Wild Wolf: Black Mesa Wolves #4

by J. K Harper

  He'd called several times in the past few weeks. She hadn't been remotely tempted to answer. All her thoughts had been filled by Tate.

  Glancing back out at the almost unbearably sexy man—her mate! she thought yet again in sheer wonder and no small trepidation—again for a quick moment, all she saw was a deliciously intriguing man curious about her living space—not about the secrets it might reveal about her. Feeling oddly warmed, she kept watching him.

  Undeniable hunger licked along her limbs, enflaming all her nerve endings as she watched Tate prowl through her cabin. He moved with such easy grace, so liquid and soft and gentle and sure, it managed to arouse her even though he wasn't focused on her. He looked at the few framed drawings she had hanging on the walls, at the books overflowing her cases and stacked on every flat surface in the room. The burble of the coffeemaker and the gentle scratching noise of the wind rustling aspen branches against the windows were the only sounds.

  “I really love that painting,” Tate suddenly said.

  “Which—oh.” She laughed. “Of course you would.”

  The painting in question was a portrait of a larger-than-life horse leaping over russety-orange canyons. Mane and tail flowing off the canvas, the red and white horse seem suspended in midair as it leapt. A determined expression said it wouldn't stop for anything. A large moon bathed the scene with its light, casting shadows through curves of the canyons as well.

  Tate shrugged and grinned. The grin that was slowly burning away her panties. She'd thought she knew what physical attraction was. This, however, was hotter and brighter than anything she'd ever experienced. This must be why wolves got so completely loopy when they met their mates. Hormones trumped all other thoughts and perceptions. It explained the blindly seeking, completely unrestrained night they'd tumbled into mere minutes after her reading. Her mind again filled with images of the breathless, no-holds-barred way they'd come together that night. Like they were the only two people in the world.

  “Course I like that painting. Cowboy here.” Tate nodded, pointing at himself. “Horses are my bread and butter, anyway. You like horses, then?”

  Taking a breath and forcing herself to focus on the now, Claire nodded. “Ever since I was little and saw some in a book. But I found out horses and shifters don't go well together. So I indulge my equine interest by having things like paintings of them, rather than the real thing.”

  “Hmm,” Tate said, sounding speculative. Claire gave him a curious glance, but he kept his attention on the painting. “That's called a paint horse. You probably know that. Lots of people like them because they're pretty.”

  “She's beautiful. I just look at it sometimes, and imagine riding her over the canyons like that.” Claire felt just a tiny bit foolish admitting that to Tate. He, however, nodded with complete seriousness.

  Smiling a bit in a silly delight at their camaraderie over horses, she turned back into the kitchen. Pouring the glorious, steaming hot black coffee deliciousness into two mugs, she brought them out along with a small carton of creamer tucked under her arm to her small wooden dining table.

  Tate stepped forward to help her. He reached for the creamer, the look in his eye telling her he knew exactly where he was reaching. Claire stopped mid-stride as a tiny but powerful shiver rocketed down her body. Still captured by his gaze, which had suddenly gotten more serious, she stood motionless as he reached for the carton wedged between her arm and the side of her breast. Very gently, he slid it out.

  His fingers didn't touch her flesh. Even so, just the sliding sensation against her sensitive breast as he pulled it out sent another shiver racing over her, then another. Her breathing quickened and she could feel her pulse jumping in her neck. She knew he noticed. All she could think about was the night they'd spent together, captured together in wild embrace half the time.

  Their eyes locked again with that sizzling connection leaping across it, charging Claire with desire.

  Mate, her wolf tested out the word. Liking it, she said it again, this time with unshakeable certainty. My mate.

  Claire swallowed as Tate's expression subtly changed. Need spilled from him. Sheer, hot, pure male need. His own tremendous desire shimmered through him and leapt to Claire. The pure understanding of it roared along her limbs like a sudden conflagration, threatening to burn her up into a delirious blaze of ecstasy. She literally felt dizzy with the sensation. He was going to kiss her. She felt it in every tiny particle of her being, her wolf felt it down to the trembling tip of her tail. The look he was giving her was the look of a man who couldn't control himself and didn't really want to. With a rush of wild sensation, Claire knew she didn't want to, either. She wanted a repeat of the other night. The night that had sealed her fate with this one incredible man.

  Heart pounding in a ricochet of tumultuous need, she waited for his lips to touch hers.

  Instead, Tate took a gentle step back, the creamer held firmly in his hand. Backing off another step, he took a shaking breath, eyes still on hers. Then, carefully, as if afraid to break the connection between them, he turned to the small dining table in her main room. Lightly clearing his throat, he said, “Shall we sit here?”

  His voice cracked only the slightest bit. Despite her own shock and stabbing disappointment he hadn't touched her lips with his, she somehow felt steady. Relaxed, even though she'd anticipated being kissed so deeply and thoroughly she could forget her own name.

  Damn, she wanted to leap into his arms right this second.

  ***

  Tate almost imploded from the effort of stepping away from Claire, but he managed to do it and not die in the process, despite his wolf battering his mind with eagerness to take the lead once again. But he'd backed away from kissing her because something was in the room between them, blocking her from him. Even after what they'd shared in Denver, even with her own sharp arousal right now, he could sense something still holding her back from open to him. It was too soon.

  Not too soon, his wolf thought hard. Not soon enough.

  Probably true, but Tate harbored a fear that she would flee in earnest if she had a chance to actually think all this through.

  And she still hasn't called me her mate, he thought back.

  His wolf made a disagreeable noise before simply sitting there, regarding Claire through Tate's eyes and claiming her as his the best he could without pouncing on her and dragging her back to the den. Which was a place she might never visit, he realized with a sudden pang of worry. He also realized he hadn't yet broached the subject—the question—of her wild wolf status. He wanted to hear it from her himself. But he didn't want to be the one to bring it up.

  For crying out loud, this was a lot harder than training a horse.

  His wolf gave a very humanlike snort and turned his back in a show of disdain for that idiotic thought.

  As Tate carefully studied Claire, he could tell she was every bit as aroused as he was. But this was ridiculous. It had to be ridiculous. Who did this, even after a blazing hot encounter that had shaken him to his very bones? Who hunted down a woman, stalked up to her house in broad daylight, came in, and almost assaulted her beautifully pliant, soft lips with his own in order to fully claim her as his mate?

  I do, his wolf retorted. My mate.

  Right. He was thinking too rationally about this. Claire was already his. She'd proved it the other night, and again by asking him to chase her, to find her. By sent-marking him. He understood now her reticence about it. Wild wolf, pack wolf. He'd never heard of such a pairing. Yet it was real.

  Very slowly, Tate set the cream down on the table, hoping his careful movements hid the unsteadiness in his hand. Flicking his eyes back to Claire, he saw she still stood in the same spot, rooted to the ground, staring back at him. The sharp edge of her desire flared between them, matched by his own.

  Apparently, she was not going to run away again.

  “Yes, that's a good place to sit,” Claire answered him, her voice sounding slightly strangled. He noticed
she still didn't blush, despite her obvious mingled confusion and arousal. He liked that. He could sense her confidence, her awareness and acceptance of her own needs. She was strong, his mate.

  His mate. Reining himself in at his own mind's casual use of the term, Tate nodded, then pulled out a chair for her. He got a half smile at that.

  “You really are a gentleman, aren't you?” she said as she seated herself, though she trembled slightly.

  Hopefully, that also was a touch of frustration he heard in her voice. He eased himself into the chair across the table from her, which put the painting of the leaping horse directly within his line of vision.

  “Sometimes.” His honest response made her eyes snap up to his again. God, he really loved the clear green color to them. He'd noticed her wolf's eyes were a golden amber instead, but he'd seen the same clarity in them as well. Claire was Claire, no matter which form she wore.

  “And sometimes not?” Her voice was soft, but he heard the raggedness in it.

  “Sometimes not, Claire,” he said, looking at her full on, letting her feel the force of his keen desire for her. As they stared at one another, the air between them growing heavy with the hormones dancing wildly on it, her tongue slid out to the corner of her mouth, licking her lush lips.

  Tate almost swallowed his own tongue. Trembling, he banished his rationale and decided to dare laying things on the table. Quietly, not taking his gaze from hers, he said, “I think I made that pretty clear the other night.”

  From the slow yet unmistakeable curve upward of that beautiful mouth and the flash of her wolf brightening her eyes, he knew she was extremely clear on what he was talking about. The hot memory of their uncontrolled encounter of wild abandon arced between them, seeming to sizzle even in the solid light of day. Tate felt his breathing speed up, saw Claire's pulse beating rapidly in her delicate, kissable neck. Silence draped over them. The sizzling physical connection, though, was almost like a living thing.

  This time, she surprised him by taking a few deep breaths, then changing the subject. “So when is it?”

  Uncertain, he felt a tiny furrow in his brow. “When's what?”

  Pleasure shot through him as her light laugh pealed into the room. He'd enjoyed that about her so much.

  “When is our second date?” She grinned at his startled look. “I thought I was pretty clear when I left you my calling card.”

  Tate nodded, remembering the sharp, mingled sense of loss and determination as he stood alone in the Denver hotel room, smelling Claire's scent all over his clothes, knowing she wanted him to find her.

  “I thought if you found me, we could go on a real date,” she went on. “Because—that was amazing. But we hardly know one another.” Now she frowned a bit, looking down to stir her coffee.

  “But we will,” he said. She looked back up at him, the white-blonde swing of her uncombed hair sliding over one cheek. The rest of her gorgeous mass of hair clung to the side of her neck, tumbled down over the collar of her sweater. He really, really wanted to grab it and gently pull her in close for that missed kiss. Instead, he went on, “That was the craziest thing I've ever experienced, and it made no sense, amazing as it was. Same for you, yes?”

  “Yes,” she said candidly, eyeing him over the rim of her mug. Wind whispered outside, dragging a tree branch across one of her windows. Setting her mug back on the table, Claire folded her hands in front of her, seeming to come to an agreement with herself. “Yes. Okay, yes. I've never experienced something like that before.”

  Tate exhaled as quietly as he could. Thank god he hadn't just screwed it all up again. Very carefully, he took it a step further. “I'm pretty sure I know what that was, Claire. Do you?”

  Wrapping her fingers around her mug, lightly tapping their short, ragged nails on the side, she slowly shook her head. Her expression, though, said she had a very good idea what he was about to say.

  Leaning back a bit but being as clear as he could, Tate said, “That was a mating frenzy, darlin'. It's what happens when two wolves meet, recognize one another for what they are, and come together to seal the deal.”

  She huffed out a tiny laugh, relaxing even more. “Seal the deal?”

  Tate grinned back at her as his wolf made excited circles in his mind. Shrugging a bit, he said, “Sorry. Sometimes I go for humor when maybe I shouldn't.”

  “No, it's okay.” Her voice was soft, though her eyes were definitely darkening with her clear arousal. “You mean because we're—mates.” She stumbled just a bit over the word, but kept his gaze.

  She knew. She one hundred percent knew.

  Keep calm, keep calm, he warned himself. His wolf was practically doing backflips of joy. “Yes,” he said, striving to keep his tone careful yet casual at the same time. “You and I are mates, and that night was us realizing it and doing what wolves do in order to create the bond.”

  The only sounds were the wind lightly scratching outside and the soft clink of Claire's spoon still stirring her coffee. She didn't take her gaze from him, though. After the longest single moment of his life, she nodded.

  “I know.” She said it so quietly he barely breathed in order to hear her. Letting another heart-stopping moment go by, she finally said in a very tentative voice, “I have no idea what comes next, though. Do you?”

  Tate's heart about melted all over the place at the seeking quality of her tone. Wild wolf, he reminded himself, even though she hadn't outright admitted it to him yet. Despite the sizzle of the mate connection between them, he knew on that bone-deep, instinctive level she wasn't quite ready for that conversation yet. Approach and retreat was one of his favorite training techniques. He'd see how well it would work right now.

  Wolf. Not horse, his wolf said, half snarling in exasperation.

  Yes, okay. Right. Keep it real, but keep it slow. Slow-ish, he amended, caught again by her luscious lips. But what the hell should he say next? He leaned back in his chair to settle himself as his thoughts leapt around again in a mishmash of directions to choose from. Eyes landing on the painting again, a fresh idea came to him. Slowly smiling, he relaxed a bit.

  “Okay,” he said. Taking a sip of the excellent coffee, keeping their eye contact while trying to appear as unthreatening as possible, he smiled at Claire. “How about Saturday morning?”

  “I—what?” Confusion came off of her in waves.

  “For our second date. As mates. I supposed we should get to know another a bit more. What do you think?”

  Fingers wrapping around her mug in a way that suddenly had Tate's mind reeling off in an entirely different direction, Claire thought about it, then nodded. “Okay. Um, what kind of a date is in the morning?”

  Thanking whatever saints watched over wolf shifters, Tate reverted to his humor and used his best “aw, shucks, ma'am” drawl to answer. “The kind a cowboy goes on. Trust me, you'll like it.”

  “Think you know me so well already?” The teasing was back in her voice again. It was a little uncertain, but it was there.

  “I know some of you very well at this point, Claire.” This time, the drawl vanished, leaving nothing but very interested male in its place.

  Claire swallowed, her eyes suddenly dark with what Tate knew was pure need again. They sat in a silence wrapped by hot tension. He wondered if images of their lovemaking were racing through her head the way they suddenly raced through his.

  Her voice wavered when she spoke. “I don't for a second regret that. I just—I don't—I mean—darn it,” she finished, staring at her coffee mug.

  The slight huskiness to her voice made Tate's insides flip around. Keeping his voice casual, he said, “Saturday morning because I'd like to take you horseback riding. You up for that, darlin'?”

  Claire's breath caught in her throat as her eyes widened with excitement. The amazed smile that exploded across her face about stopped his heart, she was so beautiful when she did that. Then she deflated somewhat.

  “They'll know I'm a shifter. I'm not special, like y
ou are.”

  Tate forgot about subtlety. Sitting up straight, he reached across the table to grab her hand. Letting the spark between them race up his skin when he touched her, he said, “The hell you aren't, Claire. Trust me on this one. I promise you.”

  He willed his intensity to leap across to her, binding its truth to her and making her understand how genuine he was being. Slowly, she nodded her head. “Okay,” she said simply. “I believe you.”

  Exhaling hard, Tate managed not to behave like a giddy idiot. She had willingly—his skin flashed hot with the remembered thrill of just how willingly—shared her body with him. He knew she understood that connection. Even so, he still wanted to tread lightly around her. Claire was strong, and certain of herself, and definitely self-reliant. He got that. But that hint of wariness clinging to her was just as present. He might have found her home, at her request, but she could still vanish if she decided he was pushing her too fast.

  “It's a date, then,” he said.

  Chapter Seven

  Two mornings later, a strong breeze trailed over Claire's face as she stood awkwardly off to the side of Tate's horse trailer. Her nerves jangling from excitement and a small amount of trepidation, she watched his efficient, skilled movements as he readied their calm, sweet-seeming steeds.

  The little girl in her was utterly thrilled. The adult wolf shifter, though, worried he was wrong about this. That the horses would snort and bolt when they realized what she was: a predator, one that could hunt them as prey.

  So far, though, the creatures seemed anything but upset. They stood quietly as Tate checked their saddles, seeming as unconcerned about her presence as that of the sunshine. The small, pretty reddish-brown one she assumed was for her. The taller one, though, kept catching her eye. Red and white, it bore a resemblance to the leaping horse in her painting at home.