White Wolf 2: The Call of a Soul (12 page)

All her inhibitions vaporized. She looped her hands around his neck and kissed him back. The eclectic tastes—meat, rich bourbon-laced sauce, his smoky flavor—all drove her wild. She nibbled at his lips, sucking the satin-soft skin, and learned the texture of him.

He lifted away, and she fisted her hands in his shirt and glared at him.

“Slow. Slow. Today, you beg.”

Huh? She shook her head.

Another piece of chili-fixings-heaped bread tickled her lips. Their glances met, and she shivered at the intensity of his concentration, a little uneasy about being the focus of all that man-wolf attention.

“When do I—” She folded her arms and chomped like there was no tomorrow when he popped the food into her open mouth.

He did this eyebrow waggle and grinned and looked so boyish and carefree Melanie didn’t even try to stop her impulsive framing of his face. He’d shaved, but a couple of stubby prickles had her palms tingling. The high ridge of his cheekbones called to her; she ran her fingers lightly over the hard surface and dawdled on the hollows beneath.

He caught her wrists. “No. Slow. Going to love you slow, Melanie mine.”

She didn’t want slow. “Second time? Please? I’m begging.”

The battle played out on his face. He grimaced, his nostrils flared and thinned, and he threw his head back and howled, a primal, primitive, long yodel. Then his hold on her firmed, and he bounded out of the chair. Later she’d realize they made it to the bed in one leap.

Kneeling on the mattress, they tore at each other’s clothes. Buttons popped, fabric split, boots went flying, shoes, belts, panties, bra. She froze for a heartbeat when he shoved off his jeans and his glorious cock sprang free and proud and slickened on the top.

Melanie couldn’t get enough. Didn’t realize she too growled. Ran her hands over the massive expanse of his chest and tested the texture of the crisp hairs that led to his groin. She gulped before circling his engorged organ with her palms. Her fingers barely met around the impressive circumference. She licked her lips and bent her head, her tongue ready to lap at the leaking slit, but he cupped her breasts and nudged her up.

“Mike,” she wailed.

And then he laid her on the mattress, his weight came down on top of her, and he captured her mouth, eating, biting, licking, and she answered in kind, tangling her hands in his hair and holding him to her fiercely.

She wriggled, squirmed, and managed to wrap her legs around his waist and lock her ankles behind the small of his back. The crown of his cock rimmed her sex. She creamed, so ready, so full of anticipation that the first sweet, tortuous, millimeter-by-millimeter penetration ripped a pleading whimper from her throat.

He froze.

She gripped the back of his head and held him fast. “No. Please. Good. So. Good.”

“Mine.”

Her lids flew up at his guttural claiming.

“Yes. Look at me.”

They stared at each other.

Pupils so dilated that a mere rim of silver showed, his eyes glowed, and his focus on her was so absolute, so hypnotic Melanie couldn’t look away.

His lips pulled back, and his canines glistened in the lamplight.

A low, throaty noise punctuated the rasped sounds of their breathing when the head of his cock pressed into her, widening the tight passage, and she gripped his arms so hard the tips of her fingers burned. The delicious sensation bordered a razor’s edge of pain, and that low, throaty noise turned into a series of growls issuing from her mouth.

Melanie dug her heels into the mattress and arched off the bed.

His teeth clamped that neck-shoulder sweet spot, and he drove into her, the breadth and length of his cock filling her to the hilt.

Chapter Seven

No force in the universe could’ve stopped Mike from claiming Melanie. He suckled the ridge of her collarbone, lapping the damp skin, tasting the spice in her sweat, and opened his mouth over the hollow at the base of her throat. Her vein throbbed, and he rested his coarsened tongue on the tantalizing pulsing of her blood. The musky smell of her, the honey-salt tang of her soft, supple flesh, the dizzying glimpse of her breasts, mounded and full, the nipples rosy and peaked, intoxicated him.

He had an iron grip on her hips and increased the pressure when she tried to cant up to take him deeper. His lungs burned, and he could no longer focus, too overcome by mating need. Her scent had changed, the flowery perfume gone, replaced by the Melanie zing of fevered desire. He inhaled, fighting not to move, to remain as they were, his cock entirely fisted by her pussy, wanting to prolong the moment, draw out the excruciating pleasure. Her muscles sucked at him, the heat of her channel, the tightness beyond bearing.

Melanie’s fingers bit into his arms. She growled and latched onto his ear, taking his lobe the way he had her neck. She bit down, hard and sharp, and the remnants of his shredded control dissolved.

He shifted, slid his hands under her thighs, and spread her wide.

The first thrust drove hard. The crown of his dick met the soft flesh of her womb, and the exquisite contact slammed through him like a sledgehammer. He shuddered from head to toe and firmed his bite on her neck.

Mike pulled out to the crown slowly. Her walls protested his retreat, contracting and gripping his engorged dick. He fought to go slow, to savor each second, to delay his climax.

She grabbed his ass, and her hissed breath seared the whorls wet from her licking.

His eyes rolled back in his head, and he surrendered, pummeling into her heat in long, powerful strokes.

She met him thrust for thrust, nipping at his ear, throat, and shoulder. Her short nails scored his back. He changed the angle of his penetration, and she moaned and squeezed his biceps. “Faster. Harder.”

He licked the pulse beating in the center of her collarbone, dragged his tongue in slow circles, and ground his cock in a similar circular motion into her pussy. Her slickened labia fired his desire to the zenith, and he held still and pressed harder at the top when his groin met her clit.

“Mike. Mike.” She half sobbed and thumped his back.

The orgasm ripped through her like a tornado, and her pussy spasmed around his cock. The speed and intensity of her rapid-fire clench and release brought on his climax. The sensations punched up and out, pinged from the tips of his toes to the follicles of the hair on his head. His balls knitted, and hot semen jetted out of him, erupting in short, mind-shattering bursts. He threw his head back, arched, and a howl burst out from deep within him, the primordial beast freed at long last.

How long he remained like that, frozen in ecstasy, his cock shooting sperm, filling her to overflowing, he didn’t know.

Eventually his elbows gave in and he sank down onto his forearms, trying to drag air into his deprived lungs. His rib cage brushed her breasts with each jerky exhale.

He bent his head, a nipple tickled his nose, and pure reflex had him capturing the bud and laving with long, lingering licks. She smelled of him, the curve of her breast, the ridge of her shoulder, the base of her neck, the stubborn line of her chin all stamped with his scent. All his.

Mike cradled her limp thighs and flipped them over so she straddled his pelvis. She snuggled into him, and he gathered her close, savoring the postcoital tranquilizing ecstasy. A wayward curl feathered his chin. He wrapped the silky lock around a finger and curled an arm around her waist.

When her breathing evened out, he eased back on the pillow, and his peripheral vision caught the slight fluttering of a fringe of inky lashes. Mike stifled a chuckle. She’d fallen asleep. He stayed inside her hot sheath for as long as possible, relishing every little twitch of her vaginal muscles, and sighed when his prick finally went flaccid.

He dozed on and off, waking up once to trace the shape of one ear, again a second time to sniff her forehead, and the third time when she snored—no, it was more of a snortle, a chortle-snore, the most adorable sound he’d ever heard.

Around midnight she grew restless, rubbing her cheek on his chest. He stroked her spine, trying to soothe her back to sleep. But then a loud rumble vibrated from her stomach to his belly, and she lifted her head. He had excellent night vision, and the shadows didn’t prevent him from seeing her reactions. Those lush lashes fluttered like crazy, she shot sidelong glances to either side of the bed, and then, to his utter delight, she drew a finger over his left nipple.

“This is the realest fantasy,” she muttered, gave a little head shake, frowned, and then when their gazes met, her eyes went wide and her brows jerked high.

No way would he let her go all stiff and frigid on him. “I wondered when you’d wake. Your stomach’s been growling for at least five minutes.”

Her mouth fell open.

Mike grinned, chucked her chin, and rose on his forearms. Kissed the tip of her nose, and when her eyes crossed trying to keep him in focus, he laughed aloud. A blast of happiness detonated through him. He sat up, bussed her on the lips, swung off the bed hugging her tight, and spun them around the cabin.

Her bare feet caught a vase, and the empty ceramic vessel sailed into the stone mantel.

The crack of the impact was followed by a hammered, deep thunder boom.

He halted in midspin.

His hackles went berserk.

Danger.

He froze.

Every muscle tensed. He listened, sniffed, and peered through the far window, but detected nothing. No sound, save the storm crashing into dominance. No scent, save her flowery aroma and his wolf clinging to her skin. No movement, save branches swooping and bending under the force of the breezes charging through the line of trees on the far side of the property.

Melanie touched his jaw.

The tips of her fingers singed his skin, and he glanced down to see that she felt it too. Her dark eyes glistened and held a sadness that seared him to the core. She shook her head, and her gaze went distant, as if some unknown vision had her hypnotized.

“What? What is it, Melanie?”

“Hold me.” Two fat tears streaking across one cheek punctuated her ragged plea.

The storm broke. Rain pounded the tin roof. Wind gusts battered the cabin, and a loose gutter clanged a disharmonious melody.

Melanie had gone slack in his arms. He studied the twitching of her lowered eyelids, listened to the irregular rhythm of her breathing, and his worry climbed exponentially. He gave her a little shake. She didn’t respond, not a muscle moved; she just remained limp and crumpled.

Mike reached over, snatched the comforter from the bed, sank onto the mattress, and wrapped the cotton-covered down around them. She curled into a fetal position on his lap, forehead on her knees, arms hugging shins, eyes closed, locked into some other place.

“Melanie,” he whispered and ran a finger over her nape, but she didn’t react. He checked her pulse, erratic and accelerated. Every time he made contact with her, she pulled tighter into herself and became more and more unresponsive, so he held her loosely and kept his movements to a minimum.

The tempest raged around them, lightning following thunder without more than a seven-second interruption.

She moaned and curled into a tighter ball with each roar and crack. He stroked her clammy skin, enfolded her small body, but nothing seemed to help. Sporadically she shuddered and made a strangled noise, a half-sobbed whimper.

Whatever was happening went back to her white wolf heritage, every instinct told him so. Frustration had his thoughts scattered, and he battled for focus, fought to logically analyze what had happened.

The danger had hit both of them at the same time. The first image he had fixed on was the mother and cub he’d found in the vicinity a mere two days ago. Did Melanie have some sort of foresight? Many Native Americans claimed to have the ability to predict the future. Was her retreat into unconsciousness connected to the bears? How?

Mike kept petting her spine, shoulders, and nuzzling her nape as he hunted for the reason for her semicomatose state. He had to gain her trust. They had to have the truth between them, no matter what. He couldn’t protect her otherwise. Means to an end. Fuck fair play, fuck holding back and going slow, fuck not forcing the mate issue.

Sometime after one, she fell asleep or passed out, snuggled into his chest, and tucked her head beneath his chin. She no longer jerked or twitched in his embrace, and her breasts rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. Moments later the squall abated, the rain petered to a soft tinkling, and the pounding winds ceased buffeting the cabin.

Any slight relief he felt was tempered by a gnawing premonition of the calm before the storm. He had no doubt that another killing had occurred and, somehow, Melanie had sensed it.

His cell phone on the kitchen table glowed. A message. Could be someone from the West Coast, but Mike knew better. Either Doc G. or Drake. With slow, gentle movements, he shifted Melanie under the sheets and tucked the covers over her shoulders.

After he eased out of the bed, two lengthy strides took him to the table. He grabbed the phone and listened to the voice message from Drake.

Balden Sr. dead. Call.

Fuck.

Loath to either leave her alone or disturb her sleep, Mike opted for exiting the cabin and wedging the door open with a jagged rock. The temperature had nose-dived, but the icy air proved a welcome respite to his overheated body. He inhaled and closed his eyes. Mother Nature’s soothing embrace helped sharpen his concentration.

He walked to the far end of the porch, stood in front of a window that gave an unobstructed view of the bed, and hit Drake’s preprogrammed number.

“Talk to me.”

“It’s the motherfucker of a story. I’m not sure I have all the facts lined up, but this is it so far. Doc G. got a call from Old Man Balden—”

“Not Doc G. Old Man Balden called Melanie, he hung up on her, and she called Doc G. We were having dinner at the Caboose. She said he said Whisper was missing.” Melanie hadn’t stirred, but his impatience to get back to her had him edgy.

“Well, when Doc G. got to Ranch B, Old Man Balden was missing,
not
Whisper. Everyone was there: Jim, the staff. The place was lit up like an amusement park, and a massive search was underway. Apparently Old Man Balden had wandered off, and no one had noticed until dinner. Doc G. got there when the search was in full swing. He checked on Whisper and then joined in the search.”