How to Run with a Naked Werewol(20)

My stomach rolled with the only possibility. Glenn. Glenn would have the skill necessary to get into any Web site he wanted.

"But his stumbling across a ferry company's Web site is just so random," I said. "How would he even know to look at the port terminal Web site?"

"We're not sure, honey. Maybe he ran a facial-recognition program set to scan cached images. It's possible he's figured out where our information is stored and he got in that way. He's a persistent little bastard. Next time, try to marry someone who can't turn on a laptop on his own."

My fickle brain immediately went to Caleb. And I told my brain to mind its own business.

"Anyway, the good news is that you're nowhere near that area now, and looking for you in a state that big is like looking for a needle in a . . . really large haystack with very few needles."

I snickered. "Didn't think that metaphor through, huh?"

"Nope."

Red-burn assured me that the Network was using every resource it had to get me reestablished. We ended the call with promises that she would send me e-mails regardless of new developments. I just had to stay safe and be patient.

I felt I had staying safe covered, particularly after Caleb sewed a special pocket in the lining of my coat so I would have "my baton" on hand anytime I needed it. (A werewolf with seamstress skills-who knew?) But patience was a little more complicated. I knew I was falling too easily into this routine. I got used to sharing motel rooms. I got used to sharing tiny, dingy bathrooms with a man so tall he could brush his teeth behind me and still see himself in the mirror over my head. I got used to sharing greasy meals over sticky diner tables and rickety in-room dinette sets. I got used to sleeping in a bed warmed by a large body, a definite bonus considering the daily drop in temperature as we rounded the corner into October.

I learned little things, some that endeared me to Caleb, others that made me want to throw all of his Garth Brooks CDs out of the truck window. I learned that Caleb liked having his back rubbed as we fell asleep. I learned that violin music made him edgy. Like most men, he insisted that he didn't need directions, but I insisted even more forcefully that we keep track of our progress on a map.

Without mentioning them, he obviously was learning little things about me, too. He noticed the titles I liked to read and would pick up a mystery or romance paperback for me whenever he found a store that sold books. He would take the tomatoes off of my sandwiches without my having to say how much I hated them. He knew how to adjust the heat vents in the truck so that I stayed warm but not too hot.

I knew it would only last until I relocated, but it started to feel something like a normal existence. What could life be like if we were staying in one place? Would we become bored with each other? Would he realize that there were much more attractive, less emotionally damaged girls out there with whom he could make beautiful wolf-babies?                       
       
           



       

I wasn't happy that it was taking so long to reach my destination, but there wasn't much I could do about it. For now, I tried to enjoy traveling with Caleb.

Of course, there were nights when I would wake up with a warm, firm body curled around mine, and I would flinch, flipping onto my back and scooting across the bed. Caleb's arm would wrap around my waist, his grip unrelenting despite my mattress gymnastics.

Once my sleep-sluggish brain realized I was with Caleb, I would settle down almost immediately. Caleb's physical presence was like a magnet, constantly drawing me. No matter where he was in the room, I could feel the warmth of his skin radiating out and reaching for me.

He was deliberately giving me space, which I appreciated. I knew it was probably difficult for him. Were-creatures were demonstrative folk, reveling in public displays of affection where maybe only a handshake was called for. They maintained intimacy, from friendship to epic soul-mate romance, through touch. It was as though skin-to-skin contact confirmed the connection, a sort of unwritten, unspoken, I still love you enough to tolerate your questionable hand-washing practices memo.

It was diametrically opposed to his nature to avoid touching me, particularly, I suspect, after getting so cozy with me that first night. I appreciated his efforts, but at the same time, I felt more than a little frustrated by the situation. I was trusting Caleb more each day, growing more attracted to him, and he now seemed content to be snuggle-buddies.

And it was slowly driving me insane.

Sex was serious business for werewolves. I knew that in most cases, it meant lifelong commitment and off-spring and all that. Part of me hoped that Caleb was the rare exception who could slip on a steel-belted-radial condom and have his way with a girl he just liked a lot.

It was a long shot.

Then again, did the committed-werewolf-sex issue mean that Caleb had never had sex?

Werewolves were basically breeding themselves out of existence with their mated-for-life policies. Once a male impregnated a female, his DNA wouldn't mix with any other's. The same went for were-females-once they had children with a male, there were no other connections to be made. It was why divorce was almost nonexistent, and widows rarely remarried within the pack. Most males didn't want to give up their chance of having children. Maggie's cousin Samson was a fantastic exception to this rule. He had adopted his wife Alicia's children as his own and was in the process of turning them into miniature knuckle-headed versions of himself.

Generally, werewolves tried to marry other werewolves, so they would be able to pass on their genes and produce little werewolves. But because of geography and the limited population, more and more wolves were marrying humans, and that resulted in more "dead-liners," humans who shared all the same genes as werewolves but had none of the wolf magic. They couldn't phase and lacked the werewolves' special senses. They weren't included in pack business. Some packs considered them a source of shame, as if the diluted werewolf genes were a sign of weakness, but the Graham pack loved their dead-liners as much as they loved any relative.

Most females wouldn't risk premating sex, because they didn't want to risk being tied to someone they didn't want to spend the rest of their lives with. Some males did play "sex roulette," as Maggie called it, and sometimes they lost, meaning they impregnated unsuitable females and were stuck with them for life. Maggie's stance on this unfortunate practice was "If you don't want to pay, don't play."

Maggie was terribly pragmatic about this sort of thing.

It was difficult to imagine someone like Caleb as a thirty-something-year-old virgin. But I didn't know if I was ready for that responsibility, to initiate someone into sex. Not because I was nervous about sex. I used to be not really wild but on the more adventurous side of the spectrum. I went out with my girlfriends, enjoyed the occasional protected one-night stand. But that was then. Now I was no one's idea of an ideal first time.

Unless, of course, he came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel again-then all bets were off.





7


Ethical Organ Thievery





We had been driving for hours. The last time I could remember feeling my own butt was sometime before lunch. Even Caleb was starting to show some wear, hunching over the wheel and occasionally rolling his neck back and forth to hear the snap of realigning vertebrae. I reached across the seat, pleased that I could touch him so casually, rubbing the thick hair at the crown of his head, down to the nape of his neck. He leaned into the caress, a pleased chuffing noise emanating from his chest.

"Sore?"

He nodded.

I rubbed the back of his neck, pressing my fingers deeper into the muscle tissue, feeling for knots. Tracing his hairline with my fingertips, massaging his scalp, rubbing my fingers along the tips of his ears, which I'd heard was an acupressure point for dogs. He turned his head to rub his cheek against my knuckles. I scooted a little closer, rubbing those knuckles along the line of his cheekbone. He turned his head slightly, pulling one of my fingertips into his mouth. He nipped at it with his blunter front teeth before wrapping his tongue around it, running his tongue along the ridges of my fingerprints. A hot flash ran from my chest to my belly and settled between my thighs. Old, lovely, familiar sensations-lust, excitement, giddy teenage zeal-had me squirming in my seat. My eyes widened at the strength and dexterity of his tongue as he moved it over my skin. If he could do that to a fingertip, what could he do to my-

I was jolted out of this rather indecent speculation by Caleb's suddenly veering off the road and throwing the truck into park. My seatbelt seemed to melt away, and Caleb was climbing across the seat.

His mouth. My God, his mouth was hot and so very wet against mine. He wrapped my legs around his waist, pressing me back against the seat and grinding his thick, solid, denim-covered erection against me.

I moaned into his mouth, threading my fingers through his hair with one hand and clinging to his neck with the other. His hands spanned the width of my waist, sliding down the front of my jeans and yanking them open. The dark depth of his eyes melted away and gave way to predatory gold. Pressing his mouth to my palm, he untangled my arms from his neck and had me lie back as he pulled my jeans and panties down. His warm, thick fingers slid smoothly inside me. He moved in and out, teasing me with an achingly slow rhythm as his thumb rubbed at my sensitive folds.