Dead and Loving It (Page 16)
Now her hand was sliding up and down with delicious, if agonizing, slowness. “Origins,” she prompted helpfully.
“Right. You descended from apes. And that’s—actually—that’s quite fine— really—ah—you’re not going to stop, are you?”
“‘Fraid so, big guy.” She must have taken pity at his horrified expression, because she shifted her hips and then he was sliding up inside her. “Why should you have all the—all the—fun?” She’d been riding him while talking, lifting up and then slamming back down. Now she was just as breathless as he, thank goodness, and oh Christ, she was so sweet and it felt so good, it felt amazing. Her hands were clutching his shoulders as she pumped and pumped, and he grabbed her knees and spread her thighs wider on the down stroke. Her eyes rolled up in her head and he felt her uterus contracting around his c**k as she came.
“Oh, God!” she cried at the ceiling.
“Too bad,” he panted. He grabbed her hips and lifted, released, lifted, released. She shuddered all over and he felt her clench again. “It’s going to be a while for me, dear. That whole middle-aged thing, you know. Hope you’ve buckled in for a long ride.”
She wriggled, trying to lift herself off him, but he held on because he needed her right where she was, and because he knew she wasn’t truly worried. He used her roughly, because he knew she wanted him to do so, but also because he needed to be a little rough—needed to make an impression on her mind, if not her body. He wasn’t sure if that was a werewolf thing, or strictly a male prerogative.
When she was clawing at his shoulders and begging him, when she was very nearly sore from coming, he finally let himself go. Shooting off inside her was like a dream, the best he ever had.
She collapsed over him, panting. He stroked her back, savoring the fine sheen of sweat he found there.
“Oh, dude,” she said at last. “A girl could fall in love.”
He snorted, and then they laughed together, like mates.
“Drake. Seriously. How many T-shirts do you think I need?”
“But they’re so versatile,” the Gap saleswoman piped up.
“Not to mention fragile,” Drake whispered in her ear, and was gratified to see her blush.
“You go away,” she ordered the woman, smiling. “You’re helping him spend way too much money as it is. And you—put that down. Khaki—yech.”
“But this is the Gap,” the saleswoman said (“Ask me how to save 15%” was
emblazoned in hysterical red ink on her lapel button), obediently retreating.
“What, so I have to wear the uniform, too? Keep going.”
“I’m offering you any woman’s dream,” he said, “and you’re still making
mischief.” “A) Chauvinist much? Any woman’s dream? Shopping at Faneuil Hall? And
B) put those down. I already picked out pants.”
“You’ll need more than two pairs.”
“Not according to some,” she said, arching an eyebrow.
“Hmm,” he said, advancing on her, momentarily slowed by a whirl of khaki
as she threw the pants at him.
“Forget it, pal. Neither the time nor the place. Excuse me,” she added, bumping into a silver, headless mannequin. “Oh, gross! I hate when I think
“That’s some empathy you’ve got at work there,” he commented.
“Off my case, Dr. Furball. What, you never ever made a mistake?”
He thought hard. “Nothing springs to mind.”
She let out a yelp of anger and he could tell she was sorry she had nothing in her arms to toss at him any longer. “Dude, I hate to point this out, but you can’t see. You must have screwed up something. Clashing tie, maybe?”
He tossed her a blouse the color of her eyes and said in a low voice, although the saleswoman was across the store, “H**o saps are more handicapped than I, dear.”
“Oh, sure, the one-eyed man in the country of the blind, and all that.”
“We’re not that bad.”
He shrugged. “I can smell an iron deficiency. I can hear a heart murmur without a stethoscope.”
“Well, I can tell this blouse doesn’t go with those pants, so put it right back on the rack, pal. God, aren’t you bored? These are all for me and I’m just about bored out of my t**s.”
He grinned. “Thanks for the visual. I’ll make a note to catalog order for you from now on.”
“Well, thank you. Not that you need to keep buying me clothes.”
Want to bet ? “I suppose taking you to Anne Klein to look at dresses would be a complete waste of time?”
“Barf out! Jeez, look how late it’s getting! The sun’s actually gone down. God, how long have we been doing this?”
“Since supper. Stop complaining, we’re almost done.”
“Well, I’d like to see you make me,” she said pertly.
“Done and done. If you’re quite—” He paused suddenly. Was that a whiff of Pack? It sure was. Hmm, two in one week. It wasn’t often he ran into one a year. That was interesting. Now what to do about it?
“Dick, I swear to f*****g God, if you don’t stop bitching I’m going to pull out your eyeballs and shove them down your pants.” The voice was strident, loud, and female.
“That could be fun,” a low-pitched male voice he didn’t recognize said cheerfully. “And who’s bitching? I just got up. What are we doing here? I didn’t know you liked the Gap, m’dear.”
“I f*****g well hate it and you damn know it. But they’re having a sale and I can stock up. I f*****g hate shopping!”
“A woman after my own heart,” Crescent muttered, holding up a sleeveless sweater. It was touching her, so he could see it was the color of mucous. Everything else was the usual gray blur…but that scent…he knew that scent…
Drake moved to get a closer look. It couldn’t be. And with a man? No. It had been too many years; he was mistaken. Still, no one else he knew packed that many ‘fucks’ into everyday language.
He stepped around the stack of red miniskirts, nostrils flared. Yes. It was she. “Janet Lupo?”
He heard her drop the pile of clothing, and could smell her shock. Despite her completely flabbergasted expression, he could tell by her scent that she was looking good—great, in fact. Very healthy, with a vitality about her that had been lacking in the girl he’d once known.
Interestingly, he had no sense of the man with her except as a bundle of formidable power. No real scent at all, but tall. Very strange.
“F**k a duck,” Janet said.
“Hello, Janet. It’s nice to—”
Drake had an impression of blurred motion, and then he went sailing through the window front and bounced onto the cobblestones. Broken glass rained down everywhere.
Crescent worked very hard on not shrieking. It wasn’t easy. There they’d been, minding their own business, when this b***h came out of nowhere and threw Drake through a window—through the damn window!—and now the two of them were rolling in the street like a couple of alley cats—or wolves, probably; wolves would be more accurate, and the place was emptying pretty quick as the stampede started, and Drake was down, was on his back, and—
“Get off!” Crescent leapt forward, but a brick fell on her shoulder and yanked her back.
“I wouldn’t,” the blonde hottie said mildly. He was a yummy one, all right, and towered over her almost as much as Drake did. Skinny drink of water, though. She observed that the brick was his hand. Strong drink of water, too. “I think it’s a family thing. Better let them—ow.”
She’d never hit anyone in the face before, and was disappointed. Blondie just sort of shook it off and rubbed his jaw. “Now don’t you start. There’s only one woman permitted to smack me around, and she’s currently rolling in a mud puddle with your friend.”
Show him your necklace.
Obeying the inner voice that was never, ever wrong—but which didn’t speak up nearly often enough—she fumbled for one of the three necklaces around her neck, broke the chain, and thrust it at him. To her amazement, he stumbled backward and threw a hand over his face. Just like in the movies!
“Now you’re just being mean,” he said reprovingly, groping for her. “Put that cross away before you hurt someone. Like me!”
She ignored him, turned her back, stuffed the cross in her pocket, grabbed the cow around the waist, and pulled. “Get off,” she huffed. Grabbing her lover’s attacker was not unlike trying to stop an army tank—the woman absolutely did not budge. But she shrugged—nearly dislodging Crescent—and punched Drake
in the eye for good measure.
“Your monkey’s bothering me,” she told him, and punched him again.
“Crescent, don’t,” Drake said sharply. There was a rill of blood trickling down his chin, but other than that he looked unharmed. Anybody else would be spurting blood from about six different arteries after sailing through a plate glass window—thank goodness for werewolf constitution! “Get back. Get out of the way. Don’t worry about me.”
“Yeah, short stuff.” Bam! Another punch. “He’ll be just fine. Why don’t you go get a Frappuccino?”
She ignored them, and stubbornly tugged again.
“Crescent, get away from here. In a minute I’m going to forget to be a gentlemen—Goddammit, Janet, if you hit my jaw again I’ll put you over my knee!”
“It’s a date, gorgeous.”
“Oh no you don’t!” Crescent tried a new grip and pulled harder. “Nobody’s getting spanked but me.”
“Really?” Hottie said from behind her.
“I said get off him!” She suddenly felt her forearm clutched in an unbelievably strong grip, and then she was sailing over the woman’s head, only to hit the sidewalk a*s-first. The shock went all the way up her spine and she yelped.