The Accidental Werewolf 2: Something About Harry (Accidentally Paranormal Novel) Page 17

  Deep Space Nine—sex with Harry.

  Damn. You. Choices.

  Harry’s lips were but a half-inch from hers. “I think this is where you tell me not to give in, Mara. Say it. Say it fast,” he ordered, his tongue striking out to caress the corner of her lip, his hot breath fanning her face.

  Her chest became tight, the blood in her veins throbbing, leaving trails of white-hot heat as she warred with her primal urges. As hard as she tried to force the words from her lips, she couldn’t say it. Full moon lust induced or not, she wanted this. She’d always wanted this. From the moment she’d laid eyes on him.

  Harry. All of him.

  Harry hiked her higher, backing them up until she was pressed against the wall in her living room. Now his lips touched hers, just the hint of a graze, but it made her rear up against him, fighting the natural urge to grind against him. It was painfully sweet and sharply hot, gripping her and holding on tight.

  Her chest heaved up and down, rising and falling with harsh gasps for breath.

  When she squirmed, Harry’s rigid flesh rubbing against her, her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head with the exquisite pleasure the sensation wrought.

  Harry’s groan came out on a gasp as he tried to process what was happening to him in words. “I feel totally out of goddamn control. I know it. I can feel it. But it’s almost like I don’t give a damn. Jesus, every nerve I own is on fire right now. What if I hurt you? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hurt you, Mara.”

  Mara’s breathing was ragged when he thumbed her nipple through her shirt, drawing it to a tight peak, but he pulled his hand away as if she’d bitten him. “I can handle it. Promise.”

  His lips took a tentative nip at her neck and her spine began to melt. Yet, he planted his hands flat on either side of her against the wall. “I don’t know if I can,” he growled, the scrape of his nails against the wall grating in her ears.

  “Should we see?” Mara clung to his waist, her feet hooked at the ankles, her arms tight around his neck. She was baiting him, encouraging him, and she was going to do it without regrets.

  “I can’t promise flowers and candy the first round.”

  “I have allergies. Not a huge fan of sweets.”

  His body trembled against her, rock-hard, rippling, fighting for control. Yet, still he managed to say, “Have you tried that new allergy medicine everyone’s been talking about?”

  “Do you care?”

  His chest continued to rise and fall, the friction of it delicious, teasing her nipples through her shirt until it was an all-out effort not to scream her pleasure. Harry shook his head and huffed out, “Not even a little. Not right now. Promise I’ll care later, though. During the flowers and candy stage.”

  “You do this in stages?” she squeaked.

  He rolled his head on his neck, sucking in air before responding. “I want to do this in one fell swoop, but then I’d be an inconsiderate lover.”

  Need clawed at her gut, yet she managed, “Inconsiderate is a matter of opinion.”

  “Oh, no. Not when it comes to a woman.”

  “Sexist.”

  “Truth-ist.”

  Impatience, longing, need made her curl her fingers into his hair and clench a fistful of it. “That’s not a word, Harry.”

  “I’m running out of them at this point.”

  “Then don’t say any more of them.” Please.

  “You’re sure?” he ground out, his powerful body, fit and hard from working out, quaked.

  She swallowed hard. “That I don’t want you to talk anymore?”

  “No. That you’ll be able to handle what I think is going to happen.”

  “I got this.”

  Those words triggered his response—forceful and teetering on the edge of uncontrollable.

  Harry’s hands went to the front of her shirt where he placed his fingers between her breasts and tore the flimsy material, dragging it down and pushing it away. The filmy fabric ripped easily, turning her on almost as much as the brush of his fingers on her overheated skin.

  Next, he popped the clasp on the front of her bra, groaning his appreciation when she ripped open the front of his flannel shirt, too, driving her hands inside, placing her fingertips on his flesh, pinching his nipples.

  And it was exquisite madness, the hard planes, the sprinkling of hair between his pecs, the crash of his heart against her palm. She grabbed a fistful of his skin, kneading it, driving her hips against his, writhing with so much desperate need it was almost more than she thought she could stand. His skin was like rough satin, smooth, overheated from the need to mate. Mara wanted to burrow inside him, consume him until they had no beginning and no end.

  Harry’s lips went to her neck again, licking the sensitive flesh, nipping at it, creating wave after wave of heat between her thighs. And then he was shoving her legs from around his waist, tearing at the button of her jeans before giving up and simply removing them with a hard yank.

  The rip of denim, her nipples scraping against his chest, his sinfully thick groan in her ear when he first touched his finger to her swollen flesh, made her howl her pleasure. She clung to his neck when he began to move toward her bedroom, kicking her refinished coffee table out of his way as he went.

  He stopped momentarily at the entry to her bedroom, scanning the room for her bed with, as he’d dubbed jokingly, a million unnecessary and much too impractical pillows on it. “Condoms,” he rasped, running his hands up and down her spine, along the curve of her hip, whispering over the tops of her thighs.

  “We don’t need them now. My cycle doesn’t begin until January or February. It’s only November,” she somehow managed to force the words out against his neck.

  He grabbed a handful of her hair, tugging her head upward to spear her with his intense gaze. “Cycles?” Even in his fight to keep control, he managed to question everything.

  “Reproduction is cyclical for female weres.”

  Even as Harry muttered how crazy it was, he was dropping her to the bed, dragging his jeans off and kicking them aside, his face hard, his focus intent.

  Her first quick glimpse of him naked stole her last breath. Harry’s silhouette in the moonlight, streaming into the arched stained-glass window just above her bed, was as magnificent and perfect as she’d always thought it would be.

  His shoulders, bulky and firm from working out, tapered to a narrow waist and an abdomen so flat, her mouth watered. His thighs were thick and bulging, straining with corded flesh, his hips lean, the sharp line of his hipbone, lickable. His cock was long, jutting upward, thick and impossibly hard. It brushed against her thigh, hot and rigid when he lifted her knees.

  Harry’s eyes glittered, staring down at her. He clenched his teeth together, gripping her knees with crushing fingers. “I want to devour you, Mara—every last inch of you,” he almost spat. “But I’m still afraid I’ll hurt you.”

  Mara put her hands at his wrists, clenching them, pulling him to her until their bodies were pressed together. His thighs pushed into hers, lean muscle against softer flesh. Hard chest against aching breasts. Abs that rippled, flexing against her abdomen.

  Mara heard his heart crash, felt the tight hold he had beginning to crumble, weakening his resolve until he was unable to move. His fists clenched into tight balls of restraint, his chest heaved with effort.

  So she reached between them, stroking the length of his shaft before lifting her hips and placing him at her entry.

  Harry clamped his lips to hers, possessive, demanding, he drove his tongue into her mouth as he drove his cock into her desperate, aching body.

  The impact of his thrust upward tore through her, making her gasp out loud, claw at his back until her fingers dug into his muscles. His cock stretched her and she welcomed it, welcomed the rigid invasion of heat.

  Harry spread her
wide, hiking her legs up with a hiss when he penetrated her deeper, harder.

  Slick with desire, Mara reveled in his forceful thrusts, drove her hips right back at his, matching his speed, insisting with her body he take her higher, harder.

  He suckled her tongue, slipping his over hers in a rasp of silken flesh, while his hands clutched fistfuls of her hair, pulling at it to expose her throat. He tore his mouth from hers, nipping at her jaw, moving to her ear, rimming the lobe.

  Mara’s need grew, frenzied, wetter, rising upward, and when Harry cupped her breast, she almost lost total control, bucking against him. His mouth encompassed her nipple, licking it until it turned hard, blowing on it only to warm it again with his tongue.

  Harry’s strokes began to pick up speed, his hips crashing against hers while he sucked her deeper into the vortex of climax.

  Lights flashed behind her eyes, brilliant streaks of white and blue. Her clit throbbed an achy rhythm, scraping against his crisp pubic hairs as he rolled up and down with each thrust.

  His last drive into her seared her, branded her forever. They came together in a long howl of vocal pleasure. White-hot and desperate, their movements so in sync, it was as if they’d always done this.

  Harry’s head reared upward, the lean corded muscle beneath his flesh tight when he screamed her name.

  As long as Mara lived, she’d never forget Harry inside her, obliterating her sanity, stealing the last protected piece of her heart.

  A loud bang of a fist at the bedroom door brought them both crashing to reality. Harry wrapped his arms around her waist and rolled with her until she was on top of him. He cupped her breasts, skimmed his hands over nipples, slipped his fingers into her wet cleft. Harry was still stiff, making it an effort for her to answer the knock on the door.

  Still shaky, Mara called out, “Yes?”

  “Hey, lovebirds! Knock off the sexy times—we got fucking trouble!” Nina yelled.

  Harry’s lips were at her breast, licking, teasing, enveloping her nipple. Her fingers automatically went to his hair, driving her fingers into it and fighting a long moan of satisfaction.

  Nina knocked again—this time harder. “Did you fucking hear me, nerds? Put your clothes on and your private parts away. My Carl’s really missing!”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Mara, Nina, Marty, Darnell, and Harry scoured the woods, calling out Carl’s name.

  “Motherfucker—where’s my freakin’ zombie! It’s cold out here, right?” she asked Marty. According to Mara, Nina had no sense of the temperature as a vampire. She couldn’t gauge how cold it truly was.

  Marty gave her a squeeze, rubbing Nina’s arm. “It is, but Carl’s dead, honey. I don’t think he can feel it. Much like you can’t.”

  Nina made a face, kicking stray limbs out of her way in anger. “Have you seen his damn arms and legs, dude? They’re stiff as shit from rigor mortis. The cold can’t help that. What if he’s just out here, wandering around all alone? He doesn’t know his way. He can’t even talk, for fuck’s sake. And who the fuck’s gonna talk to him anyway? He’s dead. Like scary dead.”

  “Which only makes him that much harder to sniff out.” Marty remarked what they’d all forgotten earlier. If Carl was dead, he was almost impossible to smell. He didn’t have the stench a rotting body should have due to the baths Nina insisted he take.

  “I ain’t nevah gonna forgive myself, Nina. I’m damn well sorry,” Darnell said, letting his head hang low. “I don’t know what happened to me. One minute we was watchin’ Walter make crystal meth on Breaking Bad, the next, I woke up and found Carl gone. Swear I don’t know what happened.”

  Mara reached around the enormous demon and gave him a hug, patting his shoulders. “Carl’s hard to keep track of. We know you’d never let anything happen to him intentionally, Darnell. We’ll find him, I know it.”

  Mara’s conviction, her determination, settled deep in his bones. Harry watched these people from beneath the brim of his knitted hat, people he barely knew, band together to find Carl, and he found himself full of yet more wonder.

  No matter the situation, no matter the time of day or night, they were always there for each other. Always. Everything stopped when one of them needed the other.

  And then there was Mara—one of the first to insist they all scour the area. She was warm, soft, compassionate, gentle, fiercely protective of her family and friends.

  And he wanted her almost more than he had earlier.

  Making love with her had been mind-blowing. But it wasn’t just some of the most incredible sex he’d ever had, or the fact that he’d experienced it on a hormonal high. It was afterward, when she’d sat atop him, the mixture of strong and shy, confident and vulnerable as she gazed at him with a smile that made his gut twist and ache.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to want her. Not given the fact that if he found a way out of this, nothing between them could ever work. She was dead set on believing it was some kind of insult not to want in on the way of the werewolf. She’d resent his choices. He’d only end up stomping all over her lycanthropic sensibilities like the clod he was.

  Yet, the idea he’d never experience Mara again, left him empty. Not the kind of empty he felt when Brigitte had broken it off with him, or for that matter, the kind of empty his bank account had felt. Not the “Damn, it sucks to eat alone” kind of empty. It was the “I don’t want to think about a day when I don’t see your face” kind of empty.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Harry stopped dead in his thoughts, cocking his ear. While the women fretted out loud over Carl’s disappearance, he listened.

  To everything. Caught up, now he couldn’t stop the noises. Leaves rustling, crisp and rubbing against one another in the freezing cold wind. He heard the foliage, deeply imbedded in the soil, most of it dormant now in winter, resting until spring.

  He felt the pulse of everyone’s anxiety, heard snowflakes gather and fall in swirling patches. Felt the vibration of forest animals, their blood coursing through their veins, their small hearts pounding out steady beats.

  It was like seeing sounds. And it was madness. He put his hands up to block the stimuli, shaking his head as though it would knock the noise out of his brain.

  But then he remembered what Mara said. Focus on your subject, force the everyday sounds of life, conversations and such, out.

  Harry squared his shoulders and focused so hard he broke into a cold sweat. Clammy chills chased up and down his spine, but he managed to block out Nina’s anxious worry, Marty’s need to soothe and pacify her, Mara’s muttered worry, Darnell’s huffing body as he lumbered over fallen logs.

  Because there was one he heard above all else.

  Carl. That was Carl’s moan, a stilted grunt, a low whimper of fear.

  And it was close. So close, it became all Harry heard.

  Carl was terrified. He smelled it, almost tasted it, and it was nearly more than Harry could bear. Helpless, alone in the dark, Carl’s pitiful snuffle grew weaker. He was giving up hope anyone would find him, jarring Harry into action.

  Harry began to run, jumping over a fallen tree, knowing it was there before his eyes even saw it. His running turned into a gallop—a blurring gallop of colors and sounds, swooshing past his sharp eyes. His ears twitched, burned, ached with the strain to hear Carl.

  Hang tough, Carl—I’m coming!

  Left! Carl was to the left—in a patch of thick pines. The clank of a chain vibrated in Harry’s ears, resonating until his head throbbed, threatening to explode.

  And then he saw Carl, as clear as day. Gaunt and still, pale with that greenish tint to him, eerily glowing under the moonlight, and slumped against a tree in his rigid, postmortem pose. The new shirt Nina had bought him torn, his eyes wide and glazed, his mouth slack in defeat. Closer inspection showed he�
��d been tied there with a heavy chain of some kind.

  Son of a bitch. Whoever did this would pay.

  His heart crashed in his ears, his fury rose to a higher level, one he hadn’t experienced quite this way, one that had him gnashing his teeth on Carl’s behalf.

  Skidding to stop, he opened his mouth to soothe Carl and realized he couldn’t speak. What the hell?

  Harry looked down.

  He had paws. Big hairy, black paws.

  Holy shit—he’d shifted. No help from the shifting gurus. No big drama. Just boom. Full-on werewolf.

  Carl moaned again, fretful, keeping him from wasting time marveling about the ease with which he’d shifted, and turning all his concern toward Carl.

  Trotting over to him, Harry used his muzzle to nudge Carl’s stiff hand, running his nose along it with a gentle sniff. Carl shrank back in fear, his body banging hard up against the trunk of a gnarled tree as he used his stiff legs to try and scurry around the base of it and away from Harry.

  Shit. He had to find a way to show him he was just bologna-sandwich-loving Harry—or shift back. Which he wasn’t entirely sure he could do just yet. For now, he had to convince Carl he was safe.

  So he rubbed his large head against Carl’s knee then rolled over on his back to show his submissive nature. But Carl howled in response. More terrified than ever by the look in his usually dull expression, now wide with fear.

  It was while he was on his back he realized that Carl wasn’t just tied to the tree, he was rigged to it. Jesus Christ. As Harry got a better look, he found Carl’s arms were high above his head, one wrong move and Carl could loosen those chains and . . . If Harry used his super-strength to yank the chain off, it would trigger an ax, high above Carl’s head, effectually swinging down and embedding in the zombie’s skull.

  He was a huge fan of zombie apocalyptic fiction. Not a fan of it when a sweet, if not precocious, man-child he’d like to think he’d bonded with over heads of broccoli and carrot sandwiches would end up eradicated with one wrong move.