Page 22 of Enemy Wolf

Even without the remnants of silvery-gray fur on the stems, it didn’t take a genius to figure out how they had gotten there. And I couldn’t stop wondering why.

I thought back to seeing Orson’s wolf on the trail nearly a week ago, how friendly and dog-like he’d been. If Orson had been present and aware inside his animal, he didn’t make that known. I imagined him inside his wolf like that night he came to Stout & Spirit alone, sitting back in a corner and not talking to anyone.

I’d known werewolves all my life and had never seen such a disconnect between the animal and human side. A surly, withdrawn man and a happy, outgoing wolf. The wolf side seemed to like me a lot, from that time on the trail and how he’d responded to my magic after storming out of the bar. What a shame that his human side seemed to hold a grudge against the very air around him.

My eyes darted back to the bathroom door and my next thought was trying the detachable shower head for some relief, which sent another full-body shudder through me.

“Damn it,” I huffed, turning away to pace again.

Every time that bundle of flowers caught my eye, I didn’t think of the beautiful, silvery gray wolf that flopped over for belly rubs. I tried, but my mind didn’t go there. My mind was stuck on the man half of that incredible creature.

I thought back to when Orson growled, “Do. Not. Touch. Her,” at Kaz, and nearly went to my bed to bend over on all fours, like the icy werewolf was right here, ready to mount me.

I wished he was.

Oh fucking moon, I wished he was.

In some distant corner of my mind, I knew my thought processes were being muddled by the big rock in the sky. My hormones were raging under the moon’s magic, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Orson’s rudeness, his complete lack of a filter, and misplaced possessiveness were the farthest things from my mind.

I couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth and the white-hot intensity of those eyes. The height and breadth of him. All those carved slabs of muscle and how rough those hands must feel. I imagined his thighs straddling a motorcycle, or even better, splitting my legs apart as he drove into me.

Another shudder hit me, striking me with sensitivity from my clit to my mouth, parting my lips to let a moan escape.

I didn’t know what it was about this full moon in particular, but I figured out in that moment that this aching need was for something specific. No toys would do the job because I needed a man to fuck me.

The answer was so simple, so obvious. I needed another person’s touch, to be kissed breathless and penetrated by a man’s body. I needed to feel the weight of him on top of me, feel the dizzying rhythm of his thrusts and his hands holding me down in the perfect position to take it all.

I was in bed before I knew it, thrashing around, legs scissoring for some relief as I twisted every which way in an attempt to get comfortable. In my mind, I saw Orson, kneeling on the mattress and gloriously naked as he stroked himself, every inch of him hard and tense as he waited for me.

Who knew why this moon made me yearn for a person instead of giving me run-of-the-mill horniness? Maybe this was nature’s way of telling me I needed to get knocked up already, but whatever the cause, I could not let go of the mental image of Orson. Any attempt to replace him with another fantasy man was continuously booted. No one else would do. My body craved him and only him.

“Orson…” I moaned, slipping my hand underneath my shorts. I was soaked, and not just from the sweat pouring off me.

Toying with my clit did absolutely nothing though, not even when I imagined his hand in place of mine. The pleasure built and built but release remained just out of my reach.

“Fuck!” I growled up at the ceiling.

I was exhausted, wired, overstimulated, stressed as hell about this fucking dragon potion I had to make, with no way release steam…and lonely.

That last one hit me like a bucket of ice water, a realization as chilling as it was clear.

I had a full, busy life. I was a businesswoman and an active member of the community. But in my private life? It was just me.

There were lots of people I would consider my friends. People I could lean on and who I would be there for at a moment’s notice. But obviously, no one I would invite over to fuck on the full moon. No one I wanted to share the burden of that dragon shifter’s threats with.

Naturally, that last one was to protect others, but the former was all about me. After Sawyer, I didn’t want to let anyone close enough to hurt me again. That was normal, right? Taking some time, lots of time, to myself after break-up. My normal brain saw the wisdom in taking a break from dating.

But right then, in my hormone-addled state, I was starting to think I’d rather die than spend the next ten minutes not being touched by a man.

A single long howl carried into my apartment from the cracked window, quickly followed by a chorus of howling. The sound dragged like fingertips over my skin, and a fresh rush of heat wracked my body.

Of course. I wasn’t the only one affected by the moon’s cycle. Howling Death and the other packs of Vargmore were running through the territory, their animals unrestrained by their human sides for this one night every lunar cycle.

Only one werewolf took up space in my mind, a silver beast with eyes like glaciers. Was Orson out there, howling with his kind and letting his wolf run the show? The feral beast that turned into a docile puppy with me. I couldn’t imagine his wolf running seamlessly with a pack. I got the sense that he was an outsider, but not because he wanted to be.

The howling grew louder, and I wondered how late it was. This night felt years long,, but maybe the moon’s rise had just crested, her power now waning as she descended across the sky and gave way to dawn. If that was the case, the werewolves would be heading back into town now, their minds growing clear as humanity returned to them.

My horny affliction was not lightening up though. If anything, the ache was becoming worse, almost painful enough to cry. I flipped to my stomach to scream my frustration into a pillow and promptly started grinding my pelvis into the mattress.

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