Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 07bySmileWhenYouMeanIt©
Gemma drifted out of a deep, contented sleep. She was lying curled half on her side, half on her front, tucked snugly into the crook of Mac's shoulder, fingers tangled lightly in the silken hairs of his chest. One of his arms was curved over her back, protective and warm, and his fingers were tracing a feather-light trail across the curve of her hip. A shimmer of gentle heat followed in their wake.
She never managed to waken before him. Sometimes he had gone hunting, either for food or for something else that he had decided she needed. Sometimes she awoke to find him carrying her through the forested hills, curled up in the soft fur he had brought for her. But in their six days entwined together so closely, she had yet to see him sleep.
The tangy scent of him, wild and slightly smoky, teased at her nostrils. So male. Her skin began to tighten, slowly, adoring his touch and the awareness. He was here. Mac. Her Mac. It was so difficult to stop her lightly tingling fingers from stroking softly, deeper into his fur, tracing the hard muscles, the light ridges of old scars hidden under the pelt. But she had so little time like this to savour, so little peace, so little simple enjoyment of him without the roaring fire engulfing them both. As soon as he realised that she was awake - or as soon as her own libido decided that she was awake -.
His blood speeded up under her ear, she could feel it beginning to race as his breath deepened.
He knew. He always knew.
A jolt of awareness exploded in her belly, and she could feel the raging lust ignite, a flare of heat sheering through her as her blood combusted. Gemma squirmed against him, feeling his cock harden and begin to race against her thigh. The light, teasing fingers traced down to brush through the soft covering of hair between her thighs. Gemma's blood pulsed, longing, and her mind began to darken with the boiling clouds of want. She turned her hips to press her buttocks back against him without thought, legs parting a little way in invitation when his fingertips brushed lower.
His hand dipped to cup over her pussy, and one finger stroked gently into the valley, collecting moisture from her opening to swirl it teasingly around the hard little nub of her clit. God. The hoarse, rasping breaths on the air were hers, and she parted her legs wider, fingers clenching in his chest fur, moaning when he stroked one hard finger into her while his thumb played with her aching clit.
"Always so delightfully ready, my picchu," he purred the growl into her ear, delicately tweaking her little nub as he withdrew his fingers so that she arched with a cry, then laying his full weight upon her. Gemma's hands stroked up to his broad shoulders and she combed her fingers through the thick, bewitchingly soft pelt, enjoying the silken brush against her skin while her legs automatically, eagerly, widened when he pressed his hard thighs between them. Always.
"Pity you're so reluctant," she retorted teasingly, squirming a little under his weight to rub her belly gently against the straining, moist-tipped erection throbbing between them. The sound he released was a slight groan, slight growl, and he lifted up, pulling one of her legs wider to position her for his cock.
"You slept for hours," he grumbled as he slowly breached her, stretching her walls around his hard, pulsing readiness. He had been waiting. As usual.
"You exhausted me," Gemma gasped back, her voice cutting off on a rising, breathless squeak when he bottomed out, filling her, stretching her with his unbearable, delicious, heavy organ. He stilled, a little smirk on his lips as he looked down from where he was braced above her, keeping his weight just off her chest so that his fur teased her erect nipples.
"Oh-oh," he murmured teasingly, "Did I just hear you speak while I was in you, little mate? Without the magic word?"
Ho ho ho, Mr. Wolf. Gemma's eyes gleamed back up him and she folded her lips together, arching against his body, tightening her inner muscles around his cock while she slid her hands gently down to his forearms, brushing over the soft fur. She wasn't going to let him win this time.
Mac's eyes slid half-closed in pleasure, gleaming, lips parting. The trouble was, hers did too. The feel of him, throbbing motionless inside her. Exquisite. But she wanted him to move. And he was waiting, damn him. So she did it again, arching further and rippling her muscles around his deeply embedded, hard member. Mac's head tilted back, his eyes glazed over and mouth parted to let out a long, deep sigh of pleasure.
She milked gently around his cock a third time and he began to pant, heatedly, as a shiver ran through his powerful frame. Gemma's eyes were gleaming, but she felt a different, powerful jolt run through her when his head tilted back down and his eyes met hers, glittering, predatory, and fierce.
Damn his eyes. He could make her melt just with that hot, erotic glare.
Mac braced himself on one arm, eyes gleaming challengingly back into hers while he stroked a warm hand around to cup and squeeze her left breast, gently rolling the nipple between his fingers. Gemma lifted into a back-breaking arch, moaning from the pleasure, straining into the pull of his hand kneading expertly around her tender, aching mound. Pleasure lanced through from her chest to the tight, throbbing pulse between her thighs and the fire of his touch, his scent and the presence of him poised over her, in her, burned in searing fire through her blood, demanding more, demanding friction, heat, possession. Now.
Dammit, she wanted him to move. Now. Please. Quivering, taut with the delicious feeling, she sighed under his circling touch, biting on her lower lip to hold back the word.
His hand began to glide down, across her soft belly, and her skin erupted in wanton desperation, just from the anticipation. Dammit, he didn't play fair - she knew what he could do with his fingers, and if he still wouldn't thrust -. Gemma gasped, thoughts cut off as he slid that teasing finger back against her nub. No, she couldn't - oh. She groaned, lifting and squeezing around the stiff, throbbing cock embedded in her, hearing his breath hitch from the sensation but she was unable to pull herself back together, to focus, to plan - she couldn't think, just - Oh, not that. Oh. Yes. Please, god, yes. Just give it to me, don't - aw -, dammit, Mac, yes, yes, please - I can't -.
"Mac, please!" the words exploded from her, then she cried out wordlessly, back arching violently off the rug, the intense pleasure sheeting through her when her mate cut her off, slamming his cock in a breathtakingly swift withdrawal and advance in her slick, aching sheath. Oooo - despite knowing he was waiting to do that, despite knowing how smug it made him each time he proved he could pull the words from her, Gemma writhed breathlessly underneath the pleasure of it. It was glorious, she loved this game. Damn him.
Mac stilled again and her eyes opened. He was looming above her, a smile on his face - slight triumph, slight shamefacedness. He couldn't resist this play, loved re-affirming what he could do to her, but he waited to watch her eyes as they reopened. She glowered up at him, and reached her hands up urgently to yank him down for a deep, long kiss.
"For god's sake, Mac, just pound me into the ground," she gasped as she re-surfaced, and saw the eager, gleaming light ignite in his eyes. He leaned forward and swept her legs up and around so that she could hold her own ankles before he began to surge powerfully into her, the blood in her veins beating higher with each slam of his thighs against hers. Oh god oh god oh - the grinding of his hips as he bottomed out each time, the scent of his arousal, the brush of his fur - Mac. Gemma screamed as she arched in pleasure, her eyes blacking out, and she rippled around the frenzied thrusts of him inside her.
Mac grunted as the sensation of her orgasm caught him, lifting back slightly to increase the angle while he pounded into her cunt, quickening, swelling, increasing the delicious sensation.
Gemma could feel herself sliding off the rug and onto the grass at the urgent force of his shattering thrusts. Mac groaned and his erection swelled further inside her, urgent hands biting into her hips to hold his mate in position for the pleasure of each deep, full penetration, again and again. His groan intensified into a growl, growing breathless with each forceful surge up her slick pussy while the tingling pleasure built, built, crested, then abruptly surged down his spine to explode exquisitely out of his cock. His mate was whimpering in pleasure as she was stretched by the swell of his organ pulsing inside her, while he grunted as he spurted again and again.
The ripples of his exploding within her stroked shatteringly, beautifully, along the depths of Gemma's intensely sensitised passage, making her melt and cry out under him again, breathless in liquid pleasure, soaring, Their mingled harsh, deep breathing was echoing through the air when Mac slowly rested his full weight down on her, teeth closing in a gentle, exquisite nip over the tender skin at her neck.
Gemma's slowly, contentedly drifted back to awareness, fingers tangling, brushing through his shoulder fur as the ripples of pleasure inside her eventually subsided. His hair was so smooth, so silken. Whispering against her fingertips. Mac sighed contentedly and rolled again, separating from her, removing his weight. His forearm lifted to shade his eyes from the morning sun while he lay still for a moment. Then he surged to his feet. He was always so damn energetic.
And he calls this feeble.
Thinking back to the days in her flat, Gemma was quite impressed. The completely laid-back lack-of-hurry which had characterised the human Mac back home had successfully hidden this teeming energy underneath; despite the fact that he'd been holding down a night job, and working as a photographer, she had somehow gained the impression that he'd slept most of the day while she was out.
I doubt it.
"I'll get breakfast, picchu," her wolf murmured as he strode off toward the nearby trees. Gemma admired his taut buttocks and smiled from her prone position, flattened, contented, on the grass. His pet name for her stroked softly over her skin - apparently it was a Finnish corruption of a wolf dialect of Spanish - or something like that - courtesy of a distant great grandmother. Mac seemed to have very mottled ancestry. It translated roughly as little jug of sweetness, a private endearment passed down in his family, which he kept just for her.
So Jasmine had probably been telling the truth when she claimed that she didn't know what it meant. The wolf girl had not merely been winding Gemma up.
"I'll have a wash," she called back, flopping reluctantly into a roll toward the running water she could hear. She didn't have much time. Her mate growled under his breath, disapprovingly, and she grinned to herself. That had been one of their main fights. Mac didn't think she should wash in a lake or river - he preferred to lick her clean. And he was quite adamant that his scent should mark her all over, at all times. However, Gemma had decided that she wanted a break - there was very little time while she was awake that she wasn't flirting for his touch, being ferociously, thoroughly mated, or being stuffed with food. And if he licked her clean - well, she knew where that would go.
So she had requested that he stop them somewhere where she could bathe at each new camp. And had discovered that for someone who could hear a leaf landing on soft grass, Mac could become remarkably deaf. She got a bit more insistent. Mac had listened unhappily to her arguments about needing a pause to recover from the constant, mind-blowing orgasms - he was aware that she didn't have the stamina of a sjeste. He'd winced a little when she'd described how tender her overactive pussy was, how it needed the cool water to wash after each sexual explosion - although actually, she just wanted to feel clean. So he'd quietly agreed.
However, the sneaky wolf had known that a wash between each mating would be impossible - there was no way she was able to drag herself away from him between each tempestuous union, often there was no more than a few moments of kissing as he swelled again inside her. Mmm. So she'd settled on washing once a day. Before breakfast - when her body was hollow, stomach roaring for food, and the molten, relentless urge was for once eclipsed, after only one heated mating, by the demanding food-hunger. She could sneak in a wash while he prepared their meal, if she was quick. She grabbed the soft soap.
Freezing, freezing, cold water. Bother that wolf. She was sure he picked the coldest rivers he could find, trying to get her to change her mind. When Gemma stumbled shivering back onto the bank after the fastest wash ever, Mac was there, popping a chunk of lightly roasted venison in her mouth and engulfing her in a sun-warmed towel. While she savoured the rich taste melting on her tongue - thinking slightly wistfully about cereal and toast - he briskly rubbed her dry, rubbed her warm, muttering, "Stubborn idiot."
He fed her some berries with the other pieces of meat, smiling as she bit gently at his fingertips when she took his offerings, before returning to his brisk rubbing. Then when her skin and scalp were glowing from the cold and the heat and the friction, he dropped the towel and stepped in to press his chest lightly against her back, twining his body and arms around her, stroking his fur against her slowly, deliberately. Gemma shivered and held still, leaning slightly into him, delighting in the feather-light brush of the soft hair across her vividly sensitive skin. He wound around her side, lifting her arm and sliding it luxuriously through his fur, stropping her with his musk. Her eyes gleamed up at him and he smiled back down at her while he moved slowly, thoroughly, renewing the scent claim on every inch of her body. His.
She didn't object to this bit of her wash. She could feel the curl of satisfied pleasure that purred in some some deep, inner core.
They ended up curled together as usual by the small smouldering embers of the fire he had lit - he was paranoid about her getting cold, after that first night when he'd gotten back from the hunt to discover just how unresilient humans are to the elements. Gemma was tucked between his spread thighs on her folded rug, hands resting on the soft jeans clinging lovingly to the taut muscles of his bent legs - Mac dressed for meals, too. Partially. His bare chest was warming her back through the soft fabric of the warm (and easily removable) deceptively simple green jersey dress he had brought for her. Her toes were toasting on her pillow by the fire. She snuggled her head contentedly into the fur of his shoulder, drying hair draped down his back, smiling as she accepted another piece of his kill from his hands. That had been the really major fight, but she knew better now.
She should have realised how deep the hurt from that first night had gone earlier - but they came from completely different worlds. And while he could blend into her world, she had little experience in his. He'd gotten back from that first hunt to find her awake and frozen, stumbling about on the tiny island looking for something, anything to warm herself with. And she'd been absolutely ravenous - but not quite enough to gag down any of the deer carcass raw. It had been hanging over his shoulder, glassy eyed and looking very dead.
Yes, he had anticipated the raw meat problem. Mac had proudly produced a box of matches, but had clearly never built a fire in his life. Then there had not been enough dry wood on their island to sustain any flames, and they had had to swim back to the mainland in the chill black water in the moonlight. On reaching the shore, Gemma had been almost unable to move, the wracking shudders of cold achingly deep and dangerous.
Mac had been desperate, fighting to coax some life into glowing embers while he kept himself wrapped around her, wet fur clinging to frozen skin where she burrowed as close as she could to the heat of him. The fire had finally grumbled into life but the hunks of venison torn out by his teeth, when he had hurriedly cooked them, had ended up raw on the inside, with a burnt black crust, revolting. And he'd wanted to post morsels of it into her mouth. Eugh. She had been too tired and cold and hungry and horny to be tactful, and they had had a major fight before winding up entwined around each other and rutting madly.
Then there had been another fight the next morning when she'd woken up in a different hollow, beside a different dead animal, and she still wouldn't let him feed her. The meat had been better cooked that time, he had built the fire before she woke, but still, it had been impossible to choke down pieces of saltless, semi-raw meat with the carcass lying beside the fire, delicate, stiffened legs swaying, ungainly in death, when he tore a few pieces off for himself. And she was perfectly capable of picking up her own food, thanks very much Mr. Domineering Wolf. Yelling into each others' faces had made the sex even more heated; desperate, demanding and ferocious.
The second evening she'd woken up in a third place, curled in a warm rug, surrounded by takeout. Chinese, Thai, Japanese, hamburgers and a big crusty pizza - she'd sampled her way through everything, wolfing down the still-warm food into her starving empty pit of a stomach. Only some sixth sense had made her lift her head, her mouth stuffed, a burger in one hand and aromatic duck in the other, to see the sad green eyes watching from the shadow of the trees. They'd disappeared before she could blink.
That night and the following day, between eating and sleeping, he'd still bedded her constantly, the urge was unstoppable. But he'd treated her with a gentle, tentative sweetness that made her want to cry - or hit him - he was being so damn careful not to offend her further that she could barely breathe. And he hadn't been Mac - he had seemed shy of revolting her, wouldn't eat in front of her and wouldn't bring his kill back with him, surrounding her instead with take-out boxes and disappearing while she ate.
Over the course of the third day she'd begged him with increasing urgency to eat his food with her, and then to let her share his kill - dammit, she could teach him how to cook if he insisted on doing it himself.
Sad, deaf wolf. Gemma had pleaded, demanded, coaxed, kicked him, but none of it had worked - they had found a tentative truce ground, and he wasn't going to rock the boat. He was so damn stubborn.
So she had stopped eating.
It should have been harder than it was, going without food, considering the amount of exercise the two of them could not resist. But she'd been infected by his sadness - despite the physical closeness, it was as if a wedge was sneaking between them, slowly, gently pushing them apart. She had only refused to accept food from his fingers, but it felt like she'd spat in his face. And he showed no resentment, he was just - wary. Like he didn't understand why she'd been so angry, and didn't want to push her into another vitriolic fight like that. Didn't want the hurt.
He'd been appalled at first when he had found all of his offerings untouched that evening, face tightening in despair, until Gemma had told him she wouldn't eat unless he fed it to her. Then she'd seen the first spark of Mac in him, after a day of unproductive provocation. Black swirls firing in his eyes, the wolf had tugged her insistently to him and lowered his head to kiss her breathless. "Let's see what you say after a few hours of exercise," he'd growled, lowering her to the ground and following her down.