Wolf Pack Page 4

  She sighs, and then she whispers, “But you must let me go. You are not safe here.”

  And then she squeezes me gently one last time and takes a step back from me.

  And I'm so surprised by the fact that she kissed me that I just stand there, my arms loose, in shock...and I let her go.

  The woman glances around the bathroom now, her golden eyes shrewd, calculating, as she takes in everything, as she reaches up, pressing her hand against her wounded shoulder again, almost absentmindedly. My robe was bright white, but now the shoulder and the right arm are completely saturated with blood, leaking through the fabric in a bright red color that stands out starkly against the drab gray of the concrete floors and badly-painted mauve of the bathroom walls. She's staring at the wall closest to us now, and her head is tilting softly to the side, her eyes narrowing, her wet mouth parted...

  It's almost as if she's...listening for something.

  I realize that I'm reaching up to place my hand over my heart as she turns to me then, her eyes still narrowed, still calculating.

  “You're alone in here, yes?” she asks me, her voice low, soft, and again, I shiver because I have no idea what this poor woman has been through. I nod, though.

  “Yes. I'm alone,” I tell her, wrapping my arms around myself. “Just...please...” I begin, because something deep inside of me is aching. She looks so hurt, so vulnerable, and like she's not used to being either one of those things. “Please let me help you?” I ask her, my voice soft, too.

  She glances back at me as she grips her shoulder, as she takes a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. Her eyes are softer when they gaze at me, but the fire that seems to burn, never-ending, deep inside of her flares a little as she looks me up and down now. Her gaze is lingering as it travels the full length of my body.

  “I'm glad it was you,” she finally says, her eyes landing back on my own, her mouth curling up at the corners, just a little. “That you were here,” she says, gesturing around us, at the bathroom that she now finds herself in. “That you were kind,” she whispers.

  And then she takes two very sure steps forward. These steps are enough to bring her right back to me, her breasts pressing against me just like they had a few moments ago when I was holding her up. But I'm not holding her up anymore. I stare at her in shock as she wraps her free hand, the hand not gripping her wound, around my middle, drawing me to her.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs again, searching my eyes. “Do you mind?” she asks me then, and though her face is still pained, one brow raises, and she gazes down at my lips with a small smirk.

  I have no idea what she's even talking about, but I shake my head—no, I don't mind—not realizing what I'm agreeing to.

  But then I realize what she was asking. Because the woman leans forward, and she does not lean down to brush her lips against my cheek. No: instead, she captures my mouth with her own.

  She's bleeding. I can feel the wetness of her shoulder pressing against mine as she leans down, but everything else, including the fact that she's terribly wounded, seems to disappear as she holds me tightly to her and kisses me with an intensity and fierceness that undoes me.

  Her mouth is so hot, just like her skin, hot to the touch but not unpleasantly so, as I tilt my face up and I realize in that surprising moment that I am kissing her back. I'm made breathless by the intoxicating quality of her kiss, of her skin against mine, of her body against mine, every curve of hers fitting against mine seamlessly. She tastes like she smells, of the crisp, cold outdoors, of a sweet pine, of a cold, bright mint that reminds me of winter nights under countless stars. The coolness of the mint and the heat of her mouth combine in this bewitching play of cold and hot that feels utterly delicious against my mouth. She is such a good kisser, I think, as she sucks my lower lip, as she darts her tongue into my mouth expertly. I haven't been kissed like this in...well...a long time.

  And I don't want it to end.

  But, just as quickly, she's stepping back, that small smile growing a little more as she shakes her head, her face rueful.

  “I apologize,” she tells me in that low growl, though her sideways smile is telling me she's not sorry in the slightest. “I saw you looking at me, and I made an assumption. I hope... I hope I have not offended you.” And she looks sincere when she says this, her brow furrowed, her smile fading.

  “Um,” I tell her, still speechless, but trying very, very hard to activate the putting-sentences-together part of my brain again. “No, no, you didn't offend me,” I tell her quickly, stammering. “I...I liked that.” Inwardly, I bang my head against the stupid mauve walls. That sounded like something a twelve-year-old boy would say. Great. Real smooth, Abby.

  But this stranger doesn't seem to notice my lack of suaveness. She's staring at me with her intense gaze, pinning me in place. “It's just that, tonight...” she murmurs, searching my eyes. “I could lose everything tonight. Even my life,” she says, her voice solemn and quiet as the smile fades from her face. “I needed something soft,” she whispers, her gaze trailing down to my lips with a heat that sparks desire through every vein inside of me. “Thank you for that last kindness,” she tells me softly, her eyes lingering on my mouth.

  But then she turns slowly, with purpose, and she heads toward the door, her legs stiff as she walks proudly, walking away from me.

  What?

  What the hell does she mean, that she could lose her life?

  This woman, this perfect stranger, is about to leave the building, about to slip away into that darkness. But she's hurt, and she's bleeding, and she just kissed me.

  And I don't even know her name.

  “Wait!” I call after her, breathless. Her hand is already on the door; it's cracked open, the cold night air spilling into the bathroom. But she pauses, glancing back at me, her brown hair sweeping over her shoulder as she gazes at me with her warm golden eyes. She stands there, holding that door open, and she tilts her chin up, watching me.

  I want to tell her a lot of things right now. I want to reiterate that I want to help her, that she could come to my cabin; I could drive her to the hospital, could try calling 911 again. I want to ask her if she's in trouble, if someone is after her, if there is anything I can do to help. I want to tell her that I will do anything to help her. Because, in that moment, I realize that I will.

  But I can't get any of that out, find that I can't even make a single sound come out of my mouth. It doesn't matter, because one foot is being placed in front of the other, and I'm tugged across the room toward her, like there's a bright ribbon between us, and it's pulling tighter, tightening, drawing us together.

  Every single thing about this night has been strange, from the deer bounding out in front of me (I've been coming here since childhood and have never had a run-in with a deer), to Barbara practically threatening me, to finding a wolf in the middle of the bathroom floor—but then not really. Instead, I found a naked woman. And she kissed me. A stranger kissed me, and I don't know if it's pathetic to say this, but it's been a long time since another woman I was deeply attracted to kissed me passionately, so recklessly...like she had nothing to lose.

  So even though my cheeks are probably bright red, and—more importantly—even though this perfect stranger is still bleeding through the fabric of my robe, and even though she was just about to leave...

  I find that I don't want her to.

  I cross that space between us, and I put my hands tentatively at the curves of her waist, over the robe's fabric. The woman lets the door shut behind her gently, and the cold air is cut off. She glances down at me, her head a little to the side as she watches me. And I stand up, tilting my head back, breathless.

  And I kiss her, too.

  Her mouth is smiling against me when we touch, when my mouth slowly, gently, tenuously, covers hers. My mouth opens, and the kiss is suddenly hot, hotter, as the heat from her skin and body begins to overtake how cold I am after stepping out of that shower and being naked on the concrete floor.
r />   Why isn't she cold?

  But thoughts like that, normal thoughts, thoughts that make sense, are out of place in this moment, on this very strange night. Because I need to be honest: absolutely none of this makes sense right now, and yet I'm still going with it.

  Because I want to.

  Because I need to.

  She's hot against me, her skin blazing with pure heat against mine, her mouth everything I didn't know I wanted, but wanted so much that to have it now undoes me. I need her, I realize, as I wrap an arm around her neck, as my body stretches against hers, reaching up for something so wonderful as this kiss that is happening between us. I need her.

  Wow... This escalated fast, I realize, as I press my body against hers, as I feel the curve of her breasts against me through the robe and my fleece, as I feel my own chest pressing against hers, as I wrap my fingers around her hips, pulling her to me. I wasn't expecting this tonight, but something about the fact that this is so out of the blue, so unexpected and out of the ordinary, pushes all the right buttons inside of me.

  But I back up for a moment, lean back, search her eyes, full of need but so confused...

  She's injured, and she's injured terribly.

  I know that she's kissing me back; I know that her eyes are dark with desire... But I can't possibly be doing this. She's injured.

  Still, there's that equal need in her eyes, and as I look at her kissed lips, how swollen they are from my ministrations, how flashing her eyes are with desire, darkening as they stare at me, I flick my gaze to her shoulder, just to see how it is...

  And then I freeze, staring at her shoulder.

  This...can't possibly be happening.

  My breathing starts to speed up again, my heart pounding even harder through me as I reach up, running my fingers under the lapel of the robe, pulling it aside, sliding it over her shoulder...

  Yes, my robe is saturated with blood. It's stiff, because the blood on the cloth is already drying, and her skin is slick with the stuff. But when I pull the robe aside, the cloth slides over perfect, unmarred skin.

  Where there is not a single trace of a wound.

  I glance at her then, my brow furrowed, my mouth open, my breath coming fast. “What...” I whisper, but she stays me before I can take another step, her hand at the small of my back, firm and gentle—but unyielding.

  “Don't go,” she whispers, her eyes sparking as she licks her lips, as she lets her gaze drift down my face, down my neck, further, her eyes darkening more until they are no longer golden but a rich, deep amber. Her breaths come faster, and I feel the press of her fingers at my back, pulling me closer.

  “Please,” she murmurs, her head to the side, a small smile turning her mouth up at the corners as she holds my gaze. “I...I have to be somewhere tonight,” she tells me softly, voice low, “but...I have some time right now.” She blinks slowly, cat-like, her mouth curved in a secretive smile. “If you'll have me.”

  Wait a second... Is she saying what I think she's saying?

  But I can't get over her miraculously healed shoulder.

  That just isn't possible.

  “What... What in the world...” I whisper to her, staring at her, my breath coming fast, almost panting now as I lean back in her arms, pushing away a little. “You had... I could see a bit of your bone. You had this terrible wound...”

  With one arm still around my waist, she shimmies her shoulders, and the robe slips off both of them, falling down to the tie still wrapped tightly around her waist. Her shoulders, her arms, her perfect breasts, her abdomen...it's all in front of me, all bare, all exposed, and though the curve of her right shoulder is coated with dried blood, it is very, very easy to see: there's not a bit of unevenness in her skin, not a wound, not a cut. Hell, there's not even a tiny scratch there.

  “Yes, I was hurt,” she tells me with maddening patience, “but I'm...better,” she says succinctly, her eyes sparkling as her smirk deepens. And then she doesn't say anything else. She only leans close to me and kisses me.

  Did I imagine that wolf in the middle of the room? I mean, I must have. I don't know how, but I must have, because the wolf wasn't in the room anymore when I looked again, peering out from around that shower curtain... Instead, there was this woman lying in the middle of the floor. This woman, bleeding out of a wound on her shoulder...

  A wound she no longer has.

  I'm incredibly confused, but she's standing here, flesh and blood, and she's absolutely, one hundred percent real as she kisses me as if I'm the last woman on Earth, as if we're all alone on the planet. I like how she's kissing me like there's no tomorrow, like this moment together is all we have. I'm powerfully attracted to her, and the feeling seems to be mutual.

  But...what about the blood, the wound?

  I don't know what to do. I just... I don't know what to do. But as she stands there, her warm hands at my waist, drawing me to her, her breasts pressed against the front of my jacket, the curves of her skin a feast for my senses, it is alarmingly easy for me to relax against her, relax and put my arms up and around her shoulders and kiss her back.

  I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm dismayed at how strange things have been, but I've seemingly plowed through all of these facts. We stand together, and she holds me tightly, her fingers now digging into my hips; she's gripping me with such strength. And as she holds me, I feel everything so deeply, every tiny physical sensation, from the way that her mouth curls up at the corners, smiling against me as I kiss her, to the way that her curved belly feels against my own, to the way that her arm muscles flex when I reach up, when I curl my own fingers over her upper arm, delighting in the feel of her hot skin beneath my palm...

  I wonder.

  I wonder if I imagined the wound, too.

  This is all distressing. It's genuinely scary to think that I could imagine something so terrifying as a wolf in the center of a bathroom, and a woman's wound. There's so much blood, I couldn't possibly have imagined it...

  So, yes, I want to keep kissing her. But I find that I just can't.

  I pull back from her, albeit reluctantly, and the woman stands there, her full mouth wet, swollen. She's beautiful as she stares at me with hooded eyes, eyes that reflect how very much she wants me.

  A shiver runs through me—I want her, too—but I take a deep breath.

  “What's going on?” I ask her then, my voice soft as I stare into her impossible golden eyes. “Who are you?” I finally manage. “I...I don't even know your name.”

  For a long moment, she says nothing, only taking long, deep breaths as she looks at me. But then she nods, her gaze softening. “My name is Shannon,” she tells me, flexing her fingers at my waist. “And what's yours?”

  “Abby,” I tell her, swallowing a little. “Abigail Reynolds.”

  “Well, Abby,” she says, taking up my right hand. She brings my hand to her heart and flattens my palm against her bare skin. I shiver a little as I feel the thump-thump of her heartbeat beneath my palm, also shivering at the smooth softness of her breast beneath my hand. Shannon holds my gaze with eyes that are full of softness, yes. But they are also full of need as she breathes out. “Do you trust me?” she whispers then.

  What an impossible question. I just met her. She was bleeding, completely naked. I don't know who she is, where she's from, or what's going on. Where did she get that wound from? Why was she naked?

  What could possibly be happening here?

  But I realize, as I hold my palm over her heart, as I feel that heartbeat beneath my skin, feel that heartbeat deep in my bones, that—as odd as it sounds—I do trust her.

  I don't know why. I couldn't tell you why if you asked me. Maybe it's the look she gives me, like she already knows me, has always known me. Maybe it's because I feel like I've always known her, too, but in such a different way. Maybe it's because, from the very first moment I set my eyes on her, it felt like we were, in some odd way, connected, the two of us.

  I do trust her.

  So I lick my
lips; I clear my throat.

  And I find myself nodding.

  “Yes,” I tell her, holding her gaze, feeling my heartbeat intensify as she watches me with those unnerving, beautiful eyes. “I...I trust you.”

  My hand is still against her heart, and it's pressed harder against it when Shannon steps closer. She bends her head, her neck curving beautifully, her hair falling over her shoulder as she meets me in a kiss.

  It's a slow, sensual kiss this time. She takes her time, her mouth open, hot, searing, as she tastes me, dragging her tongue over my lips as she begins to move with more fervor.

  My hands are at her waist, and I'm undoing the tie to my own robe that's wrapped tightly around her as I fumble with the sash, trying to get the tight knot, stiffened with her dry blood, undone.

  For half a heartbeat, that dry blood, crumbling from the fabric onto my fingers, shoves me right out of the moment, but then the tie comes loose, and Shannon seems to have an idea about how to distract me.

  She pulls me, still kissing me, toward the showers.

  When we step inside the first one, past the curtain, I fumble over her shoulder and turn on the knobs, and we are instantly awash in hot water that pummels us with a heat so profound I wonder if we're going to get burned by it. But I fumble a little more with the cold water knob, my eyes closed, my other arm wrapped tightly around her neck and shoulders, and then the water is a little less boil-you-alive, though still very hot.

  And Shannon presses me up against the back concrete wall.

  I gasp, a sound that gets lost in the roar of the water as I tilt my head back, as Shannon kisses my neck, her mouth hot and open against skin that she teases with her tongue and teeth. Her one hand is at my hips, but the other is under my right thigh then, and she's lifting it, drawing it up to her hips so that I wrap my leg around her curve, and I gasp again, panting against her, as her wet fingers draw hot lines along the skin of that thigh.

  I curl my fingers in her hair, pulling her back up to my mouth, because I need to kiss her at this moment. Every touch feels so good, but this is all so strange: if she's not right here, right now, if she's not kissing me fiercely, I'm going to go into my head, even though she's setting me on fire.