The Wolf Gift (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 1)

And what did she see? Did she see his eyes gazing at her with the same curiosity, the same fascination?

Deep in the pit of his loins the desire rose, surprising him in its intensity. He was growing hard for her. Did she see that? Could she see it? That he was naked, unable to conceal his desire, excited him further, strengthened him, emboldened him.

He,d never felt desire precisely like this desire.

He started up the steps, soon towering over her as she stepped backwards on the porch. But she hadn,t stepped back in fear. No, it seemed she was welcoming him.

What was this remarkable fearlessness, what was this seeming serenity as she looked up into his eyes? She was thirty perhaps, perhaps a little younger, small boned, with a thick well-shaped sensuous mouth and strong though small shoulders.

He reached out tentatively, allowing her plenty of time if she meant to run away. He took the lantern from her in both his paws, oblivious to the obvious heat of the thing, and set it down on a wooden bench near the wall. A door stood partially open. Beyond he caught a bit of very pale light.

He wanted her, wanted to rip the white flannel nightgown off of her.

Very cautiously he reached out for her, and took her in his arms. His heart was pounding. The desire for her was as strange and undeniable as the desire to kill, or the desire to feast. Beasts are creatures of imperatives.

Her flesh was white in the light of the lantern, sweet, tender - and her lips opened and she gave a little gasp. Carefully, ever so carefully, he touched her lips with the edge of his paw.

He picked her up, easily lifting her legs over his left arm. She weighed nothing, absolutely nothing. She put her arms around his neck, letting her fingers slide into the thick hair.

And with these simple gestures, she drove him right over the edge. A low secretive growl came out of him.

He had to have her if she would allow it. And she was surely allowing it.

He carried her towards the door, and gently pushing it back, carried her into the warmer, sweeter air of the house.

All the domestic scents swirled around him - of polished wood, scented soap, candles, a touch of incense, the smell of a fire. And her perfume, her lovely natural perfume and a tasty citrus essence she,d added to it. Oh, flesh, oh blessed flesh. There came that low caressing growl from him again. Is that how it seemed to her? Caressing?

There were embers in the small black stove. A digital clock gave its numbers with a tiny bit of light.

A small bedroom materialized around him. He made out an antique bed against the wall, with a high back of golden oak, and white covers that looked as soft as foam.

She was clinging to him. She reached up and touched his face. He could barely feel her touch through the hair, but then it began to zing right to the roots. She touched his mouth, the thin ribbon of black flesh that he knew was there. She touched his teeth and his fangs. Did she realize he was smiling down at her? She closed the thick hair of his mane in her hand tightly.

He kissed the top of her head, and he kissed her forehead, hmmmmm, satin, kissed her upturned eyes and made them close.

The flesh of her eyelids was like silk. A silk and satin little being, hairless, fragrant, petal soft.

How naked and vulnerable she seemed; it maddened him. Oh, please, my dear, do not change your mind!

They sank down together on the bed, though he did not put his full weight on her. He would have hurt her if he had done that, but he nestled close to her, cradling her with his arms, stroking her hair back from her forehead. Blond and gray, with lots and lots of softer gray.

He bent to kiss her lips and her lips opened. He breathed into her mouth.

"Gently," she whispered, her fingers pushing the hair back from his eyes, smoothing it back.

"Oh, beautiful, beautiful," he said. "I won,t hurt you. I would rather die than hurt you. Tender stem. Little stem. I give you my word."

Chapter Twelve

THE LITTLE CLOCK on her bedside table said 4:00 a.m. in bright digital numerals. Just this clock gave the room all the light his eyes needed.

He lay beside her, staring at the dark beaded wood paneling of the ceiling covered in a thick and lustrous varnish.

This had been a porch once, this bedroom, and it ran along the entire back of her house. Above the surrounding wainscoting were small-paned windows on three sides. And he could well imagine how lovely this would be when the sun came, and the dark forest which he could see would close in visibly for human eyes with its reddish trunks and feathery green leaves.

He could smell the woods here, smell it as deeply as he had when he was out in it. This was a little house of the woods made by someone who had loved the woods and wanted to be in it without disturbing it.

She lay against him, sleeping.

A woman of thirty, yes, and her hair was an ashen blond, but mostly grayish white now, and long and loose and natural. He,d ripped open her nightgown all right, destroyed it, freeing her from it bit by bit, with her irresistible compliance, and the remnants of it lay beneath her like feathers in a nest.

It had taken all his control not to batter her in the lovemaking, man and beast had worked together, gloried in it together, and her heated desire had been like melting wax. With complete abandon, she,d received him, moaning as spontaneously as he had moaned, thrusting against him hard, and then stiffening in ecstasy beneath him.

There was something about her fearlessness that was beyond trusting.

She,d slept beside him in childlike comfort.

But he hadn,t dared to sleep. He,d lain there thinking, reflecting, calling man and beast to account, and yet feeling a kind of muted bliss, bliss in her arms as the beast that she,d welcomed.

If he hadn,t feared to wake her, he would have gotten up and looked around - maybe sat in the large wooden rocking chair she had, maybe looked more closely at the framed photographs on her bedside table. From where he lay he could see a picture of her in hiking gear, with a backpack and a staff, smiling for the camera. There was another picture of her with two small blond-haired boys.

How different she looked in that picture - with coiffed hair and pearls around her neck.

There were books on the table, old and new, all having to do with the forest, the wildlife, or the plants native to Muir Woods and to the mountain.

Not surprising.

Who else would live in such an unguarded place except a woman for whom the forest was the world, he figured. And what a gentle child of that world she seemed. But oh so foolishly trusting. Way too trusting.

He felt powerfully drawn to her, bound to her by the secret of this, that she,d welcomed him into her bed as he was. And then there was the heat of it. He looked down at her, wondering who or what she was, what she was dreaming.