Page 19 of Fat Enemy Mate

My wolf howls, enjoying the contact far too much, and I shut my eyes, trying to get a grip so I don’t make this worse. I can’t ignore how good she feels pressed against me, though. I notice her shift slightly and open my eyes to find her looking up at me. We’re close, very close. Her blue eyes look crystal clear, and she’s still gripping my shirt; the look on her face has shifted from fear to something else entirely.

I should step back, but I don’t.

“Wilf,” she whispers. It’s the first time she’s actually used my name.

The way she says my name causes a slight pressure, the way this strange power of hers does, but it’s softer, and my wolf responds by pushing closer rather than retreating. I hesitate for the briefest of moments, torn between backing off and doing what my wolf is now demanding.

I kiss her.

I lean in the last inch, and my mouth finds hers. She makes a small sound against my lips, startled perhaps. I brace myself for rejection, but her hand in my shirt only tightens, and she leans closer, kissing me back.

I should be gentle, but there’s nothing gentle about this. Her mouth is hot, and her lips are soft, and the way her hand grips my shirt only drives me on. I have one hand at the back of her head, and my other hand settles on her tiny waist as I push her back against the wall. She makes a small, surprised sound, and I smile against her mouth. Already rock hard, I test a roll of my hips against her body, desperate for some friction. She tenses again, but doesn’t push me away; if anything, I feel her slim fingers tighten on my shirt as her lips part slightly in surprise.

I dip my head to her neck, and she moans as her pulse races beneath her skin. Somehow her hand has worked its way under my shirt, and as he nails rake against my skin, I hiss with pleasure; I almost hope she doesn’t look up right now because I know my wolf will be in my eyes. I’m not sure she’s ready for that.

She doesn’t pull away, even as my grip tightens and my hand finds her soft skin under the t-shirt she’s wearing. She pulls me closer. I lift her, my hands on her waist. I lift her off the floor as if she weighs nothing and brace her against the wall, angled perfectly so that my cock finds the seam between her thighs. I groan at the first contact, steadying myself so I don’t blow. She feels so damn good in my arms. She gasps into my mouth as he legs wrap around my waist.

I should stop. The voice is so distant in my head, but it’s there. She’s scared, and I should stop. But she’s urging me on with her tongue and rolling her hips, and stopping feels like the least plausible decision.

My thumb finds the dip of her hips before reaching around to cup her ass, and her breath hitches. I kiss her throat again, and she arches into it almost instinctively; she feels so pliable in my arms, and my other hand drifts higher toward her breasts, searching for the softest skin. She’s wearing a bra, but it’s so flimsy I brush the cup aside easily and groan as her hard nipple grazes my palm, and I squeeze the soft swell. She rolls her hips, brushing my achingly hard cock again, and I choke out a groan that borders on painful.

She stills, and I’m not sure if she’s registering for the first time just how hard I am. I lift my mouth from her throat and notice just how still she is; her hand is no longer on my skin, it’s flat to my chest. I wait a moment before looking down at her,and when I do, her eyes don’t look frightened, but they do look unsure.

Of me, or maybe herself. Her lips are parted, pink and swollen, and her neck is exposed and red from my stubble. She looks stunning, but also young, human, and unsure.

“Lara,” I say, low and slowly.

“P-put me down,” she stammers, “p-please.

I lower her very slowly until her feet are on the floor and take the smallest step back. I should probably move further back, but I’m aware of how indecent my cock will look through these sweatpants, and I’m not sure that’s the vision she needs right now. She side-steps me, picking up the knife with a hand that unmistakably shakes. When she looks up at me, I see the color in her cheeks, her disheveled hair, and pouty lips, and it’s all I can do not to reach for her and finish what we started.

But I don’t. I just watch her step around me and rush out of the room. I hear her bedroom door close, and the flimsy lock click into place. I don’t move for a moment. I just stand there trying to get a grip on myself. Sure, I love fucking women, and there’s enough willing shifters at the border bars where different packs meet—usually causing more trouble than having fun, but it’s also a good place to scratch an itch. But this was different. This didn’t feel like just scratching an itch. This felt explosive, clearly too much for a human.

I don’t follow her; instead, I pass her door and leave her to work out how she can hate shifters so much and yet respond like that. She has so much fire I feel like I’ve been burned, and yet, I still want more. I take my seat by the fire again and note that the snow is coming down again. I’ll have to go finish what I started this morning, or the store roof could cave in under the weight of fresh snow. Suddenly, the thought of doing some hardwork out in the cold doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all, anything to work off some of this frustration.

The most pressing of all is that I find I don’t want her to be afraid of me. I want her to want me the way she did in that back bedroom. And that feels strangely dangerous.

Chapter 10 - Lara

I sit on the edge of the bed with my hands on my knees and my back against the headboard for so long that I lose all track of time.

I locked the bedroom door, but I know it would never hold against a shifter who really wanted to open it, but I also don’t think that Wilf would do that. The knowledge that I don’t think he’s a danger to me, and yet I feel in danger, sits uncomfortably. I can still feel his mouth on mine. My neck still tingles from his stubble, and every inch of skin where his hands wandered feels branded in a way I can’t explain because no one has ever touched me like that before.

And the first time I do let a man touch me. It’s a shifter.

I press my palms against my eyes as I run through the long list of things I shouldn’t have let him do or touch.

The list of things Ishouldn’thave done grows longer the more I think about it. He’s a shifter. He’s everything my father taught me to avoid and how to survive. I barely recognize the woman who let him kiss her, lift her into his arms, and roll her hips against his hardness. I didn’t even realize I was doing it, and I don’t think my body has ever done anything without my permission.

Except use my voice to somehow stop those rogue shifters, and now this.

I take my hands away from my eyes and try to focus on something else. The snow is falling again outside, and I can hear the wind picking up at the eaves. Somewhere in the cabin, a tap is running, and I can hear the sound of Wilf moving around; he always seems to find something to do, like he can’t bear to stand still.

I should hate him, but I don’t, and the weight of that is wearing me down. Shifters killed my father. Wilf can try to convince me it was rogues, but he doesn’t know that, not really. It was more shifters who ran me off the road and would have attacked and probably killed me. Again, he says they’re rogues, but really, what is the difference? They’re still shifters.

But the only thing he has done to me is take care of my injuries, feed me, not let me run off into a snowstorm, and then light up my body in ways I didn’t even know it could light up.

I want to be furious with him for it, but I simply can’t muster any anger. Not for him anyway.