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"You're right."

"That's worse." My eyes sting and I refuse them. "You could be wrong about one thing tonight. As a favor."

He sets the salt down. When he speaks, his voice has gone rough all the way through.

"I'll tell you everything. All of it, right now. Every question, every name, and I won't stop until you're done asking."

That's the cruelest thing he's done all evening, because I want it so badly my hands shake, and I can't hold one more true thing tonight.

"No."

"Maren."

"Go home."

"Something came through your gate."

"Then sit on your porch and stare at my house. You're good at it." It sounds harsher than I meant. But, I won't take it back. "I can't breathe with you in the room. That isn't a punishment. It's just the truth."

He stands. He's careful about it, the way he's careful about everything, and he stops in my doorway with one hand flat on the frame.

"Lock it behind me."

Then he's gone, still wrapped in my grandmother's quilt, and I'm alone in a kitchen that smells like salt and burnt herbs, and I don't cry, because if I start I'll have to admit what I'd be crying about.

I fall into my bed but don't sleep. Obviously.

I'm staring at the ceiling again. The sheets are tangled around my ankles because I've been kicking at them like I'm fighting off some invisible enemy, and the pillow has taken more abuse than any pillow deserves. It’s too quiet and the only thing I can hear is the rhythmic thud of my own heartbeat and the occasional creak of the building settling.

And then there's him. In my head. Uninvited and impossible to evict.

I’m hot and pulsing between my legs and still focusing on that amazing naked body wondering what it would feel like to touch him.

I saw everything. The full, brutal canvas of him. Those shoulders wide enough to block out a doorway, covered in dark ink that curled and spiraled down his arms in patterns I would love to trace with my fingertips and with my tongue. The scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, the longer one slashing across his shoulder. His short dark hair and those beautiful grey eyes.

And lower. Jesus. He was so full, heavily hard, and I just stood there with my mouth open and my thighs pressed together like some kind of Victorian woman who'd never seen a cock before. I've seen cocks. I've been around. But his? That was a different category entirely. Thick, and the way it sat against his thigh, I could feel my body reacting before my brain caught up.

I squeeze my eyes shut now, lying here naked in the dark, and the image floods back in perfect, devastating detail.

My hands are restless. I've been trying to keep them still, folded on my stomach like some kind of monk in meditation, but my body isn't having it.

My nipples are tight and aching against the cool air, and I can feel the desire between my legs getting worse every time I think about the way the tattoos wrapped around his hip bones, pointing down like an arrow I desperately want to follow.

"Fuck it," I whisper to nobody.

My right hand slides up my stomach, over my ribs, and finds my left breast. I pinch the nipple hard, the way I imagine he would. A sharp little gasp escapes me. I'm already sensitive, already wound up from replaying that moment, and the sensation shoots straight down between my legs.

I switch to the other nipple, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger, tugging until my back arches slightly off the mattress.

In my head, it's his hands. Those big hands, rough and deliberate. I imagine him hovering over me, his massive frame blocking out the light, grey eyes looking down at me with intensity. The scar through his eyebrow gives his face a dangerous edge that makes my stomach flip.

My left hand drifts down. I don't tease myself. There's no point. I'm already soaked. My fingers slide through the wetness, and I hiss at how slick I am. All of a sudden, I’m in a state of arousal because my brain decided to imprint on him like a malfunctioning duckling.

I find my clit and press. A jolt runs through me, and my hips buck involuntarily. I start slowly, circling, applying pressure in a rhythm that I imagine he'd set if he were touching me, those broad hands gripping my hips, holding me in place while he takes his time.

Am I really doing this? He’s a wolf shifter. What am I thinking?

I slip two fingers inside myself anyway and my breath stutters. I'm wet enough that there's no resistance, just a slick sound that fills the quiet room. I curl them, pressing against the front wall, and my free hand goes back to my nipple, pinching and pulling in a rhythm that matches the one between my legs.