Werewolf in the North Woods (Wild About You #2)(16)
Author: Vicki Lewis Thompson

Decently attired in a black T-shirt and gray sweats, Roarke approached the camp stove. “Need any help?”

She glanced at him and revised her opinion of decently attired. He was clothed, but the T-shirt was a little snug and the soft material of the sweats emphasized the generosity of his endowments. “Thanks, but everything’s under control.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Count on it.” She handed him a tin bowl full of hot stew and a spoon. No randy werewolf was going to screw up her life. “I would offer you a glass of the house red to go with this, but the wine cellar seems to be empty.”

“Damn shame.” He raised the bowl and took an appreciative sniff. “A good red would be the finishing touch.”

A good red would finish her off, that was for sure. She didn’t believe his story concerning werewolf safe sex, but she wanted to. The more he moved gracefully around the cave, the more she fantasized about what sex would be like with a man so powerfully athletic.

Picking up her own bowl, she lowered herself into a cross-legged position on the stone floor of the cave. The cool surface helped soothe the heat building inside her, despite her vow to remain celibate from this moment on.

Roarke sat across from her in one fluid movement that made her mouth go dry. Why did he have to be so damned sexy? Why did he have to sit cross-legged like that, which caused the fleece of his sweats to outline the very part of him she was trying to ignore?

He took a spoonful of his stew and closed his eyes. “Mmm.”

She had to look away. His open appreciation of the food reminded her of the way he’d openly appreciated her response when he’d stroked her to a shattering cli**x. Twice. Now he’d come up with a story about sperm that knew when to swim upstream and when to stay in the tank.

He rested his spoon against the side of the bowl. “Ever read Margaret Mead’s studies of the Trobriand Islanders?”

She glanced at him. “Can’t say that I have.”

“Turns out those people have something in common with werewolves.” He took another mouthful of stew.

“Is that so?” She started eating her stew and fought against the potent combination of virility and intelligence that was Roarke Wallace. If he couldn’t seduce her with the first quality, he wasn’t shy about employing the second.

“The society doesn’t curtail sexual behavior among young people, but they don’t use any physical method of birth control. From the time they hit puberty, they’re allowed as much sexual exploration as they want.”

She put down her spoon. “Let me guess. Nobody gets pregnant.”

“That’s exactly right.” He pointed his spoon at her. “Can you guess why?”

“They’re all werewolves?”

“Not to my knowledge, but I should probably check into that to be sure. According to Margaret Mead, the girls don’t get pregnant because it would be socially unacceptable to do that until they’re married. They can control conception mentally.”

Abby laughed. “Your justification gets stranger every minute. Now you’re telling me that you have some kind of mind control over your sperm?”

“Yes.”

“How does that work, exactly? Do you call a meeting prior to a sexual event and remind them to hold tight?”

“Abby, it’s far more sophisticated than—”

“And I suppose you must have to hold another meeting when you want to turn those little suckers loose. Shoot off a starting gun, maybe, so they’ll know the race to the egg is officially on.”

“Go ahead and make fun of it, but no werewolf in history has ever dealt with a paternity issue.”

She almost choked on her stew. “Now there’s a statement that I can fact-check. The minute I get in range, I’m going to fire up my BlackBerry and Google werewolf paternity cases. I’m going to take a wild guess that I won’t find any, which, amazingly, happens to support your case.”

“What reason would I have to lie about this?”

She scooped up the last of her stew and paused before putting the spoon in her mouth. “Oh, gee, let me think. Because you neglected to bring condoms on this trip and you belatedly realized you’d like to get in my pants?”

“Okay, don’t believe me.” He shrugged. “You’re probably right that we shouldn’t have sex.”

“I am right.”

“Besides, it could turn out to be bad sex, and how awkward would that be? We’d still have to finish this Sasquatch project and hang out with each other while knowing we’d had bad sex. Better to have no sex than bad sex, don’t you think?”

She should know better than to debate anything with a man who obviously had an IQ that was off the charts. “I’ll make this one comment, and then I’ll suggest a new topic of conversation.”

“Okay.” He gazed at her with obvious amusement.

“Damn it, we wouldn’t have bad sex, Roarke, and you know it. You’re just trying to get a rise out of me and make me want to prove that sex between us would be exceptional. Which it would be.”

His green eyes gleamed with triumph. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Yet you’re willing to give it up because you doubt what I’ve told you. You once admitted that you know nothing about werewolves and want to learn, but now when I tell you something significant, you refuse to believe it’s true.”

Electricity hummed through her body and she had the urge to lean toward him. She imagined that if she did, she’d hear the buzzing sound of connections made and the snap of sparks generated. He was part magician, and she was in danger of falling under his spell.

“As promised, I’m introducing a new topic,” she said. “How was your run through the woods?”

“You really don’t want to talk about sex anymore?”

“No.”

He gazed into her eyes. “Abby, you’re right. You and I couldn’t have bad sex. It would be very, very good. Let’s try it.”

“No!” She put her hands over her ears. “Women are ruined every day by sweet-talking men. You may be a werewolf some of the time, but mostly you’re a guy blessed with the kind of body that makes women weep with longing. And I’m not going to fall victim to—”

“Weep with longing? Really?” He looked quite pleased about that comment. “Do you?”

“Not so you’d notice. I have my pride.”

“But if we were Trobriand Islanders . . .”

“All right, Roarke. If we were Trobriand Islanders, you could screw my brains out. Happy, now?”

“No, because we’re in a cave outside of Portland, which leaves me with nothing to do.”

“Not quite.” She grinned at him. “We could play Hangman.”

After five games, Roarke was down three-two and had a growing respect for Abby’s word skills. His only excuse for losing involved his preoccupation with Abby’s br**sts. And her mouth, and the nape of her neck, and her cute butt. And always, always, her special scent.

At times he’d catch her looking at him with undisguised lust in her eyes, and he’d imagine that he was wearing her down. She might deny that she wanted him, but the aroma of arousal swirled in the air, giving her away.

Then, just as he’d begin to think he had a chance, her jaw would firm and her eyes would flash, and he’d despair that she’d never get nak*d with him again. Sadly, she had nothing to fear, but he hadn’t told her that in the beginning, and now she thought he was playing her for a fool.

He wouldn’t ever do that. And he wanted her so desperately that he could taste it, and he could certainly smell it. Finally he decided to play dirty and make her think about sex whether she cared to or not. She wouldn’t want to guess the word orgasm, but unless she did, she’d lose the next game.

When she guessed the a, he had a feeling she knew what he’d chosen. The o pretty much clinched it.

She sent him a reproachful glance. “No fair.”

“All’s fair in sex and war.”

“You’re misquoting. It’s ‘All’s fair in love and war.’ ”

“Yeah, I know. I was trying to be cute.”

She faced him, her blue eyes accusing. “That’s the thing about you, Roarke. You twist things around to suit you, and then you expect me to trust what you tell me just because you say so.”

So much for being cute. He had an uphill battle and he wasn’t doing himself any favors, apparently. He decided on a more direct approach.

“Abby, if I made you pregnant, our baby might inherit my ability to shift. Because of that possibility, not to mention my duties as the father of our child, we’d be tied together for years even though we’d made no commitment to each other. Pregnancy without commitment violates Were law and it’s the very reason casual sex with a Were can’t result in pregnancy. It’s a survival mechanism.”

She took a deep breath. “Let’s finish this round.” She proceeded to guess the other letters and won the round. The word chalked on the wall in front of them blazed with unrealized potential.

Roarke took a chance and ran a finger lightly up and down her arm. It was the first time he’d touched her since coming back into the cave after his run. “I’m telling you the truth, Abby.”

She continued to face the wall where they’d been creating their Hangman games, but a slight tremble revealed that his touch had affected her. “You’re a complicated man, Roarke. Or I should say, a complicated being.” She turned to him. “You’re not exactly a man, are you?”

“I am at this moment. I’m a man who desperately wants to make love with you.”

Heat flashed in her blue eyes. “I’m not exactly immune to you, either, as you well know. But you came into town prepared to destroy my grandfather’s confidence in his sighting, even though you knew it was legitimate. You cherry-pick the information you give me about werewolves. The fact is, you don’t completely trust me, so why should I trust you?”

He sighed. “That’s a fair question.” He continued softly stroking her arm, unwilling to break that fragile connection. “Werewolves don’t trust easily. We’re taught to be suspicious of humans, and loyalty to the pack supersedes every consideration. Because we rise and fall together, that applies to any pack.”

“Including the Gentrys.” She said the name with distaste.

“Yes. The Dooleys’ presence has threatened the Gentrys with discovery from day one. There’s the overlook that provides an excellent view of their property, and then there’s been the preoccupation with Bigfoot. Earl’s sighting had the potential to destroy all hope of privacy for the Gentry pack and put them in grave danger of being exposed as werewolves.”

“I have a hard time working up any sympathy for them. They have money. They could move.”

“True, but once a werewolf family settles on a property, they truly take possession of it in the deepest sense. Uprooting a pack causes great distress. That’s why they’ve put their efforts into obtaining Dooley land.”

“By making Grandpa Earl out to be a doddering old fool.”

Roarke cleared his throat. “Sorry, but yes. And although I may disagree with their methods, I’m pledged to help as best I can. If the Gentrys are exposed, there will be a domino effect throughout the packs in North America, and eventually throughout the world.”

“So my grandfather, who’s never in his life intended to harm anyone or anything, unknowingly put every werewolf at risk?”

Roarke brushed her cheek with his thumb. “That pretty much sums it up.”

“Let me ask you again: Is he in any danger?”

“And let me say it again. He’s not in danger because he has no idea werewolves exist. In this case, there’s safety in ignorance.”

“But I know they exist.”

He held her gaze. “As I’ve mentioned before, I will protect you with my life.”

“And as I’ve said before, that’s impossible.”

He smiled and dared to cup her face in both hands. “You really don’t believe a thing I say, do you?”

Her voice softened. “I want to, Roarke.”

Hope stirred within him. “You do?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Believing you would mean I could feel safe.”

“That’s all you want? A feeling of safety?”

“Well, not all.”

Excitement thrummed in his veins. She was yielding. “Then believe me, Abby. Believe in me. Know that I would never cause you harm.”

She smiled, and her eyes spoke of surrender. “You’re a very persuasive guy, Professor Wallace.”

Slowly he drew nearer until his lips were almost touching hers. “Welcome to the Trobriand Islands,” he murmured. Then he kissed her.

She caught fire instantly, grasping his head in both hands and deepening the kiss. He wound both arms around her and hauled her into his lap. Wasting no time, she positioned her knees on either side of his h*ps and neatly aligned all her significant parts with his.

He groaned as she wiggled closer and rubbed against his cock. In response, it strained to be released from bondage. No doubt they could both come without removing a stitch of clothing. Rocking against each other would do the trick. But he wasn’t about to settle for that, especially when so little material separated them.

Foreplay had its place, but this wasn’t it. She welcomed the thrust of his tongue with a whimper that told him exactly what she wanted from him. And he was only too happy to comply.

When he began peeling down her stretchy Lycra pants and her underwear, she stretched out her leg and helped him with the process. After he’d worked one leg free, he didn’t worry about the rest of the undressing routine. He had what he needed—direct access.