Raised by Wolves

by Bridget Essex

  I hiss out, groaning, and that's when she stops, backing away a little, her eyes dark with desire but also confused.

  “Sorry,” she murmurs to me. “Was that... I mean, was that too forward?”

  All I can do is watch her swollen lips, swollen from our kissing, wet from our kissing. I lick my own lips and swallow, and then I'm reaching up, curling my fingers around the back of her neck and drawing her to me. The warmth of her skin under my fingers, the hushed outtake of breath as she sighs when I pull her close heightens everything. There is warmth uncoiling in my belly, between my legs, in my heart as I kiss her, tasting her like something I've never quite tasted before—something sweet and delicious. Something I have a feeling I am going to crave...

  “Was that forward?” I ask her when we pull apart again. She's watching me closely, holding my gaze, and then she's smiling against my mouth as she leans forward, brushing her lips against mine.

  “You taste like rain,” she tells me sincerely, her voice soft, warm, as she holds my gaze with her bright green eyes, eyes that are dark with desire, with longing...with something else I can't quite name. She cocks her head to the side a little, flicking her gaze from my eyes to my mouth and back again. “You taste like the woods,” she whispers, eyes wide. “You taste...wild.”

  I stand there, my heart pounding fast, looking down into the open, vulnerable face of this woman I just met this afternoon...this woman who I'm so drawn to. This woman who just tasted the wolf in me.

  But I know what she tastes like, too—the heat and the cold, merging together.

  You taste like stars, I think, staring down into her bright eyes. Because it's true: I've honestly never felt this way when kissing a woman before—like my chest is too full, prepared to burst.

  Like I've found the answer to a question I've never dared to ask.

  When I was a little girl—or, you know, a little werewolf girl—I used to run in the backyard of my family's cabin in the woods in Maine with my cousin Rob. We would turn into our wolf selves, race each other through the trees. It was great endurance training, but we were also just kids, playing together. What we loved, most of all, was to run during meteor showers. We'd race through the woods up to the edge of the cliffs that overlooked the water, and out there, out in the meadows with the stars falling in the sky, we'd leap up and try to catch the falling stars in our jaws if we were wolves, or in our hands if we were kids. Neither of us ever caught one, obviously—they all burned up in the atmosphere.

  But when I kiss Loren, I feel as if I'm finally leaping at the right moment.

  I'm about to lean down, about to kiss her again, when I feel a sudden flash of pain on the back of my calf, a hot slash through my jeans and into my skin, and I break away from Loren, staring down in astonishment as I hear a loud yowl erupt down by my feet.

  “Little Red!” Loren says, horrified. “That was very bad!”

  I turn around to see what Loren's staring at, and there, about a foot from my leg, is a red-colored tabby cat with a very puffed-up tail, her back arched like a Halloween cat, her mouth open in a yowl as she stares at me.

  “I'm so sorry,” Loren tells me, shaking her head. “She isn't usually like this. She loves people. Hates dogs but loves people.”

  Oh. Hates dogs.

  I neglect to mention that, to animals, I usually smell like a wolf, as Loren shoos Little Red gently into the living room. I crouch down, roll up my jeans—nothing. Not a scratch. But there's dried blood on my leg that I wipe off hurriedly with my jeans.

  There are a few super awesome things about being a werewolf, but one of them is that we heal ridiculously quickly. Little Red did get me, and pretty good by the amount of blood on my leg. But I don't bear a scratch anymore.

  All the blood is gone, and Loren heads back to me as I stand up, and she's apologizing again, starting with, “Seriously, I'm so, so sorry,” but I just laugh, shaking my head. And I wrap my arms around her waist, drawing her to me. And I kiss her. I kiss her, and then I begin to trail a pattern of kisses down from her mouth to her chin, to her delicate jaw, to her neck...

  “Do you want...coffee...tea?” she asks, breathlessly as I start to push her gently, angling toward the couch.

  I laugh against her throat. “No,” I growl against her. “I want you.”

  “Good,” she tells me, and then she's gripping my hips in her hands, and she's tugging me away from the couch—back toward a hallway beyond her kitchen. “Because I want you,” she says, lifting one brow and smiling with her full, wet lips. “Come on—I don't want Little Red to interrupt us again,” she says with a little wink. She's still pushing and pulling me by the waist, and when we get into her darkened bedroom, she kicks the door shut with her foot and toes off her flats.

  We both fall onto the bed together, side by side, after Loren shoves off about ten books from the bed. I immediately move with a little growl, rising and ready to slide between her legs, but Loren sits up, shaking her head as she unbuttons her blouse slowly, one button at a time.

  “Me first,” she whispers, and I sit there, crouched between her legs, feeling the heat throbbing between mine.

  I chuckle a little, a low growl, as I lean down, brushing my lips over the beautiful bare skin of her stomach now as she peels off the blouse over her shoulders.

  Loren places her hands flat on the bed behind her, propping herself up to stare into my eyes. I'm still crouching between her legs, her legs that are open to me, her thighs hot beneath my hands. I'm finding it almost impossible to not slide my fingers over her stockinged legs, up and beneath her skirt.

  Her mouth is open a little, and even in the darkness of the room, I can see her profile from the streetlight shining through the crack in the curtains. Her mouth is parted, her lips are wet, and her eyes are shining as she smiles at me. And then she draws me down on top of her, rolling her body—and mine, too—to the side.

  Now she's the one between my legs, the one crouching over me. In the darkness, I hear her sigh of arousal as she hooks her fingers into the belt loops of my jeans, rolling up my shirt and twisting the button on the jeans expertly. She unzips me, tugging down my pants, throwing off my shoes, pulling off my socks and the pants the rest of the way. She pushes aside my leather jacket (but keeps it on) and pulls up the hem of my shirt until it's above my breasts. I never wear a bra (I have a small enough chest that I can get away with it), and she seems to like that as she bends her head, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders and all around us, like a shimmering curtain of gold. She bends down, and she places a soft, wet kiss between my breasts.

  Loren doesn't waste a moment. Her hands are on my thighs, and then she's tracing her fingernails up over my skin, dragging delight with each nail. I shiver beneath her as she pushes up her own skirt to her waist, tugging down her stockings and her panties, so that when she pushes her hips down onto mine and my center at that moment, it's the heat of skin against skin, her slickness against my own, and it's spectacular, the wave of desire that ricochets through me; pure, absolute want fills every inch of me, and I moan into her mouth when Loren leans down to kiss me. I wrap my arms around her neck, and then I'm panting against her shoulder as she rises over me, trailing her right hand up my thigh as she braces against her headboard with her left.

  “So wet,” she murmurs to me, her eyes dark and glittering as she traces two fingers up my center, finding me wet and open and needing her already. But she was just testing the waters. Now that she knows how much I want her, she starts to tease me even more.

  She nibbles my neck, laving me with her tongue, tracing her teeth against me, sucking, pulling, biting my skin as I scrabble my fingers into the comforter of her bed, gripping the blanket and twisting as I moan, bucking my hips against hers. There is a tight friction, a rising energy between us as our hips move together, the rhythm equal, matched, as she presses down hard against me and I pant out into the stillness.

  She draws her fingers up and into me now. It's a steady line she draws over my s
kin and into my center, and when she pushes her two fingers into me, I hiss out into the darkness; I moan, grinding my hips against her hand. She bends that beautiful head, kisses me, and I take her head in my hands now, twisting her hair around my fingers, holding her tight and close to me as I kiss her back, drinking her in as deeply as I'm able, a storm of release already rising inside of me.

  Her hands are quick, her thumb rounding my clit in tight, rapid circles that tease out of me a growl as my eyes roll back in my head. It's only a few moments of that silent, shared ecstasy, and then I'm coming on her hand, hard, rising into the stratosphere as the orgasm rakes its way through me, leaving everything behind shimmering and perfect.

  She draws her thumb in slower circles now, letting me down as gently as a kite. When she draws her fingers out of me, she brings her hand up, licking them thoughtfully, a wicked little smile on her gorgeous face.

  Even though the waves of orgasm are still moving through me, that simple act is all it takes for the desire to rise inside of me again instantly. “I want you now,” I tell her, my voice growling, and she grins at me as I pull her down beside me, rolling her so that I'm on top of her, between her legs, her blonde hair spilled all over the messy coverlet, her gaze bright and shining as she looks up at me.

  “You taste so good,” she whispers to me in the darkness, and though there is so much want roaring through me now that I'm panting from it, I try to keep it in check as much as possible. I lower myself down, brush my mouth over the softness of her stomach, trailing kisses up, up to her breasts, her nipples so hard in my mouth, against my tongue and teeth. I suck and pull and twist, and she sighs beneath me, lifting up her chin and rocking back her head, arching her back beneath me as I learn the lay of her land, learn every curve she possesses, learn what makes her gasp and plead beneath me, begging for release.

  And she does taste like stars when I taste her there, her center wet and wanting and just waiting for my kiss. She tastes like heaven, and when she wraps her fingers in my hair, as she whispers my name in the darkness, all I want to do is make her feel as good as she made me feel.

  And I do. She calls my name again when she comes, and all I can think about are stars, stars that seem to be reflected in her eyes when she pulls me up on top of her again, wrapping my arms around her tightly as we hold one another.

  We move around, finding each other's space. I'm sleepy—normally this is the time when I would get up and go. I don't like to stay overnight, because it makes the next morning messy. I'm too tired (and, honestly, too happy) to really think about all the implications that this night might bring. I'm too tired to get up right now, find my shoes, my socks, my panties and pants, and put them all on and then try to catch the bus home. I'm too tired, and her arms are too soft and warm and welcoming. I don't want to leave them. Not yet.

  I'm so relaxed that I decide to sleep. Just for a little while. Just for a few hours, maybe, and then I'll make my way home.

  But I keep sleeping, my arms around this woman I only just met.

  This woman that, even in sleep, I hold tightly.

  Chapter 4: The Morning After

  I wake up with a start, blinking the sleep from my eyes.

  I was awakened by something being out of place to my normal routine.

  For starters, there's a cat sitting on my bare chest.

  And not just any cat but a really big cat, a reddish-colored cat.

  Oh, crap. It's the cat from last night, the cat who scratched my leg so hard I was bleeding all over the place. Little Red. And she's glaring at me now with her cat eyes in slits, looking extremely displeased.

  I swallow. And then I pat the bed beside me, the bed where Loren should be if she were still in it...

  But she isn't. Loren's not in bed.

  So...it's me versus kitty.

  “Nice kitty,” I tell her quietly, and then I try to quickly slide out from beneath the covers, get out of bed and extricate myself from the about-to-become-violet cat situation, but Little Red begins to growl when I make that first movement, her eyes narrowing even further, her claws extending out of her paws and pricking into my skin.

  What did Loren say last night? That Little Red doesn't like dogs? So this means that she can smell the wolf on me, and I probably confuse the hell out of her. She's looking at me in my human shape and expecting to see something that looks more wolf-like.

  I try to pull myself out from under her, try to push her away with the covers; nothing works. Little Red isn't budging—and is only starting to growl louder.

  Finally, I sigh. And then I clear my throat, raising my lips over my teeth.

  And what comes from my voice box sounds much more like the growl of a wolf than the growl of a human.

  Little Red's eyes grow very wide. She stops growling instantly, and she hops away, off of me, off of the bed, scampering out of the room, her tail puffed as big as a squirrel's.

  “Hey, baby, are you okay?” comes a sweet, soft voice from beyond the bedroom—out in the living room, I think. Loren's voice. Loren is talking to Little Red.

  I slide out from beneath the covers, and I pad my way quietly out into the living room. And that's where I find Loren. She's in a nightshirt, her long legs bare and crossed beneath a slim, modern-looking computer desk, her fingers dancing over the keyboard. It's early, still dark out, and the computer is the only light, illuminating Loren's face like an angelic halo.

  The floorboards beneath me creak, and Loren turns around, her eyes wide in the semi-darkness. But she smiles when she sees me, smiles widely, her eyes traveling the length of my nude body.

  “Oh, no,” she says quietly, holding her arms out to me. “Did I wake you?”

  “No.” I laugh, shake my head, and point down at Little Red, who's now winding her body between Loren's legs possessively. “But she did.”

  Loren scoops up Little Red and cuddles the cat against her chest. Little Red gazes at me smugly, purring like a powerful locomotive as she rubs her face on Loren's chin. “Sorry about that,” Loren says, flicking her gaze to me. “I guess she isn't used to having overnight house guests.” Loren blushes slightly as she pushes her wheeled chair away from the desk a little. “My last girlfriend never slept here. Allergic to cats,” she says with a little shrug.

  I place my hands on my hips. “I think Little Red may be allergic to me.”

  Loren places her cat on the floor and stands up in front of me, laughing a little as she brushes a few errant wisps of Little Red's hair off of her nightshirt. “Oh, she'll get used to you. I mean—” Her blush actually deepens as she bites her lip, staring up at me with those dazzling eyes. “Wow, that's presumptuous of me, isn't it?”

  I draw in a deep breath.

  Normally, right about now, I'd be preparing to leave—right on schedule. Right before things get complicated.

  So why aren't I leaving? It's weird, but—crazy cat who hates me notwithstanding—I...feel like sticking around. Just for a little while longer.

  Yeah. Just a little while.

  Loren glances behind her at the computer and lifts her chin. “I was just getting some writing done.”

  I raise a brow. “You write? What do you write?”

  Loren reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, folding her arms in front of her as she ducks her head in what is one of the most adorable actions I've ever seen. “Oh, it's only as a hobby. Only for myself, really. Um, I made some coffee. Here, I'll show you where the mugs are.” She glances over her shoulder at me as she turns, making sure I'm following, and then I do follow after her as she walks into the kitchen.

  The apartment itself is pretty big, but the kitchen is tiny. There's a row of cupboards on the wall above our heads, and the space is only about two feet across. I'm fairly certain that if I tried to open the oven, the door would bang into the peninsula. But Loren stands up on her tiptoes, trying to reach the cupboard above her head, where I'm assuming the mugs are.

  I reach up (I'm taller than her, not by much, but
still), and I'm opening the cupboard door, feeling inside the dark recesses for two mugs. I grab them, handing them down to her, but that's when I realize how close we're standing, side by side. The heat radiating between us is too intense. I'm naked, and she seems to be paying special attention to that fact as she sets the mugs on the counter behind her, then leans forward, placing her cold hands on the skin of my stomach.

  I shiver in spite of myself, and she laughs.

  “I'm sorry; I know I'm cold,” she tells me with a little shake of her head.

  But I say nothing. Instead, I place my hands over her own, curling my fingers into her palms and drawing her fingers up my font until I grasp her hands, both of them, together, in front of my mouth. I hold her gaze while I kiss the backs of her hands softly, gently, first the right hand, then the left, brushing my hot mouth over her cold skin. She shivers as she watches me, her mouth parted, her lips wet, her breathing coming fast.

  She wraps her hands around my neck, drawing me down to her for a kiss, and I taste her. She tastes of coffee. She tastes of last night, of our sex. She tastes of stars.

  The coffee forgotten, we move back to the bedroom, shutting the door in the face of a very disgruntled Little Red.

  ---

  My hair is still dripping when I step out of the shower, but I scrunch the towel up around the ends, squeezing the moisture out, peering at my reflection in Loren's bathroom mirror, all fogged up from the hot water.

  I wipe away the haze and stare at my stupidly grinning self, and then I shoot myself a wink, tossing the wet towel into the laundry basket by the door. Since I spent the night and didn't bring a change of clothes, I slip back into my outfit from yesterday with a wrinkled nose. It's not like they're terribly dirty, but I'm a werewolf, and I don't like wearing the same clothes two days in a row. It's the principle of the thing. And the fact that my own scent is stronger about me when I do wear them twice; it's harder for me to smell other things when I'm noticing myself. I smell like my trusty deodorant and my usual cologne (dark and deep, like the woods, I've always thought), and my skin.