He wouldn’t, of course. The creatures were terminally shy besides being colorblind. If Roarke were looking for a good match in the world of nature, he’d compare the Sasquatch to a tarantula—big, hairy, and scary, but with poor eyesight and a tendency to flee rather than fight.
As Roarke watched from the shadows, the guy tapped his harmonica on his sleeve and brought it back to his mouth. When he launched into a godawful rendition of “Amazing Grace,” Roarke stifled an urge to howl in protest.
Enough. He’d ID’d the interloper and recorded his scent. If Roarke and Abby were unlucky enough to cross paths with him, Roarke would know what he was up against and find a way to send the guy off in a different direction. Melting into the shadows, Roarke headed for the cave.
Partway there, he caught the scent of food warming. Abby must have decided to fix dinner. Good. They could occupy themselves with eating and cleaning up. He’d tell her about the harmonica player, and then they could both go to bed. Separately.
But the closer he came to the cave, the less he believed in that scenario. Food wasn’t the only thing he could smell. Apparently Abby’s special aroma had become firmly seated in the pleasure center of his brain. One whiff and he was a moth to flame.
By the time he reached the spot where he’d shifted earlier, he’d started to rationalize. He’d been hiking all day and now he’d just had a good run, so logically he’d be tired tonight. If he had sex with Abby, no doubt he’d conk out immediately afterward. No special significance, no big deal, just good hot sex.
But he needed the full program to be completely satisfied. He’d have to explain to her why they could do that without a condom, but that might not be difficult. So they’d have sex once and both fall asleep right after. It sounded like a reasonable plan as he lay on the wet ground and moved through his shift.
Moments later he stood and brushed away the pine needles clinging to his skin. The rain continued to come down, and it washed away streaks of mud on his arms and legs. He scrubbed his hands through his wet hair, working out any leaves tangled there.
As he plucked a leaf from his pubic hair, he was forced to acknowledge that his interest in having sex with Abby was already evident. But fortunately he wouldn’t walk in quite as aroused as when he’d walked out. The run had worked temporarily.
Her scent drifted out to him from the cave, and his penis twitched in response. He decided at that moment that dinner could wait a while. Sex first, then food. After that, they’d be sated from both activities and they’d fall asleep immediately. It sounded like the perfect ending to the evening.
His goal clearly in mind, he held back the branches of the bush covering the opening and called out to her. “Abby, I’m back.”
“Good. Don’t fall over your clothes. I found some dry ones in your pack and put them right by the entrance for you.”
“Thanks.” That didn’t fit in with his plan, but he could carry them into the cave and put them on later before they ate dinner.
“Be sure to get dressed before you come in here, Roarke.”
“Why?” He picked up the bundle of clothes he found neatly stacked and waiting for him.
“Because we’re both staying dressed from now on. Having sex is a complication neither of us needs, and you obviously realized it earlier.”
“No, I just wanted to dial it back some.” He continued walking into the cave.
She glanced up from the pot she was stirring and frowned at him. “I’ve decided to dial it back completely. So put those on, please.”
She’d braided her wet hair into a single strand hanging down her back, which made her look prim and almost virginal. He took that as a challenge.
“I mean it, Roarke.” She tapped the spoon on the side of the pot and laid it on a metal plate beside the camp stove.
“I’m sure you do.” He studied her outfit—green knit shirt revealing the unmistakable outline of a bra, black Lycra pants, probably with panties underneath. At least her feet were bare, but he had some undressing to do before he could institute his plan of action.
She stood and folded her arms. “I realize that in a sense, I owe you a . . .”
He smiled. “In a sense, I suppose you do.”
She glanced at his thickening penis and looked away again, her cheeks flushed. “But we’re very different, Roarke.”
“I should hope so. That’s why things fit so beautifully.”
“You know what I mean. We’re from completely different worlds. Better to leave well enough alone.”
“You’re the one who blackmailed me into bringing you along on this trip, Abby.”
She focused on the cave wall rather than look at him. “For Grandpa Earl’s sake.”
“Then how about the fact you’re also the one who suggested not so long ago that we could fool around and release some of our pent-up sexual energy?”
She blew out a breath and gazed up at the ceiling of the cave. “I made a mistake, okay? I now realize that there’s too much temptation to throw caution to the wind. Without any condoms, we’re taking a huge chance that we’ll get carried away and I know neither of us wants to deal with that consequence.”
“What if there was no consequence?”
Her startled blue gaze met his. “You found a box of condoms in the woods?”
That made him laugh. “No.” He dropped the clothes to the floor of the cave. “There’s something I didn’t explain about werewolves. We can’t impregnate anyone until we find our mate and pledge ourselves for life. It’s a great system.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. That story’s even worse than the old standby of having mumps as a kid. I know guys will go to great lengths to get out of wearing a little raincoat, but I thought you’d be different, considering the stakes.”
“You don’t believe me.” He’d hoped after all they’d shared, she would. “Look, I can understand your skepticism, but I’m telling you the truth.”
“Sorry, Professor Wallace, but if what you say is true, you would have told me when I first brought up the issue of condoms. You neglected to do that, so ipso facto, you’re making this up as you go along.”
“I am not! I thought we needed to have some sort of braking system on our relationship, and that was a good one to use.”
She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “So you normally go around having condom-free sex, do you?”
He had a feeling he’d said the wrong thing. “Only with other werewolves when we’re both in human form. Obviously I can’t explain this to a woman without revealing I’m a werewolf, so I use a condom with humans. You would be an exception to that rule because you know I’m Were.”
She stepped back and held up both hands. “Spare me from being the one exception! Condoms serve another purpose besides birth control. If you’ve had lots of free love with your werewolf girlfriends, bully for you, but I’d rather not participate in that boinkfest, thank you very much.”
“I haven’t had
lots.
” He was getting testy from sexual frustration combined with a need for food. “And werewolves are resistant to disease, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“How convenient to be disease-resistant as you put notches in your belt.”
“Notches in my—Damn it, Abby, I’m not that kind of guy!”
“Then you would have leveled with me in the beginning, wouldn’t you? Look, you might as well get dressed, because I don’t buy your story and we’re not having sex. You’ll have to settle for reconstituted beef stew.”
“Whatever happened to the concept of me teaching you about werewolves?”
“Let’s just say that you have a credibility problem. When you’re dressed, I’ll dish the stew.”
He stared at her. The set of her jaw and the glint in her eyes told him that she’d dug in her heels and wasn’t going to budge. He wasn’t giving up, but he might as well back off for the time being. So they could have dinner, and then sex. That could work, too.
Chapter 12
While Roarke pulled on his clothes, Abby ladled stew into two tin bowls. Thank God that hikers were always famished when they finally ate a meal, because there was no way a reconstituted stew could compare to something simmered on the stove for hours and served straight from the pot it was cooked in. At this point she would have eaten crackers and peanut butter if that’s all they had.
But thanks to Roarke hauling the packages of dried food, they had something more interesting than crackers and peanut butter. She reminded herself of his willingness to carry most of their supplies and gave him a larger portion of the stew. Although she didn’t believe a word of his werewolves-don’t-need-condoms story, he was still the lynchpin in the Sasquatch operation and she needed him energized and healthy.
She just wished he hadn’t insulted her intelligence with that ridiculous story. He might be willing to play Russian roulette with his future, but she’d worked too hard to establish herself as a responsible adult who was a credit to her family and her community. Becoming pregnant by accident would be bad enough. Becoming pregnant with a werewolf’s baby had repercussions that extended far beyond the average problem scenario, and she had no intention of going there.
Decently attired in a black T-shirt and gray sweats, Roarke approached the camp stove. “Need any help?”
She glanced at him and revised her opinion of
decently attired.
He was clothed, but the T-shirt was a little snug and the soft material of the sweats emphasized the generosity of his endowments. “Thanks, but everything’s under control.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Count on it.” She handed him a tin bowl full of hot stew and a spoon. No randy werewolf was going to screw up her life. “I would offer you a glass of the house red to go with this, but the wine cellar seems to be empty.”
“Damn shame.” He raised the bowl and took an appreciative sniff. “A good red would be the finishing touch.”
A good red would finish her off, that was for sure. She didn’t believe his story concerning werewolf safe sex, but she wanted to. The more he moved gracefully around the cave, the more she fantasized about what sex would be like with a man so powerfully athletic.
Picking up her own bowl, she lowered herself into a cross-legged position on the stone floor of the cave. The cool surface helped soothe the heat building inside her, despite her vow to remain celibate from this moment on.
Roarke sat across from her in one fluid movement that made her mouth go dry. Why did he have to be so damned sexy? Why did he have to sit cross-legged like that, which caused the fleece of his sweats to outline the very part of him she was trying to ignore?
He took a spoonful of his stew and closed his eyes.
“Mmm.”
She had to look away. His open appreciation of the food reminded her of the way he’d openly appreciated her response when he’d stroked her to a shattering climax. Twice. Now he’d come up with a story about sperm that knew when to swim upstream and when to stay in the tank.
He rested his spoon against the side of the bowl. “Ever read Margaret Mead’s studies of the Trobriand Islanders?”
She glanced at him. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Turns out those people have something in common with werewolves.” He took another mouthful of stew.
“Is that so?” She started eating her stew and fought against the potent combination of virility and intelligence that was Roarke Wallace. If he couldn’t seduce her with the first quality, he wasn’t shy about employing the second.
“The society doesn’t curtail sexual behavior among young people, but they don’t use any physical method of birth control. From the time they hit puberty, they’re allowed as much sexual exploration as they want.”
She put down her spoon. “Let me guess. Nobody gets pregnant.”
“That’s exactly right.” He pointed his spoon at her. “Can you guess why?”
“They’re all werewolves?”
“Not to my knowledge, but I should probably check into that to be sure. According to Margaret Mead, the girls don’t get pregnant because it would be socially unacceptable to do that until they’re married. They can control conception mentally.”
Abby laughed. “Your justification gets stranger every minute. Now you’re telling me that you have some kind of mind control over your sperm?”
“Yes.”
“How does that work, exactly? Do you call a meeting prior to a sexual event and remind them to hold tight?”
“Abby, it’s far more sophisticated than—”
“And I suppose you must have to hold another meeting when you want to turn those little suckers loose. Shoot off a starting gun, maybe, so they’ll know the race to the egg is officially on.”
“Go ahead and make fun of it, but no werewolf in history has ever dealt with a paternity issue.”
She almost choked on her stew. “Now
there’s
a statement that I can fact-check. The minute I get in range, I’m going to fire up my BlackBerry and Google
werewolf paternity cases.
I’m going to take a wild guess that I won’t find any, which, amazingly, happens to support your case.”