Jodi Redford: Cat Scratch Fever

To my family, for being there for me always. And the readers who make it possible for me to keep doing what I love. Last, but never least, to Sasha, for being the best editor in the world.

Surely fate couldn’t be so big a bitch to throw her into the middle of a heat cycle when she was minutes away from facing off against the biggest jerk-off known to werekind? Hell, probably humankind too.

The unfortunate answer to that question sucker-punched Lilly Prescott as a giant wave of prickly warmth undulated through her. Damn it, perfect timing had never been her strong suit, but this was just plain pathetic. Knuckles cramping, she gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel of her hybrid Ford Escape and tried to focus on anything besides the lusty ripples of pleasure spiraling through every cell in her body. She squirmed in her seat. The crotch of her silk thong pulled snug, intensifying the sensations. “Oh crap.”

The road leading to Morgan’s Ridge appeared. Gritting her teeth in fierce determination, she veered left onto the private road and bumped over the snow moguls not yet cleared by the plows. Thanks to the winter storm that’d blanketed most of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula earlier in the week, several inches of fresh powder filled the tire ruts indenting the thick crust of old snow.

The cabin wasn’t far—less than a mile. Damn it, she’d ridden out longer stretches than this before. The SUV bumped over another mogul, and the thong rubbed in a taunting glide across her clit.

“Shit, shit, shit .” No way would she last. She stomped on the brake, and the vehicle fishtailed toward the side of the road. The second the SUV slid to a stop, she rammed the gears into park and unhooked her seat belt. She fumbled with the buttons on her wool trousers, her decision to forgo a skirt in favor of appearing less feminine for her upcoming showdown suddenly a huge bonehead idea. Almost as moronic as forgetting to pack the herbal supplements that helped counterbalance her chaotic hormonal shifts.

A part of her couldn’t believe she was about to get busy with herself on a deserted road in the middle of the freakin’ Michigan wilderness. Talk about one of the lowest moments of her life. Yeesh. Buttons freed, she shimmied the trousers down slightly and slipped her thong to the side. Closing her eyes against the pathetic shamefulness she’d been reduced to, she slicked her fingers over her throbbing flesh. An instantaneous orgasm crashed over her. She bit her bottom lip, smothering her relieved groan. Before the quakes even faded to a pleasant glow, the hot, sexual flush roared back with a vengeance.

Oh bloody hell.

“Lamebrain mutt is walking in circles.” Ducking his head to avoid getting jabbed in the eye by a low-hanging pine bough, Dante Morgan continued tracking the paw prints stamped in the deep snow. If Chevy—his two-hundred-pound Great Dane—kept getting lost like this, he was strapping a GPS unit on the directionally challenged dog.

The paw prints led to a fallen fir tree. On the far side of the hollowed trunk, Chevy’s tracks continued, followed by several sets of smaller tracks. Red fox cubs. Visualizing Chevy fleeing a mob of the much smaller creatures, Dante grunted. “That’s my boy, the gutless wonder.”

Flipping up the collar of his Sherpa-lined jacket, he stepped over the tree, snapping the branches beneath the heels of his insulated boots. His breath puffed in front of his face, visible proof of the lowering temps. Why the hell couldn’t Chevy decide to get lost in July or August? Or any other month that didn’t come with subzero windchill.

An arctic breeze ruffled through the pines, and Dante halted, sniffing the air. A feline was in the area. Not the standard domesticated kind possessing a collar and fluffy tail either. This was a were-cat—lynx. Or lynchat, to be more precise. He knew with all certainty he’d fingered the exact breed because the damn lynchats were a constant thorn in his side. Little surprise one of them would show up on his land. He had a good inkling which of the pain-in-the-furry-asses it was too. More than any of the others of her ilk, Lilly Prescott had elevated the art of bugging the shit out of him to a staggering level.

Grumbling, Dante stalked through the alley of pines. The scent spiking the air grew more pronounced, more…arousing. His steps faltered and saliva pooled in his mouth, his cock stiffening in interest.

Shit, maybe it wasn’t Lilly. No way in hell anyone that aggravating could smell this intoxicating. Oblivious to everything but the heady bouquet playing havoc with his supersensitive olfactory system, he edged toward the trees dotting the base of the hill. A tan SUV straddled the side of the road and a snowdrift. Vaporous exhaust billowed from the tailpipe—proof the vehicle hadn’t been abandoned.

Fuck. It was Lilly. He’d recognize that vehicle anywhere, since he made a practice of hoofing it in the opposite direction on the rare occasion he crossed its path. So why were his boots still crunching in the snow, drawing him closer to the SUV as if he were entranced?

He blamed it on her damn scent. Faced with that potent, alluring smell, there was no way he could resist. He slipped from the concealing pines and jumped the few feet to the road. Landing with predatory ease, he crouched low and eyed the idling vehicle.

A muffled shriek pierced the stillness, and his muscles tensed. What the fuck? It sounded like someone was getting tortured. Keeping low, he crept forward, staying out of range of the rearview and side mirrors. The brake lights flashed, and he froze. When the vehicle remained in place, he released his breath and moved in closer.

Not giving himself time to question the sanity of charging to the rescue of the one female responsible for a shitload of his headaches, he hunkered next to the side of the vehicle. Hoping he’d guesstimated the blind spots correctly, he lifted slightly and peered inside the window. No one in the backseat. He glanced toward the front. From this angle, he couldn’t determine who sat up there or what possible threat they provided. Ducking his head below the window line, he shuffled toward the driver’s side door.

A moan filtered through the window and squeezed like a fist around his still-rigid cock. He clenched his jaw. Christ, what kind of a perv popped a woody at the sound of another’s agony? Only the moan hadn’t seemed so much pained as…desperate. Needy.

His heart thumping wildly, he slowly lifted from his crouch and peeked inside the window. He went dead motionless at the sight greeting him. Lilly Prescott was reclined in the driver’s seat, her eyes clamped shut and one hand busy between her legs. Enthralled, he watched the frantic motion of her fingers.

A narrow strip of dark blonde fuzz arrowed low on her exposed pussy, pointing the way to treasures farther south. The delicious scent of her arousal clung heavy in his nostrils, and he battled the overwhelming urge to yank open the door and bury his face in her lap. He licked his lips when her index finger plunged inside her dripping pussy and she wiggled her ass against the seat.

Yeah, baby, stroke deep. You’re almost there. Shit, he was almost there. Two more seconds and he’d be coming right along with Lilly.

Out of nowhere, a massive weight slammed into Dante, tackling him to the ground. An exuberant woof blasted into his ear. Grunting, he wrestled with Chevy’s flailing paws and dodged a rough, wet swipe from the Great Dane’s lolling tongue. Dante’s gaze whipped to the SUV, and he spied Lilly’s wide blue eyes gaping at him in horror.