Or not. Didn’t matter. She didn’t regret a second of the time she’d spent getting horizontal, vertical, and sideways with Professor Wallace. Maybe, if the ibuprofen kicked in and he could get rid of their visitor . . .
Oh, what was she thinking? They had a couple of big hairy creatures to find, and they needed to get on that program, pronto. Also, Roarke had mentioned last night that he was becoming attached to her and wanted to avoid that. She hated to admit that she was becoming attached to him, too.
Considering the whole werewolf situation, which presented quite the big obstacle to a continued relationship, she should probably cool her jets. She wanted to be dry-eyed when they said good-bye. No drama for this chick, other than the obvious dramatic point that she’d met and shagged a werewolf. No one would ever know that but her, though.
Keeping his secret wouldn’t be tough. She could just imagine trying to tell a friend or family member over coffee. Two minutes into the story, they’d be speed-dialing the local booby hatch. Of course she had pictures, pictures that had worked to get her on this trip, but she wasn’t sure anyone would believe the pictures were legit, either.
She gazed at the word orgasm that she’d filled in for the last round of Hangman. She’d have to scrub that out. No telling whether little kids might someday find this cave and she wasn’t into shocking innocents.
No time like the present, before she became involved in the day and forgot. Roarke’s camp towel lay near enough that she wouldn’t have to work very hard to reach it. On all fours, she got the towel and began rubbing the cave wall to erase the last game of Hangman.
“My God.”
Hearing Roarke’s startled voice behind her, she spun around and clasped the towel to her br**sts as she plopped her bare butt on the cave floor and covered her crotch with her other hand. When she saw he was alone, she sagged in relief and dropped the towel. “I was afraid that you’d brought that guy you were talking to in here.”
He looked hurt. “I wouldn’t have done that without warning you.”
“Of course you wouldn’t, but I was concentrating on what I was doing, and when I heard the shock in your voice, I reacted.” She gazed at him. “Why did you sound so shocked, by the way? It’s not as if you haven’t seen me nak*d before.”
“It wasn’t shock you heard.”
She took a closer look at him, all of him, and noticed the bulge behind the fly of his jeans. “Oh.”
“Male werewolves have a special . . . fondness for that position.”
She had to stop and think what he meant. When she realized he’d come into the cave and found her on all fours mooning him, she flushed. She’d presented an open invitation to do it doggie-style, and apparently he had a weakness for that.
The longer he stood there staring at her, his morning scruff making him look slightly dangerous and his arousal making him look sexy as hell, the more turned on she became. “If that’s true, why didn’t you suggest it last night? I would have been game.” She would have been willing to try it standing on her head last night, before the reality of muscle pain had set in.
He shook his head. “That’s the mating position.”
“You mean the until-death-do-us-part routine?”
“Yes. Taking a female that way, either as a human or a Were, initiates the binding process.”
That shouldn’t make her hot. She had no interest in that binding stuff or the possibility of creating little shape-shifters in the process. But thinking of Roarke wanting her like that and picturing him following through on that lusty urge made her very hot.
She squirmed against the cave floor and decided to change the subject. “I was just erasing the orgasm.” Which didn’t change the subject at all.
He gave her a lopsided smile. “If only I could do the same. Although I have to say, even if we’d kept our relationship strictly platonic up to now, seeing you crouched on the floor of the cave was guaranteed to jack me up.”
“If we’d kept it platonic, I wouldn’t have been crouching nak*d on the cave floor.”
“Which might have helped . . . some.” He sighed. “I was probably doomed from the minute I agreed to bring you out here.”
“Doomed is such a negative word. Can’t we both be happy for what we’ve shared and move on?” That was her hope, although it seemed to be fading into the distance. He was under her skin and in her blood, and she knew it.
“I’m working on that.” He massaged the back of his neck. “If you’d consider getting dressed, that would help.”
“I was headed in that direction.” And now that the ibuprofen had hit her system, she might be able to do that without hobbling around like a cripple. She managed to stand upright with only one tiny gasp. She was proud of that.
“You’re sore.” Roarke took a step toward her. “I wondered how you were doing, but when I heard someone outside the cave I got out there as soon as I could to keep them from potentially coming in.”
“And I appreciate that. Who is it?”
“His name’s Donald Smurtz and he’s looking for Bigfoot.”
“Is he still out there?” She eyed her panties, which lay on the stone floor halfway between her and Roarke. Walking to the spot wouldn’t be so bad, but then she’d have to bend down and get them, and that kind of effort would hurt.
“Yes. I invited him to join us.”
“You what?” She forgot all about her panties. “Are you insane?”
“Often, especially when you’re standing there without a stitch on.”
“Sorry about that.” She started for her panties. “I’m moving a little slower this morning.”
“Then let me help.” He reached the panties before she did and scooped them off the floor. Then he closed his eyes. “Oh, man. Maybe I won’t help, after all.” He looked directly at her.
The intensity in his green eyes made her breath catch. Right on cue her body grew moist and ready for the kind of pleasure only her werewolf lover could provide. “I thought you said this Donald person was still out there.”
Roarke stepped closer. “Yeah, but I told him we were honeymooners.”
“Cute.” She backed away. “But I’m still not hav**g s*x with you while some stranger can listen in. Go be kinky with someone else.”
Roarke kept advancing. “He won’t hear us. We’ll be quiet.”
“Says you.” Her back met the cave wall. She was out of real estate.
Roarke unzipped his fly as he closed the gap. “He’s not standing by the entrance. He’s relaxing on a rock a good fifty feet away eating fruit leather and checking his GPS.” He propped both hands on the cave wall, effectively caging her in as he leaned forward to kiss her. “Good morning, Abby.”
What little resistance she had vanished the moment his lips touched hers. She kissed him back, and he absorbed her soft moan as he slipped a hand between her thighs.
He lifted his mouth a fraction from hers as he caressed her. “Are you sore here?”
“Not anymore.” Funny how the prospect of cli**x could make a girl forget those pesky little aches and pains.
His hand stilled and he drew back to look into her eyes. “What do you mean, not anymore? If you’re the least bit sore, then maybe we shouldn’t.”
“For your information, I took ibuprofen, and if you don’t do me after getting me all worked up, Roarke Wallace, I’m going to march out of this cave and tell Ronald—”
“Donald.” His eyes narrowed. “Just what are you threatening to tell Donald?”
“That you’re—”
“Careful, Abby.” His words vibrated with warning. “Don’t mess with me on this subject.”
“Gay.”
He snorted. “Allow me to neutralize that threat right now.” Grasping her hips, he lifted her against the cave wall and thrust home.
She gasped, simultaneously wrapping her legs around his waist and clutching his shoulders to make sure she didn’t fall. She needn’t have worried. His steel grip held her perfectly in place. She wasn’t going anywhere.
He stood there, his massive chest heaving and his c*ck buried to the hilt. “What was that again?”
God, he was virile. She might be able to come just looking at him. “I retract my threat.”
“I should hope so, but just in case . . .” Both his grip and his gaze were steady as he began to pump. “This should take care of any doubts.”
“Go for it, Professor.” She returned his steady gaze, but the rest of her spiraled quickly out of control. Each time he pushed deep, the friction sent waves of reaction through her quivering body. At first she felt the brush of denim along her thighs, but soon the furnace of her needs burned away every sensation except the rapid slide of his penis. As he stroked faster, she began to pant.
“I love making you come.” He shifted the angle slightly and increased the tempo as his own breathing grew ragged.
Ah, there. Right there. “And you . . . do it . . . so well.”
“Your pupils are huge.”
“Because I’m . . . oh, Roarke . . .” Her cli**x swept over her, wringing cries of delirious pleasure from her lips, cries that she was powerless to hold back.
Roarke’s laugh of triumph changed to a groan of satisfaction as he drove forward once more and came in a hot, pulsing rush.
Leaning his forehead against hers, he swore softly and breathlessly. “Too damn good,” he murmured. “Too effing good, Abby.” Slowly he lifted his head and looked into her eyes. “And I’m not sure what we’re going to do about that.”
She struggled for air and sanity. “Doesn’t look like . . . Ronald will be much of a . . . deterrent.”
“Donald.”
“Donald won’t be much of a deterrent.”
Roarke sucked in air. “Apparently not.”
“Did you think he would be?” Her breathing grew more even. “Is that why you invited him to tag along?”
“Partly that.” He cleared his throat. “But mostly because he has some high-tech listening device that might track Bigfoot’s movements even better than I could. I was afraid he’d get there first, and we can’t allow that.”
“How do you know he hasn’t taken off already?”
“Because he’s lonesome and seemed thrilled to hook up with somebody, even if it turned out to be two honeymooners who would be shagging every chance they got.” Roarke leaned back and glanced at the spot where they were still joined. “Look at us. You’re soaked and I’ll have to change out of these jeans.”
“And no rain to wash off in.”
“No. It’s cleared up some.” His gaze returned to her face. “I didn’t count on this.”
“Clear skies?”
“Smart-ass. You know what I’m talking about. Sex so good I can’t stop.”
She stroked a finger along his prickly jaw. “So don’t.”
“Obviously I’m not making any effort in that direction.”
She took a deep breath. “The way I look at it, we both know the parameters. You don’t want to hook up with a human, and I don’t want to hook up with a wolf. But for now, while we’re thrown together, we either give in to the chemistry, or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Go crazy.”
He nodded. “Yep, that’s about how I had it figured, too.” He eased her slowly back to a standing position. “You okay?”
“Wet but happy.”
He pulled a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to her. “You can use this, seeing as how we don’t have any rain. We do need to get back out there so I can introduce you to Donald.”
“And who am I supposed to be, other than your bride?”
“You can be Abby.”
“Then I’ll be Abby Winchell.”
He gave her an assessing look. “You’re not into taking your husband’s surname?”
“No, as a matter of fact.”
“Not even if we’re only pretending to be married?”
“Not if we’re pretending and not if we’d done it for real. Not that we ever would,” she added immediately. She could feel tension in the air, both hers and his, and yet they were only talking hypothetically. Strange.
“All right.” He didn’t sound pleased.
“I’m guessing in your world that’s frowned upon.”
“In my world you would become a member of the Wallace pack, and you’d be expected to take that name to designate your affiliation.”
“And if you had a sister? Would her husband become a member of the Wallace pack and take her name?”
He paused as if considering that possibility. Finally he shook his head. “If I had a sister, she’d be strong like my mother, which means she’d need a dominant alpha by her side, someone who’d never settle for a subservient position in the Wallace pack. She’d join his pack and take his name.”
“Well, seeing as how I’m not joining your pack, I’ll just be Abby Winchell, feminist bride.”
He shrugged. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
“But it’s probably better if you don’t mention your connection to Earl.”
“That goes without saying. That could lead to all sorts of problems. So does this Donald person have a tent?”
Roarke seemed happy to leave the subject of surnames and family connections as he took off his shoes and began shucking his jeans. “Does he ever. And he’s also the worst harmonica player in the world.”
“How do you know that?” Abby wiped her thighs with Roarke’s extremely soft handkerchief. She glanced at the corner and saw that it was monogrammed. His middle name began with an A, and she made a mental note to ask about that later on.