Page 16 of Big Bad Wolf

Wolf eases my right foot off of the blanket it’s resting on, propping it up on his hard, muscular thigh. Using the pad of his thumb, he begins massaging the arch with such a forceful yet gentle push, I nearly moan out loud.

Then, just when I think he’s smart enough to distract me with a foot rub so he doesn't have to explain why he keeps a store of human women-sized boots, he rumbles, “Red’s shoes for Red’s feet. Wolf asks and Blackmoor gives.” He lifts my foot, nuzzling my big toe with his cheek. “And, when Red chooses, Wolf will take.”

Yeah. I’m not getting out of here without fucking him, am I?

CHAPTER 6

MATE

At least I make it until late on day two before it happens.

Small victories, yeah?

See, I remember reading once that wolves are… shit. I forget the word. It’s not diurnal or nocturnal, but it means that they’re more active during dawn and dusk… crepuscular, that’s the word! Wolves are crepuscular, and I don’t know if Wolf’s being a, well, werewolf means that he’s the same, but he definitely caught me following dusk last night, we woke up at dawn this morning, and because he seemed to enjoy snuggling up against me in his nest, we took a short nap after lunch at his insistence.

What could I do? I made it clear that returning to the nest of blankets with him didn’t mean any kind of funny business would go on, and he understood. At the very least, he was content in curling up around me until there was barely a sliver of space between us, but as long as he kept his pants on, I could deal.

Hours later, I wake up warm and cozy, and I almost forget why I would. Then my cheek shifts against something solid, something alive, and the reminder that I’m in a werewolf’s lair comes slamming back into me. There’s the steady thud of a heartbeat somewhere near, plus the weight of his arm over my back, keeping me right next to him while he snuffles.

Memory creeps back in small pieces, mixed with sleep and disregarded warnings and the undeniable fact that, sometime after I told a half-feral wolf-man that he had to wait for me to be ready to ‘mate’ him, I apparently was relaxed and comfortable enough to fall asleep next to him like that was something perfectly normal to do.

As I come to, I realize that it isn’t just that he’s wrapped around me. Oh, no. I’m basically sprawled across his delicious-looking chest, one leg thrown over as much of one of his as I can manage, my hair a scarlet mess over both of us while his arm clutches me to him in a hold that is both sweet yet possessive.

Once I do realize that, I go very still. Then, as carefully as I can because—despite all evidence to the contrary—I’m not an idiot with a death wish, I try to ease away from Wolf.

The second I move, his arm tightens around me.

It doesn’t hurt. I can tell that he doesn’t mean for it, too. It’s just a silent reminder that, since I woke up in his house, he has no plans on seeing me leave it again. Which, you know, is a big fucking issue for me, but that’s the day after tomorrow’s problem.

Right now? I need to set a few more boundaries with my werewolf.

“Wolf,” I mutter, bracing a hand against his chest and pushing up enough to glare down at him now that I know he’s conscious. “No. Bad boy.”

The wolf-man doesn’t open his gold-tinged eyes at first. Turning into me, he buries his nose in my hair instead, inhaling slowly as though the first thing he needs when he wakes up is a hint of my scent. He changes his grip, settling me more firmly against him, then rumbles one word: “Stay.”

Not possible.

“I need to sit up,” I tell him, losing my patience with the big beast. “Not everything is me trying to flee your weird little nest of blankets, you know.”

That gets his eyes open. “Den.”

That’s all he says. Den.

Whatever. It’s a nest, and we both know it. “Let me up.”

Wolf turns on his side, showing no sign that he plans on doing that. He lies there for a few seconds, watching me with the same intense focus that had me agreeing to curl up for a nap earlier today, before he slides one of his claw-covered hands into my hair.

I flinch, expecting his fingers to snag or for him to tug my hair. That doesn’t happen. Wolf simply starts dragging his claws through the tangles he can reach with surprising care. He separates the strands, smoothing the snarls away from my face.

I can’t help it. I have to know. “What are you doing?”

“Grooming.”

Grooming? “What? My hair?”

He nods once, then returns to the task.

The absurdity of having a giant wolf-man finger-combing my hair in an attempt to groom me has me choking on a laugh. “Okay. That’s definitely wasn’t what I thought you’d want to do when we got up again.”