Page 35 of Wrestling With Werewolves

At the exit, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Coming, Lola?”

I grab my clothes pile and jog to catch up, sailing through the door when he holds it open for me. I’m well fucking aware that I’m still naked, but so is he. Maybe we’ll stay that way, hang out in the buff like it’s every day we chill without clothes on.

Richard stalks down the sidewalk toward the left, rounding the building and disappearing into a dark alleyway. I’m right behind him, sticking close. It’s not that I’m afraid; it’s that I want to be in this man’s orbit—to scent him, be near him. Goddess knows I want to do more than that. I should be ashamed, maybe horrified, probably shocked. And I was for about twenty minutes the day I arrived. But I know my wolf, and Richard is the only male she has ever given a shit about. I can’t ignore that.

The building bumps out at the back, a singular door visible at the end of the alley. Richard pulls it open and gestures me into a staircase that leads straight up to another door.

I turn in the darkness. “No centaur ramp?”

He thumps my nose. “It’s on the other side, smarty pants. Every home in Shifter Hollow has a centaur- and pegasus-accessible entrance. Every bar, every business is built with our taller residents in mind. I insisted on that when we built this haven.”

“Santa Alaya has done a lot to make things accessible, but we’ve always got room to improve,” I admit. Our haven was originally designed by wolf shifters for wolf shifters, but one of the things my papá insisted on was upgrading our infrastructure to accommodate other monsters and those with different needs.

“I learned a lot from Marco’s programs,” Richard says, stepping past me to ascend the stairs. “Everything we designed here is based on what he did back home. Plus, we’ve got an accessibility council that meets once a year to determine if any improvements need to be made.”

“Love that,” I say softly. I wink up at him. “As long as you don’t fuck with the food or the music or the candy or the coffee or any of the other wonderful things we have back home, you’ll hear no argument from me.”

Richard opens the single door at the top of the stairs and waves me through. “Never, sweetheart.”

I flush with joy at the new moniker. I’ll admit to not having a very deep understanding of my preferred kinks—I haven’t had much chance to explore them—but pet names and praise appear to be among them, based on the wetness between my thighs.

Blushing, I enter the open space and sigh at how perfect it is. A flat glass wall frames the front of the space where the street is. It’s set to transparent, but if it’s like most other havens, Richard can set it to translucent or even solid wall depending on his wishes.

Two oversized sheepskin sofas face one another, extra chairs flanking them on either side. A rustic wooden table in the middle holds a decanter of amber liquid and six glasses around it. To my left, a black-and-white kitchen is just as masculine as the rest of the room. A rustic chandelier hangs from the angled ceiling, chunky beams adding to the maleness of Richard’s home.

He moves into the kitchen—still naked—and hunts around in the dark cabinets for something. I turn to continue admiring the beautiful surroundings.

“This is exactly what I’d picture a pack alpha’s home looking like,” I murmur, more to myself than anything, but Richard laughs from across the room.

“The nice thing about being an eternal bachelor is that nobody has opinions on the lack of pillows on my sofa.”

When I glance over to see if he’s serious, he’s grinning at me with a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. “How do you feel about merlot?”

I cross the room and slide onto one of the metal and wood barstools. “Merlot is perfect.”

Richard sets the glasses down and spreads the fingers of one hand wide. As I watch, long wolf nails slip out of the tips. He grins at me as he digs one into the cork, twisting the bottle with his other hand. All it does is accentuate the stacked, corded muscles of his forearms, biceps, and shoulders.

I watch in utter silence, past the point of caring if I’m staring at him. He invited me here—STILL NAKED—and now we’re drinking. When he slides the half-full glass across the table, I take it and swirl it slowly under my nose.

My wolf has been at the forefront of my consciousness since Richard asked us up here. Like every time we’re near him, he’s her focus. She seems completely unconcerned about Papá and what’s going on back home. She hasn’t even been pushing me to play my guitar. It’s all Richard right now.

Richard and the sweet notes of the merlot he handed me. He leans over the kitchen island countertop and takes a slow sip from his glass. His throat bobs as he swallows, drawing my eye there.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that he’s beautiful, that I’m entranced by the energy between us, that I want to know everything about him. Every single thing. I want to hear about every moment of his entire life just so I can be aware of him.

He can probably tell by the scent dripping from me, but if he can, he doesn’t point it out. He stands before I can formulate the words, holding his hand out to me. I rise and take it, a lump forming in my throat when he turns and pulls me toward a dark hallway. For half a second, I think we’re going to his bedroom, and a shiver runs down my spine. But as soon as we enter the hall, he takes an immediate right and leads me up a skinny set of rough-edge wooden stairs.

Moments later, we emerge on a small rectangular rooftop patio. We’re encased in treetops; no other homes or even the street below are visible. Above us, stars wink playfully through the translucent ward.

A giant puffy beanbag sort of chair sits in the middle of the platform. Skinny wooden tables run around it, forming a half-moon shape with the beanbag in the middle. Honestly, it’s huge.

Like a nest.

I’ve only built a few heat nests in my life. My heat isn’t predictable or frequent like some omegas. But this oversized, puffy bed-like structure that’s big enough for five people? I’d nest the shit outta that thing. I can almost picture it now—mood lighting, candles, plenty of toys…this perfect alpha with his fangs buried in my throat, marking me, claiming me, taking everything.

While I’m silently admiring it, Richard sets his wine down and leaps gracefully in, flipping onto his back. He hums happily as his body sinks, supported fully by whatever the nest is made out of. He grins and pats a spot next to him as I struggle not to stare at his dick.

I’ve caught a few glimpses, but we weren’t alone, and I couldn’t stare. Even now, should I?

---