Wolf at the Door

chapter Twenty-four



“It’s your very own hobbit hole!” Edward exclaimed, delighted. He had prowled through the small apartment after dumping his grocery bag on the kitchen counter. “It’s so cool and cute!”

“Thank you.” He was correct. It was cool and cute. She was pleased he thought so . . . and wondered why she was pleased. What was Edward, exactly? A diversion? A possible boyfriend? Pack members weren’t known for dating. They tended to hook up—and stay hooked—early. The drive to create a stable environment for cubs was strong. Always, always they remembered how vastly the humans had them outnumbered. “I liked it the minute I saw it.”

“It’s got everything . . . you can even see out the windows.”

“Yes.”

“So.” He looked around again, then looked at her. “What d’you want to do? I brought some stuff . . .”

“Oh?” She stalked him toward the kitchen. He was backing up, and she was certain he didn’t realize it.

“Yeah . . . I thought . . . a picnic . . . on the bluffs?” Lust. Anxiety. Happiness.

She had him backed into the corner between the fridge and the counter. “A picnic?”

“Yeah. I . . . brought some . . . stuff.” Anxiety. Lust.

“Stuff, hmm?”

“Yeah . . . uh . . . are you all right? You look a little . . .”

Horny?

“. . . crazed. Like, with bloodlust. Believe it or not, I actually know exactly what that looks like—yeeek!”

“We should have sex more,” she told him, fingers busy with his belt, “and talk less.”

“Can’t we do both?” he gasped. Lust. Lust. Lust. (Concern.)

“I don’t know.” The belt buckle came free, and she whipped it out of the belt loops. “Can we?”

Lust. Lust. Lust. Lust. Lust. Lust. (Concern.)

(Concern.)

“Wait!” He reached behind them, found the grocery bag, groped, then seized and brought out... “Read this.”

Annoyed . . . her own lust had climbed quite high by now, something about his scent, that delicious clean-cotton-muskymale scent he had going on worked on her like a hormone shot . . . but now she forced her hands to be still so she could focus. She had no time for, or interest in . . . “This is a lab report.”

“Yeah.”

“Why have you brought a lab report?”

“Read it,” he insisted. “Just read it and—aaaggh! Hands! Hands in naughty places!”

She snatched the paper away, probably faster than he could track. Calm yourself, you horny tart. Pay attention. The lab report is, God knows why, important to him.

“This says . . . it says you are disease free.”

“Right. Like I told you. Remember?”

Vaguely. Before they’d gotten naked in the hotel room, he’d assured her he was disease free. Which she already knew. He had also apologized for not having condoms. Which she also knew . . . and didn’t need. She wasn’t in season and so could not get pregnant. And she had no diseases he could catch, and never would. But rather than explain the blood chemistry of the average Pack member, she’d f*cked him silly. And had assumed that awkward part of the mating dance as applied to non-Pack members had been permanently set aside.

Not silly to him. He doesn’t KNOW you won’t give him a disease. And he thinks YOU don’t know. So he’s brought proof. It’s a NICE THING, you horny bitch! Show some gratitude!

“This is a nice thing.”

“Uh.” He was backed up into the tiny kitchen corner. “What?”

“This.” She waved the paper at him. “This is a nice thing. Thank you. For this nice thing you have done.”

“Sometimes I get the feeling you’re some kind of cyborg.”

“Thank you.”

“It, um, wasn’t a compliment.”

“All right. Although this wasn’t necessary; I believed you earlier. I knew you were rudely healthy. There was no need to get a lab involved.”

He grinned. “Rudely?”

“Oh, yes. I, however, do not have a lab test to show you. I can only ask you to believe that I am disease free, and in fact, before the other night, had not had sex for at least—”

“Don’t tell me that again. It’s just too depressing. When a hottie of your extreme caliber can’t get laid any day of the week she wants, there’s something really, really wrong with the world.”

“So then.” She opened her arms. “Help me make it right.”

So he did. Enthusiastically. All over her hobbit hole.

Wait. Did I refer to myself as a hobbit hole, or my apartment as a hobbit hole?

F*ck it.