Page 40 of Hungry Like the Wolf

“Yeah,” he said, standing and turning around, no doubt to adjust himself in his tight jeans. Godsdamnit, Robbie. He was, quite literally, going to be the death of her.

“I think I’m going to get some sleep,” she said, sliding down under the covers and pulling them to her nose, closing her eyes to block out the sight of him.

“Sure,” he said, turning off the light. “You sure you’re okay, Doc?”

“Yep! Feeling much better actually,” she lied, wincing at the obviously forced pep.

“If you insist.”

“G’night, Robbie,” she said.

He began closing the door but stopped halfway. “I’ll be just out there if you need anything.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, fully in agony over how good he looked and sounded. What was worse, she’d never felt like this before in her life. It was new and alarming and overwhelming all at once. But that was her problem, not his.

“Thanks, Robbie. Sleep well.”

“Sweet dreams, sweeth?—”

Without finishing that word that just might have been her demise, he shut the door, blanketing her in near total darkness and leaving her with the panicked realization that she was far more fucked than she’d ever been before.

CHAPTER 18

Rafe MacCrae was a wall of muscle that would not budge. Though, if Briar was truly honest with herself, she wasn’t quite sure she wanted him to.

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply and she felt her knees go weak.

“I’ve waited for this for eight long years, Briar, mo cridhe. Eight years of bleeding and fighting and marching and freezing my bollocks off to be worthy of taking ye. Eight years of remembering ye and yer sweet kisses in that hayloft.”

She remembered the hayloft. His body was different then. He’d been too tall for his muscles to have caught up yet, as if he’d been put on a rack and stretched. Gangly and awkward, with big hands and feet and mischief in his eyes.

Then again, she supposed she’d been different, too. Shy, naive, optimistic about a future that lay ahead of her, unaware that her uncle would sell her to the highest—or lowest—bidder to save his own skin.

He hitched her up higher, her core rubbing against the iron planes of his abdomen through the fabric of her skirts. Briar couldn’t help the gasp that flew from her mouth.

“There ye are. I’ll remind ye one kiss at a time of the promise I made to ye.”

Oh, Jesu above. Saints be blessed, she was in trouble. Because when his mouth crashed against hers once more, instead of pushing him away, she found herself threading her fingers through his long hair, holding his head closer lest he dare back away, moaning like a wanton when his tongue found entrance into her mouth to dance with hers.

This was going to kill her. Not the hunger. Not the gnawing starvation of her own ethics. No. She was going to die from the stress of Robbie reading this godsdamned book to her, of having to hold her breath so as not to inhale the faint scent of his arousal, sweet like the smell of carnival funnel cake in the air.

Robbie was wearing a ribbed tank top with a pair of soccer shorts that had been in the trash bag of clothes they’d discovered on the porch the night of their arrival. Those shorts had ridden up as he sat at the foot of the bed, revealing thighs that were not so much paler than the rest of his legs, proof he didn’t wear shorts all that often.

But as his change approached, his body temperature had been rising. Meanwhile, the only time of day she felt truly warm was when he came to bed, when he sidled up to her, back to back, lying still. And if she pretended to roll over and snuggle into him in her sleep, if he rolled over to face her and wrapped his arms around her and held her close, her head burrowed against the warmth of his chest, where she could hear—no, feel—his heart pounding beneath his ribs, well, that was something she’d grapple with later.

She could see the misting of sweat against his brow now as he read. That funnel cake smell was growing stronger in the air. She hadn’t had much experience with it, but Halphas had told her that every human’s pheromones smelled different, that the true smell could only be detected by two creatures—succubi and werewolves—an irony not lost on her.

The air around JJ had smelled like strong, black coffee when he’d been interested in sex. It fit him. As did the fact that Robbie smelled like he’d been rolled in powdered sugar. She could lick the smell of him off her fingers, one sweet digit at a time.

Briar found herself writhing in his arms, an embarrassing wetness gathering between her thighs. She didn’t know what was happening.

“Rafe,” she began to say, but he cut her off with his lips against hers.

“Hush, sweeting,” he said, stepping away from the door and toward the enormous bed that spanned the far wall.

“What’s happening to me?” She panted as he laid her down gently on the mattress. He held her ankles in his hands and slid his palms up her calves, over her knees, up her thighs, the heavy wool of her gown parting ahead of his touch like the gunnel of a ship.

“What do ye mean, mo cridhe?”