Page 12 of The Wulver's Bond
The Wulver held his spear poised in one hand, scanning the water in which he stood shin deep. He looked comical with his jeans rolled up to his knees.
He’d also removed his hoodie for this task, and his shoulders seemed broader for it. Weed wondered why he bothered to hide under human clothes at all. He was an intimidating beast underneath the layers, all muscle and sinew. The fur over his back looked short but dense.
Weed briefly considered how soft it had felt when he’d swiped a finger over the Wulver’s chest on their first day together. An unclear half-memory swam through his brain, of silky fur grazing his cheek as he was lifted in strong arms, carried while mostly unconscious. He shivered, brushing it away.
But as the Wulver straightened, Weed couldn’t help the way his eyes raked down the wolfman’s spine. His gaze followed the curve of the Wulver’s back, ending at the naughty dimple by the top of his ass cheeks where his tail protruded. The position of his tail meant that the Wulver had to wear any trousers slung low around his hips—an alluring detail that was usually hidden under the awful, baggy hoodie.
Right now, his tail was as still as the rest of him. Weed wanted to yank on it. He wondered whether it would make the wolfman howl.
The Wulver tensed, eyes darting left. Then the spear followed, a precise stab into the water. The blades re-emerged, laden with a fish. The fish was an ugly yellow-brown colour and covered in dark spots, but it looked a good size and Weed’s stomach rumbled automatically.
‘Impressive,’ he drawled, as the Wulver placed his catch in a basket. ‘I don’t see why you don’t just use your teeth, though.’
The Wulver resumed his careful stance in the water. ‘There are many more efficient ways of catching fish than attempting to bob for them like apples.’
‘I think you just don’t like getting wet.’
The Wulver huffed, glancing down at his legs where the water eddied around them. ‘You may think what you like.’
Weed did. He imagined pushing the Wulver into the water just for the spite of it. But rather than enjoying his intended revenge daydream—that of a soggy, angry wolfman—Weed’s imagination startled him with a fantasy.
His jaw went slack as the Wulver rose from the water in his mind, muscles bulging under dripping fur. The wolfman advanced on him like a predator. Amber eyes pinned Weed down as effectively as a fish spear. Hot breath cascaded over him. Clawed hands seized his shoulders roughly, and Weed’s chest hitched at the pinch of teeth around his throat, holding him at the wolfman’s mercy. His heart thumped madly in his chest, his whole body growing hot under the solid weight of the beast climbing on top of him…
Weed exhaled, coming back to himself as the phantom wolfman faded from his mind’s eye. A part of him longed to chase after the daydream.
A bit early for Stockholm’s, isn’t it?he mused, trying once again to shake the idea from his brain.
Weed had entertained the thought before, in passing, that the Wulver was attractive in an uncanny sort of way. But this was the first time he’d thought it in relation to himself. And now that he had, the painful ache of desire began to unfold from deep within, where he’d buried it.
Familiar and unwelcome yearning throbbed in his veins. The awakening of an old hunger—a despairing, frantic kind ofhunger, more acute than mere starvation—caused Weed to curl in on himself.
He groaned aloud, rolling onto his side and pulling his legs into a foetal position. Weed shut his eyes and hugged himself against the onslaught ofneed. Eighty years of thirst, of isolation, clawed at him at him like a caged animal. All because he’d just let his guard down around that fucking wolf.
‘Are you all right?’ The Wulver’s concern broke through his wretched haze. A large, cool palm landed gently on Weed’s forehead, and he shivered at the meeting of flesh. ‘Are you ill?’
Weed knocked the Wulver’s hand away. ‘I’m fine.’ He sat up abruptly, though he kept his knees pulled up to hide his horrendously painful erection.
‘You are sweating.’ The Wulver crouched to look at him more closely.
Go the fuck away!Weed shrieked internally.Or fuck me. Both are good.
He knew he was panting. His body was taking liberties, getting carried away with itself. Weed tried to hide his suffering by pouring it into the ground, sending a silent scream through his hands into the soil.
The nearest willow tree convulsed. Its boughs snapped to and fro as if caught in a gale, and the Wulver leapt to his feet in alarm. ‘Are you doing this?’ he demanded.
Weed grimaced, reining in his distraught emotions.I didn’t mean to scare you,he told the tree. He hunched over, determined not to speak out loud unless the Wulver commanded it.
The tree settled down and the wolfman’s suspicious gaze swung back to Weed. Weed was sure he was in for a kicking.
The Wulver sat next to him. His large body radiated warmth, and Weed fought the urge to lean into it.
‘You appear to be in distress,’ the Wulver said simply.
Weed almost laughed. Yes. He felt pretty fucking distressed.
When was the last time he’d ever been touched so tenderly? Was this all it took to make him unravel—a few glancing caresses from a wolf’s paw and a comfortable bed?
‘Are you done fishing yet?’ Weed snapped instead. ‘I’mbored.’
