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“We don’t like to use that term, but yes, essentially. The breeding instinct triggered by the smell of a receptive female, coupled with the reproductive advantage of the bulbous glandis is quite sufficient to—”
Lowell shifted, his erection practically scraping the table’s underside.The breeding instinct. Completely animalistic, mindless rutting, over and over into a woman in heat who would be writhing and begging for his cock, for his knot, tightening around him as he filled her repeatedly, again and again until he was spent and she was full of his seed.
“The process is completely safe. Everything happens in our clinic, and the safety of both the donor and recipient is our utmost concern. If you are worried about being unduly othered, let me put your fears to rest — the clinic founders and all its doctors are of the lupine persuasion, and we take the privacy of our donors very seriously. You will be in good hands with us.”
He thought of Jackson’s little boy, running and playing at all hours of the day — catching fireflies and frogs in the creek, chasing his ball, asking to be pushed on the swings, never slowing. He’d told himself that he’d taken endless photos of the boy to make portraits for mother and grandmother alike, but there was a nagging remorse that he’d missed so much of his nephew’s life. He didn’t want to exist on the forgotten edge of another family member’s life; he wanted tobesomeone to his nephew.
“Helping” another family experience the joy of those toothy smiles and sticky hands and ice cream-smeared chins sounded wonderfully altruistic if one ignored the reality of the expectations. The donor werewolves were compensated, and he could donate those funds to the clinic or another charity. He may have been from a highly sought-after bloodline, but he had no plans to tie himself down to a mortgage and family in Cambric Creek, not anytime soon, despite his mother’s wishes . . . . but he could give that gift to another family.
The clinic was in Starling Heights, a decent enough distance from Cambric Creek to ensure he’d not likely run into anyone who would know him. Devotion to family, loyalty to pack, service to community, that’s what his parents were always going on about. There seemed no better service to the community than to help a family achieve their desire for a child . . . and the fact that he would actually get to enjoy the process was all the better.
“I’ll do it,” he blurted, knuckles tightening on the table. He was going stir crazy, the open road normally before him abruptly curtailed, and heneededsomething to break up the monotony of his new non-routine. He could help a family, could do something worthwhile with his time for as long as he was stuck here.And it won’t be so terrible for you either, he thought, an end to the hometown dry spell. “Where do I sign?”
* * *
Chapter 3
Moriah
She had visited theclinic too late in the month.
It had been her own fault, Moriah reminded herself. Too late in the month, and it was no one's fault but her own. She'd been told the clinic's protocol and the strict adherence to the lunar calendar she needed to adopt. She'd waffled thinking about it, had agonized over the ethics of artificially suppressing a baby's nature, had hesitated over how comfortable she'd be with the insemination process, and her indecision had cost her precious days.
Her return to the clinic had come with both a warm welcome and a good-natured tongue click from the same doctor, reminding her of the importance of adhering to the lunar calendar going forward.
“The good news is we can get you set up this month, the first exam out of the way and in the system, and start you on your first shot. We won't be able to match you with a donor at this point, but you have an extra few weeks to choose someone. We'll just look at that as our silver lining. How does that sound?”
The doctor was lovely, unfailingly kind, and she found the initial pelvic examination not quite as coldly invasive as she had grown accustomed to at the fertility clinic in Bridgeton.
“Cervix is an ideal length and texture, no problematic angling that I can feel. We don't seem to have anything impeding us from proceeding.”
She'd given blood, had a Pap smear, and was sent home with the glossy catalog of donors once she had signed a privacy contract and paid her first deposit. The collection of donors was simultaneously not as thick as she'd been expecting and completely overwhelming, page after page of headshots with accompanying statistics. She'd started reading each caption, applying the information to the faces above, but after a few pages, she realized it would take her several months to get through the whole thing, and she began flipping.
Some of the wolves captured in the pages had attempted to look as sexy and seductive as possible. They had practiced broody expressions, and while they may have been attractive, the artifice of their photos put her off. After all, this wasn't a dating site.If I wanted someone to give me Blue Steel, I could go to Gildersnood and Ives on any Friday night.
In addition to the posers, there were several pages worth of men with harsh, stern expressions, unsmiling and humorless. Sorben had been severe, and although her sunny optimism had softened his edges in the beginning, when it became clear they would not conceive on their own and she fell into depression, his soberness had provided her little comfort. She supposed the icy aura the stern, unsmiling men projected might have been attractive to some women, but the idea of undertaking this with such a partner made her guts twist with anxiety as she lingered over their photos, quickly flipping the pages away.
It was then that she saw him. She turned the page away from one of the unsmiling, stern wolves staring up from the catalog, and her eyes landed on the center of the next page, meeting the eyes of a handsome, dark-haired man with a brilliant smile. He was the first photo she'd come across where his smile seemed genuine. Many of the other wolves in the pages were smiling, but it was the forced smile of a posed photograph, resembling high school yearbooks and professional headshots.
This man, by contrast, looked as though he had been laughing only a breath before the photograph was snapped, his smile big and unconscious, eyes crinkled with the force of it. He was different from the dozens and dozens of other pictures she'd looked at by then. He seemed to radiate a happy sort of energy that was palpable even through the flat, glossy booklet in her hand.
He sparkled, she decided, grinning back, in spite of herself. Handsome, well-educated, and athletic, with no known health concerns. He came from a big family, had been tested for illness and reproductive issues, passed all with flying colors, and made a living as a photojournalist.
He's probably seen the whole world, she thought giddily, genuine excitement overtaking her nerves for the first time since Drea had made her disclosures about the clinic. His eyes held a mischievous gleam, and she could tell without needing to hear it that he had an excellent laugh.They really ought to show full-body shots. I wonder if they have a feedback section. They're giving weight and height, would adding dick length really kill them?
