I tensed and set my jaw. “Yes,” I whispered. “But not like before.”
He pushed his fingers along my hands. Pain tore through my fingertips as
my claws extended once again. I winced and stifled a cry as I pushed my
body against his.
Slowly, over and over, he slid my claws in and out, in and out, until the
sensation was familiar, until I was drunk on his touch.
Jaxson’s scent was all around me. Mossy earth and fresh forest, and the
taste of melting snow. I could barely stand it with my improved senses. My
legs quaked, but not from the ache in my hands.
“Now you try. Pull back your own claws, little wolf,” he whispered into
my hair in a voice that wasn’t quite his. Something feral.
An hour ago, I would have stabbed him for calling me that. But now, I
was intoxicated with his scent and his power. Something about the way his
breath formed the words next to my ear made the heat rise between my
thighs, and I wanted only to please him.
“How?” I asked, my question drifting out in a dreamlike state.
“Like before. Look down at your hands. Now they have claws. Think of
how they look when you draw, when you paint. Focus your mind on your
human form.”
I did as I was told, bringing the image of my hands sketching into my
mind. Nothing happened, and my body began to shake from frustration and
the strain. I gritted my teeth and took a deep breath. How was I supposed to
concentrate with his arms around me? With his powerful scent so close? I
could feel every curve and dip of his muscled form pressed to my back,
patiently waiting.
The idea of focus was preposterous.
But I didn’t push him away. Instead, I gave up trying and savored his
scent. I should have hated him. But in that moment, I was content to let my
thoughts drift away, to imagine how it might feel to trace my own fingers
across the contours of his chest.