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“Friends of yours?” I ask.
“Definitely.” He backs off the bed and holds his hand out. When I take it, he tugs me off the bed. “We should get out of here in case they come around.”
I’m too blissed out from the incredible orgasms and the closeness I feel to Abe to pay much attention to the sliver of unease that sprouts about his desire to hide me from his friends.
I’m not a wolf shifter–I get it. And I know he’s a wolf. If that got out, he’d be in trouble, and I’d get mind-wiped.
But I’m not used to being someone’s shameful secret, either. I’m used to being the prize.
I forget it all when Abe slides my dress over my head. It’s kinda sexy to be dressed like a Barbie doll by your boyfriend.
Er–I guess he’s not my boyfriend, but whatever. It’s still hot.
Abe smoothes the dress down, sliding his large palms down my sides, around to my ass, where he squeezes. “Do you feel better, Princess?” His voice is low and bedroom-y.
I bring my hands to his sculpted chest, my fingertips tracing the lines of his pecs. “Yeah.” Of course, I have to go home to the mess I made with Luke, but that’s on me.
“I can meet you here any evening or night after practice and give you what you need. Even if it’s just another toss off a cliff.”
A laugh tumbles out of me. Warmth curls in my chest, filling the places that went cold when we heard the wolves. “I might take you up on that, baller.”
“Might?” He sounds offended.
I laugh again. “Okay, I will. Probably.”
“Pearls, you are the hardest to get of all hard-to-gets.”
“When did you ever make any attempt to get me?” I shoot back.
He grins. “Oh yeah. That’s fair.” He grabs his clothes and pulls them on, then yanks the bedding from the bed and carries it out.
“That’s very responsible of you.” I don’t know why seeing Abe do this little piece of domesticity is a turn-on.
“Wolves can smell everything.” He stuffs the sheets into a washing machine and pours the liquid soap in. “My parents totally know that me and my friends use this cabin–that’s what it’s for, really–but I don’t need them to know everything.” He gives me a boyish grin with a waggle of his brows that turns me to soft goo. I love this side of Abe.
The real side. The ordinary-extraordinary young man who washes sheets and tries to be a good son to his parents.
The guy who I know now struggles with a neural condition that he works very hard to hide. Not for himself, but for his father.
My heart–which had been barely beating before–has now come back to a steady rhythm, and it’s pulsing in perfect time with Abe’s.
He starts the washer and stalks to the kitchen. “You hungry?”
“I thought you were trying to get me out of here.”
“I am, but I’m also starving. Being with you is a huge calorie-drain.” He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of milk, which he opens and chugs.
“Because I trigger your neural thing?” There’s something I still don’t understand about that. Why would my scent be any different for him? Why do I set him off?
He meets my eyes over the top of the milk carton. In the light of the refrigerator door, they take on that ice-blue glow. “Something like that,” he says after he finishes gulping down the entire container.
He tosses it in the trash.
“Who keeps this place stocked with food?” I ask.
“My mom, I guess. She knows how hungry growing wolves can get after shifting.”
Loss engulfs me. The pain of not having a mom to do those little things–to make sure I’ve eaten enough or ask about homework or any of the other little things moms do–hits me so hard, I sway on my feet. “That’s sweet,” I manage to choke out. “Moms are…amazing.”
