The purpose I feel right now at having someone to care for is a sensation better than any, other than fucking her.
I fetch a quilt from the back of the armoire and pull it over her, noting that more fogginess from going so long without shifting is lifting. I’m still somewhat unaccustomed to my form, still searching my mind for memories of certain things that feel fuzzy, but things are trickling back. Mating my woman helped; I believe that. I’m thinking more like a man now, about the things I need to do to make the house nice for her, the things I’ll want to provide for her. Thinking about fucking her again.
She’s still asleep and with a peaceful smile on her face as she curls into me to borrow some of my warmth. I’ll happily share it with her, all of it, everything I have and all that I am, until my dying day.
This feels different. Something comes over me. Something odd. As I close my eyes it occurs to me that there’s a feeling in my chest, a rightness that’s deep in the center of it that I’ve never felt before.
11
Ivy
My eyes open and I’m immediately reaching below my waist for the quilt I spot. I’m naked. I’m naked and I’ve been screwed. I’m in the werewolf’s cabin. In his bed.
Screwed.
Screwed like I’ve never been screwed…
My eyes dart around the space I’m in as I clasp the beautiful nature-inspired patchwork quilt to my chest. The room is warm. Overly warm, actually. The fire isn’t crackling like it was when I went to sleep, but there’s still all sorts of heat emanating from the glowing embers. This room is dusty, so dusty I could write my name into the dust on the nightstand with my finger.
The sun streams in from a window that’s only half covered with a red, green, and white tartan curtain. I’m in a double bed that’s against the wall, lying on a rumpled flat sheet that’s only over one corner of the bed. My clothes from last night are over an Archie Bunker style upholstered chair beside the fireplace and my boots are on the floor. I see my bag on the floor too, so I shakily reach for it and haul out a pair of black yoga pants, a black jersey hoodie, a purple tank top, a white and black zebra print bra, and black undies. There are pink thong flipflops there too, which is good. I’d brought them thinking they’d work by the pool and hot tub. I glance over at my new purple Uggs; they should be muddier. They look okay, astonishingly. My eyes take in the rest of the room. A tall weathered-looking armoire that takes up a whole wall. The walls are wood paneling, but they’ve been painted white. The floor is varnished, knotted plank wood. The small corner fireplace has a dusty dome-covered clock and oil lamp on the mantle. A painting hangs over it of a willow tree with a tree swing, seven puppies playing under the tree with seven little boys. Not puppies, wolves. The painting looks amateur, but also kind of good, in an A. A. Milne-like abstract way.
My eyebrows shoot up. Is all this real? The ache between my legs tells me it is. I bite my lip and block the memories from washing through my brain because I don’t want those memories right now. That sex was… supernatural. Yeah. Like this entire situation.
I dress quickly before peeking out the door. All is quiet, so I move out of the room into the short hallway where I see two other doors. One is closed. The other is a bathroom. Good, because I need it. My legs and thighs hurt like heck from last night’s … ordeal. Activities. I need to use the bathroom and then I need to make like a tree --- and leave.
It’s a dusty, sparse bathroom with a big old white clawfoot tub and pedestal sink as well as toilet and small towel cabinet. The light works. The mirror is a bit fogged up and the air is humid. He’s taken a shower recently. This place does have electricity.
I use the facilities, noting basic toiletries on the shelf over the bathtub, which has dust and droplets of water from the recent shower. A green bar of soap. Green shampoo bottle. I catch my reflection in the mirror and my eyes look strange. More purple than blue. I do a double-take, figuring maybe my skin is just pale from my ordeal and that it’s the lighting in here, but then I spot the mark on my neck and my eyes are forgotten as my hand flies to the place where it meets my shoulder. I see the mark he made. Teeth imprints. It’s pinkish, almost like a branding mark, but it doesn’t hurt. He broke the skin last night but there’s no scab. When I touch it, I get a very odd sensation. I frown at my reflection as I rub it and goosebumps rise on my body. My mouth drops open. Oh my good gravy… that feels like… I rub it a little more and then I shudder. My nipples are now erect.
Oh my… why does this mark feel like an erogenous zone? It should hurt, not feel like this. It’s not quite as tingly as between my legs, but I’d call it more tingly than my nipples. I give my head a shake. I have no time to ponder things; I need to get out of here. Maybe he’s turned back into a wolf and has gone somewhere to sleep for the day. I have no idea, can barely wrap my mind around this news that something from the movies, from story books, as well as from my crazy Aunt Nelle is actually real and has happened to me.
To say my mind is blown is an understatement. Aunt Nelle might not have been an absolute cuckoo bird after all.
I hear noise. Uh oh.
I carefully step out of the bathroom and get a few paces to where the hall opens up into the main room where I see him standing there at the counter in a pair of faded jeans, tan work boots, and a white with blue striped flannel shirt with only the bottom three buttons done up and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sight of his chest, his corded forearms, and the perfect way those jeans fit? It makes me feel woozy. I get a belly dip and I grasp the doorframe for support. He’s holding a bowl with a spoon in it.
“Back to bed,” he orders. “I’ll feed you breakfast.” He advances and I immediately retreat backwards into the bedroom I’d just come out of, feeling my way there with my hands as if I’m reading braille.
His eyes on me look… hungry.
I trip and he moves impossibly fast, catching me by hooking an arm around my waist and pulling me against his body.
Oh wow. He’s so warm.
He leans forward and kisses my lips and then my throat at that mark and I shiver.
“Into bed, my Ivy,” he says, and his eyes are sparkling with amusement or something.
I blink stupidly at him and sit on the end of the bed. He sits beside me.
Where have all my braincells gone?
I feel stupid. Stupid and blushing and not only hot in the face, but also hot between my legs.
He lifts the spoon and I see canned peaches in the bowl. He brings the spoon to my mouth with a small chunk of peach on it.
“Open,” he orders.
I obey.
He slips the spoon into my mouth and I eat a cold piece of canned peach.
“Fruit is my favorite man-food,” he says. “Do you like fruit?”
I blink and then I belatedly nod. Man-food?
“I eat these when I’m a man. I put them in the fridge last night when I turned the power on. I worried they’d spoiled but they’re fine, aren’t they? They’ve been here a while.”
I nod again as I chew and swallow.
He feeds me another bite. “Eat all of them. You need your strength, Ivy Savage. I showered and as soon as you’re fed, I want inside you again, want your scent back on my body.”
I choke.