Lori Handeland: Marked by the Moon

He smelled wild, but not in a feral, unpleasant way. Instead Alex caught the scent of evergreens, snow, and fresh air. The great outdoors.

She leaned in and caught again the drift of anger, like jalapeño peppers preserved in ice. How strange. That scent seemed to swirl both around, then through her. Her entire body tingled, nerves dancing, the hairs on her arms, her neck, everywhere, alight with sensation.

He pulled her closer. The movement caused her lips to brush his collarbone. The texture both smooth and hard, she was compelled to taste.

Her tongue darted out, and she relished the flavor of man. His blood sang, just below the surface, and she wanted it; she wanted him. Her moan was protest, or maybe arousal.

“What was that?”

Vaguely she heard one cop speak, another murmur; then the two of them stepped into the hall. Alex didn’t care. Her body seemed to have a mind of its own, or perhaps no mind at all.

Her hands crept under Barlow’s shirt, touching his skin, the hills and valleys of his rib cage, his abdomen; her teeth scraped the vein in his neck as her thumb traced below the waistband of his trousers and over the hard, smooth head of his shaft.

His breath caught; she glanced up. Fury suffused his face, flushing his skin, honing the fine bones beneath. He glanced over her shoulder as the two men came out of the room, then grabbed her hair and yanked her head back so hard her neck cracked. She figured he was going to kill her, or at least try. Instead he crushed his mouth to hers.

Their teeth clashed; she grunted. He caught her lip between his teeth and bit down. A warning. Keepquiet.

However, this time the officers did not hear them. She opened one eye. The shimmering glow that encapsulated them appeared to have thickened.

Barlow let go of her lip, hovering over her, hesitant, uncertain. Then, almost as if he couldn’t help himself— hell, she couldn’t—his tongue flicked out, laving the tiny hurt. The gentling of his mouth was followed by a roughening of his hands. He ran them over her, as if memorizing the length of her body, testing the shape of her backside; then he skimmed them up her ribs beneath the borrowed T-shirt, cupping and lifting her unbound breasts.

Both his palms and his fingertips were callused. They scraped her skin, made her shiver. She arched into his touch, spellbound by his kiss.

How could he make her wet with just the taste of his mouth? There was something here, something she craved more than blood. She wanted to wallow in the sensations, the stroke of his tongue, the nip of his teeth, the all-encompassing pleasure promised by his touch.

She didn’t realize she was fondling him still, sliding her curved fingers along his length, rubbing her thumb over his tip. Stroking, squeezing, making him come.

Almost .

He swelled in her palm. She increased the speed, the pressure, skated her teeth over his jaw, down his neck, contemplated sucking on the throbbing vein there, or maybe sliding to her knees and sucking on something else.

Then he grabbed her wrist, yanked it out of his pants, tightening his grip to the point of pain when she struggled. “They’re gone.”

He shoved Alex away, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He might as well have slapped her.

What had she been doing? Had she lost her mind as well as her humanity? She’d never behaved like that with any man, let alone with one who wasn’t even a man.

But she wasn’t a woman anymore, either.

“What the fuck was that?” she muttered.

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. She didn’t blame him. She’d just had her hand down his pants. Alex dropped her gaze. Not that he’d minded. If he hated her as much as he said, and she was certain he did, then why did the front of his pants still bulge? Why had it ever bulged at all?

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “A—a typical reaction to danger when in close proximity to your maker.”

She blinked. “That’s going to happen again?”

“Not if I can help it.”

What the fuck was that? Julian thought to himself.

He’d come up with a quick excuse of danger combined with a common reaction to one’s maker, but it was BS. Their reaction to each other was far from common.

At the moment, Alexandra seemed to believe his explanation. However, if that happened again—and considering he had no idea why it had happened in the first place, maybe it would—she’d know he was lying.

More sirens wailed in the distance, pulling his attention from the problem of his hands on her breasts, hers on his—

“We have to go.” Julian reached for her, and she took a step back. He didn’t blame her.

“This is nuts,” she murmured. “Werewolves can’t touch in human form. We should both have big fat migraines.”

Ordinary werewolves—how was that for a misnomer —had a little tic. If skin met skin while in human form, mind-numbing agony was the result.

“I’ve always been able to touch the wolves that I’ve made.”

Being able to touch her didn’t bother him. That he wanted to so badly did.

Alex stared at him, green eyes wide in her triangular face. With her blond-brown hair, he found himself wondering what she looked like in wolf form. Right now she resembled a startled Siamese cat.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Julian Barlow.” He glanced down the corridor where the cops had disappeared.

“No, I mean what are you?”

He didn’t have time to explain. They’d be back.

“Later,” he said shortly.

This time when he reached for her he didn’t allow her to step away. He grabbed her by the biceps and dragged her into the next room. A tepid breeze trickled through the open window.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Instead of answering, Julian climbed over the splintered wood sill. He was so old that the scrapes and scratches he received on his palms healed before he’d dropped the few feet to the ground. Unless a wound was very deep, or made by silver, it might as well not exist.

Julian turned as Alex leaned out, her gaze tilted upward. Shadows flickered across her face, making her eyes appear silver instead of lime green. She was really quite pretty, if he could get past her being a murderer.

He couldn’t, but it appeared his penis could. Just the sight of her caused it to stir, and he made himself count to ten in Norwegian in an attempt to distract himself.

Alexandra’s attention remained on the full moon as if she was fascinated by it. He understood. The moon called to them, its waxing and waning marking time until the one night they all ran beneath it as one.

At times like this, when the moon was round and high and white, it seemed to whisper, to pull at them like a past lover who is gone but never quite forgotten. On every eve of every full moon, Julian always missed Alana so badly that each howl he uttered resembled her name.

He’d spent centuries without a wife. He hadn’t been interested; he’d never once been tempted. Why have one woman when you could have a dozen?

Then one of Julian’s people, Margaret Jones, had begged him to save her granddaughter. A young preschool teacher who had an incredible gift with children, Alana had been diagnosed with terminal breast cancer, and she was very near the end.

Julian had gone to the hospice, and he’d asked Alana —as he’d asked every one of his wolves—if she wanted to live or to die. He’d shown her what he was, and she’d agreed to become like him.

When he brought her home, Alana’s gentle, sweet nature had captivated him. She’d been so damn young, and Julian—though he appeared exactly her age—had been so damn old. She’d made him remember things he’d long ago forgotten; she’d made him see the world as brand new. She’d looked at him as though he could do anything, probably because, at first, she’d believed that he could.