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interspersed with rough kisses and rougher gropes. Finally, I got the upper position. I pinned him, hands
on his shoulders, knees on his thighs. He struggled, but couldn't throw me off.
"Caught?" I said.
He gave one last squirm, then nodded. "Caught."
"Good."
I slid my knees from his thighs and slipped over him. He tried to thrust up to meet me, but I pushed down
with my hips, keeping him still. I moved into position. When I felt the tip of him brush me, I stopped and
wriggled against him, teasing myself. He groaned and tried to grab my hips, but I pinned his shoulders
harder. Then I closed my eyes and plunged down onto him.
He struggled under me, trying to thrust, to grab, to control, but I kept him pinned. After a moment, he
gave up and arched against the ground, fingers clenching handfuls of grass, jaw tensing, eyes closing to
slits, but staying open, always open, always watching. The first wave of climax hit. I let him go then, but
he stayed where he was, leaving me in control. Dimly, I heard him growl as he came and by the time I
finished and leaned over him, he was laying back, eyes half-lidded, a lazy grin tweaking the corners of his
mouth.
"You know," he said. "I'm almost going to be sorry when we do get you pregnant."
I laughed. "I thought you liked doing the chasing."
"I'm accustomed to doing the chasing. Spent ten years doing it." His grin broke through. "Nothing wrong
with it, but being chased isn't so bad either."
I lowered my mouth to his, then caught a whiff of blood and pulled back. Blood trickled from his
shoulder.
"Whoops," I said, licking my fingers and wiping it off. "Got a bit carried away. Sorry about that."
"Didn't hear me complaining." He brushed his fingertips across a fang-size hole under my jaws. "Seems I
gave as good as I got anyway." He yawned and stretched, hands going around me and resting on my
rear. "Just add them to the collection."
I ran my hand over his chest, fingers tracing across half-healed scabs and long-healed scars. Most of
them were the dots of too-hard bites or the paper-thin scratches of misaimed claws. The residue of
friendly fire. I had them too, tiny marks that wouldn't be noticed from more than a foot away, nothing to
draw stares when I wore halter tops and shorts. I had few true battle scars. Clay had more, and as my
hands moved over them, my brain ticked off the stories behind each. There wasn't one I didn't know, not
a scar I couldn't find with my eyes closed, not a mark I couldn't explain.
He closed his eyes as my fingers moved down his chest. I looked up at his face, a rare chance to look at
him without him knowing I was looking. I don't know why that still matters. It shouldn't. He knows how I
feel about him. I want to have a child with him it doesn't get any clearer than that, not for me. But after
ten years of pushing him away, trying to pretend I didn't still love him, wasn't still crazy-in-love with him,
I'm still cautious in some small ways. Maybe I always will be.
I shifted to look down at him. Gold eyelashes rested against his cheeks. His skin already showed the first
beige tint of a tan. Now and then, when he was poring over a book, I caught the ghost of a line forming
over the bridge of his nose, the first sign of an impending wrinkle. Not surprising, considering he turned
forty-two this year. Werewolves age slowly, though, and Clay could still easily pass for a decade
younger. Yet the wrinkle reminded me that we were getting older. I'd passed thirty-five this year, right
around the time I'd finally decided that he was right, and I we were ready for a child. The two events
were, I'm sure, not unconnected.
And now that I'd given myself permission to do something I'd been longing to do all my life, it wasn't
happening. I told myself there was no rush. Five months of trying to get pregnant was nothing. I was as
healthy and fit as a twenty-year-old. When the time came, it would come, and I had to stop worrying
about it. Easy to say; near-impossible to do. I've spent a lifetime perfecting the art of fretting, and I'm not
about to abandon my craft now.
My stomach growled. Clay's hand slid across it, smiling, eyes still closed.
"That's what happens when you chase me instead of dinner," he said.
"I'll remember that next time."
He opened one eye. "On second thought, forget it. Chase me and I'll feed you afterward. Anything you
want."
"Ice cream."
He laughed and opened the other eye. "I thought that was after you get pregnant."
"I'm practicing."
"Ice cream it is, then. Do we have any?"
I slid off him. "The Creamery opened last week. Two-for-one banana splits all month."
"One for you and one for "
I snorted.
He grinned. "Okay, two for you, two for me."
He pushed to his feet and looked around.
"Clothing southwest," I said. "Near the pond."
"Are you sure?"
"Let's hope so."
I stepped from the forest into the backyard. As the clouds swept past again, shafts of sunlight slid over
the house. The freshly painted trim gleamed dark green, the color matching the tendrils of ivy that
struggled to maintain a hold on the stone walls. The gardens below were equally green, evergreens and
bushes interspersed with the occasional clump of tulips from a fall gardening spree a few years ago, the
tulips ending at the patio wall, which was as far as I'd gotten before getting distracted and leaving the bag
of bulbs to rot in the rain. That was our typical approach to gardening: every now and then we'd buy a
plant or two, maybe even get it in the ground, but most times we were content just to sit back and see
what came up naturally.
The casual air suited the house and the slightly overgrown yard that blended into the fields and forests
beyond. A wild sanctuary, the air smelling of last night's fire and new grass and distant manure, the silence
broken only by the twitter of birds, the chirp of cicadas& and the regular crack of gunfire.
As the next shot rang out, I pressed my hands to my ears and made a face. Clay motioned for us to circle
back along the woods and come up on the opposite side. When we drew alongside the shed, I could
make out a figure on the stone patio, his back to us. Tall, lean and dark-haired, that hair curling over his
collar, as sporadically clipped as the lawn. He lifted the gun. Clay grinned, handed me his shoes, then
broke into a silent lope, heading around the stone wall.
I kept walking, but slower, having a good idea what he was up to. By the time I neared the wall, he was
already vaulting over it. He caught my gaze, and lifted his finger to his lips. As if I needed the warning. He
crept up behind the gunman, paused, making sure he hadn't been heard, then crouched and sprang.
Jeremy sidestepped without even turning around. Clay hit the wall and yelped.
Jeremy shook his head. "Serves you right. You're lucky I didn't shoot you."
"Live dangerously, that's my motto."
"It'll be your epitaph, too."
Jeremy Danvers, our Pack Alpha and owner of Stonehaven, where Clay and I lived, and would
doubtless continue to live for the rest of our lives. Part of that was because Clay was Jeremy's
bodyguard, and had to say close, but mostly it was because he'd never consider leaving. Clay had been
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