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With a growl, I tore after him. I caught up just inside the forest and vaulted onto his back. We went down together, rolling and snarling and biting. Then teeth clamped around the bottom of my muzzle. As I struggled, he forced my head back, exposing my throat. I kicked at his underbelly. He snorted as my claws made contact, but didn't let go. He pushed me onto my back and pinned me. Then he released my muzzle and looked down at me, indecision flickering in his eyes. His head shot down to my throat, and I wriggled frantically, trying to pull out of the way, but he only buried his nose in the ruff around my neck and inhaled deeply. Then he shuddered, legs vibrating against my sides. A moment's hesitation. Then a soft growl, and he twisted off me and dove into the woods again.
I scrambled to my feet and set off in pursuit. This time, he had too much of a head start, and I could only get close enough to see his hindquarters bounding ahead, teasing me. He flicked his tail up. Mocking me, damn him. I surged foward, getting close enough to hear the pound of his heartbeat. Then he veered and crashed into the forest, off the trail. I chortled to myself. Now I had him. Cutting a fresh path would slow him down just enough to let me--
A brace of ptarmigan flew up, almost under my feet, and I skidded to a halt, nearly flipping over backward in my surprise. As the panicked birds took to the sky, I got my bearing again, looked around...and found myself alone. Tricked. Damn him. And damn me for falling for it.
I found his trail and loped after him. Before I'd gone a hundred feet, a soft gurgling moan rippled through the silence. I stopped, ears going up. A grunt, then panting. He was Changing. Did he think that would save him? Not likely.
I dove into the nearest thicket and began my own Change. It came fast, spurred by a healthy double shot of adrenaline and frustration. When I finished, he was still in his thicket.
I crept around to the other side, pulled back a handful of leaves and peered through. He was done, but recovering, crouched on all fours, panting as he caught his breath. By the rules of fair play, I should have given him time to recuperate. But I wasn't in the mood for rules.
I sprang onto his back. Before he could react, my arm went around his neck, forearm jammed against his windpipe.
I leaned over his shoulder. "Did you think you could escape that easily?"
His lips formed an oath, but no sound came out. His shoulders slumped, as if defeated. Like I was stupid enough to buy that. I pretended to relax my grip. Sure enough, the second I did, he reared up. I threw myself backward. The added momentum jarred him off balance and we both went down. As we fell, I twisted and landed beside him. Before he could recover, I was on top of him, my forearm against his throat. His hands slid up my sides, snuck around and cupped my breasts.
"Uh-uh," I growled, pressing against his windpipe. "No distractions."
He sighed and let his hands slide away. I eased back. As soon as I did, he vaulted up, toppling me over. A second later, I was flat on my back with him on top of me. He pinned me as securely as he had in wolf-form. Then he lifted up, belly and groin pressing into mine. He slid his hands back to my breasts and grinned down at me, daring me to do something about it now.
I glared up at him. Then I shot forward and sank my teeth into his shoulder. He jerked away and I started to scramble up, but he caught me and we rolled over, nip-ping and growling, the bites now interspersed with rough kisses and rougher gropes. Finally, I got the upper position. I pinned him, hands on his shoulders, knees on his thighs. He struggled, but couldn't throw me off.
"Caught?" I said.
He gave one last squirm, then nodded. "Caught."
"Good."
I slid my knees from his thighs and slipped over him. He tried to thrust up to meet me, but I pushed down with my hips, keeping him still. I moved into position. When I felt the tip of him brush me, I stopped and wriggled against him, teasing myself. He groaned and tried to grab my hips, but I pinned his shoulders harder. Then I closed my eyes and plunged down onto him.
He struggled under me, trying to thrust, to grab, to control, but I kept him pinned. After a moment, he gave up and arched against the ground, fingers clenching handfuls of gr
ass, jaw tensing, eyes closing to slits, but staying open, always open, always watching. The first wave of climax hit. I let him go then, but he stayed where he was, leaving me in control. Dimly, I heard him growl as he came and by the time I finished and leaned over him, he was laying back, eyes half-lidded, a lazy grin tweaking the corners of his mouth.
"You know," he said. "I'm almost going to be sorry when we do get you pregnant."
I laughed. "I thought you liked doing the chasing."
"I'm accustomed to doing the chasing. Spent ten years doing it." His grin broke through. "Nothing wrong with it, but being chased isn't so bad either."
I lowered my mouth to his, then caught a whiff of blood and pulled back. Blood trickled from his shoulder.
"Whoops," I said, licking my fingers and wiping it off. "Got a bit carried away. Sorry about that."
"Didn't hear me complaining." He brushed his fingertips across a fang-size hole under my jaws. "Seems I gave as good as I got anyway." He yawned and stretched, hands going around me and resting on my rear. "Just add them to the collection."
I ran my hand over his chest, fingers tracing across half-healed scabs and long-healed scars. Most of them were the dots of too-hard bites or the paper-thin scratches of misaimed claws. The residue of friendly fire. I had them too, tiny marks that wouldn't be noticed from more than a foot away, nothing to draw stares when I wore halter tops and shorts. I had few true battle scars. Clay had more, and as my hands moved over them, my brain ticked off the stories behind each. There wasn't one I didn't know, not a scar I couldn't find with my eyes closed, not a mark I couldn't explain.
He closed his eyes as my fingers moved down his chest. I looked up at his face, a rare chance to look at him without him knowing I was looking. I don't know why that still matters. It shouldn't. He knows how I feel about him. I want to have a child with him--it doesn't get any clearer than that, not for me. But after ten years of pushing him away, trying to pretend I didn't still love him, wasn't still crazy-in-love with him, I'm still cautious in some small ways. Maybe I always will be.
I shifted to look down at him. Gold eyelashes rested against his cheeks. His skin already showed the first beige tint of a tan. Now and then, when he was poring over a book, I caught the ghost of a line forming over the bridge of his nose, the first sign of an impending wrinkle. Not surprising, considering he turned forty-two this year. Werewolves age slowly, though, and Clay could still easily pass for a decade younger. Yet the wrinkle reminded me that we were getting older. I'd passed thirty-five this year, right around the time I'd finally decided that he was right, and I--we--were ready for a child. The two events were, I'm sure, not unconnected.
And now that I'd given myself permission to do something I'd been longing to do all my life, it wasn't happening. I told myself there was no rush. Five months of trying to get pregnant was nothing. I was as healthy and fit as a twenty-year-old. When the time came, it would come, and I had to stop worrying about it. Easy to say; near-impossible to do. I've spent a lifetime perfecting the art of fretting, and I'm not about to abandon my craft now.
My stomach growled. Clay's hand slid across it, smiling, eyes still closed.
"That's what happens when you chase me instead of dinner," he said.
