “I...I'm sorry,” she says, and this suave, smooth woman is actually stammering in front of me. “I didn't mean to offend you,” she says, shaking her head. “Of course you can take care of yourself. There are just...dangerous things out in this woods.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I repeat, but my mouth twitches upward at the corners. “But I appreciate the sentiment. That's very sweet.”

  She smiles at me, too. “I don't doubt that you can,” she says, her voice a low growl, but when I walk past her, out into the woods, Shannon lets the bathroom door close behind us, and she remains very, very close by my side, glancing out toward the trees, her nose to the air. Occasionally, I can hear her sniffling, and I glance back, but she's not sniffling. She's actually sniffing.

  Is she a hunter? A tracker? Does she smell a camper roasting some delicious hot dogs somewhere close by? She catches me watching her, and in the darkness, as we leave the haloed outside light of the bathroom building, I see her white teeth flashing in the dark as she smiles.

  But she doesn't offer an explanation.

  W
hen we reach my cabin, I unlock my car and drag out my suitcase, locking the trunk behind me. Shannon waits for me up on the porch, glancing out into the woods, her arms crossed in front of her over the towel, her chin lifted, her eyes narrowed. She's beautiful, hauntingly so, as a cool wind moves between the trees, caressing her already drying hair and blowing it to the side, over her shoulder. But she also looks vigilant. Like she's waiting for something to happen. Or perhaps she's waiting for someone.

  I lug the suitcase up to the porch, and I use my flashlight to help me find the key on my key ring for the cabin. When I turn the lock and open the cabin door, a million memories slam into me, because there is that familiar musty smell, the “you're about to start your vacation” scent of a cabin that hasn't been used for awhile. That scent fills me with memories and anticipations, of all the adventures I've had here, and all the adventures I'm going to have. I spent so much of my life here, and it's so comforting, that smell of old pine and firewood, the ghosts of fires in the potbelly stove in the corner.

  I flick the lights on, and the soft glow of the bulbs filters over the wooden walls and cots, the ancient refrigerator unplugged in the corner, and the sagging, equally ancient couch on the far wall. I turn back, pushing the door open, and let Shannon walk past me into the cabin. Then I shut the door behind the both of us, turning the locks.

  “You must be cold,” Shannon tells me, glancing at me with her brow furrowed. I breathe out into the air, my breath billowing like a cloud of fog between us. Then I nod, shivering a little. I cross the room to the stove, propping it open as I crouch down.

  “Aren't you cold?” I ask her, glancing over my shoulder as I begin to crumple old newspaper and shove the wads into the stove's mouth.

  She shakes her head, crossing her arms in front of her, her feet hip-width apart. “I don't get cold,” she says softly, and I can tell that she's glancing at my rear as I crouch down; a small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.