Page 60 of Wanted

She’s asking to engage in one of our pack’s and our culture’s oldest traditions.

Mate!

My fucking wolf. And just like every other time over the past week when he starts in on his mate bullshit, I don’t have the energy to tamp down on his claim.

Wordlessly, I stick out my palm to hand Emery the bar of shampoo. The sparkle that enters her eyes as she takes it from me, makes my decision more than worth it.

“You’re going to need to get in, if you’re going to wash my hair,” I tell her, looking her up and down in the jeans and the thin white tee she’s still wearing.

Deciding I don’t want her to rethink her decision, I stride over and immediately unbutton her jeans. The little ‘O’ her mouth makes followed by the puff of air, leads me to conclude that she’s gasped.

I don’t stop, however. Not until I’ve slid her jeans down to her ankles and removed both her shoes and jeans. She’s left in a pair of lace panties and the white camisole and bra. I’m tempted to remove the rest of her clothing, but Emery’s weary look around stops me.

“We’re alone,” I assure her.

I lead her by the hand to the river. She tenses and squeezes my hand from the coolness of the water, but she soon relaxes.

“I need you to dunk your head in the water,” she tells me.

My lips twitch as I allow her to lean my body back so that my entire head submerges under the water. She moves behind me,finding a stoney part of the river where she can stand so that she’s slightly elevated behind me.

Emery begins to lather the shampoo bar in my hair.

My eyelids fall closed on their own accord. It’s been years, no, more than a half a century since I’ve let anyone touch me like this. My mother was the only person who ever washed my hair. And that was only up until I lost my hearing.

A deep exhale moves up my chest and releases out of my nose when Emery’s fingers begin massaging my scalp.

Memories of my mother doing the same thing when I was a little boy dance around in my mind. When Emery rakes her fingers down the entire length of my hair a shudder rushes through me.

My mother would tell me that our people believed we kept our stories in our hair. Hair holds our memories.

Memories are also where our love is stored.

For the first time in decades, I recall the sound of my mother’s voice.

And then a deep longing to hear Emery’s voice overcomes me. I want to be able to commit her voice to memory as well. For the time when she’s not this fucking close to me.

My wolf growls in my chest at that absurd thought. The idea of her not being within arms’ reach is inconceivable to him.

A sudden tap on my shoulder causes me to turn to look at her.

“I need to rinse your hair.” She juts her chin toward the water.

Again, I duck my head under the cool, refreshing water of the river, rinsing the shampoo and washing it away.

“Your towel,” she says, pointing toward the river’s edge where I left the towel.

I take her hand but she’s the one who leads us back to the boulder.

“Sit, I’ll dry you.”

I do as told because I like the feel of her hands in my hair. I like her being this close to me. I want her to always be this damn close.

Want.

That fucking word.

A word I’ve worked so hard to stay away from ever since I lost my hearing. A word I refused to associate with myself.

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