Page 43 of Strawberry Moon

If I could be this creature, one meant only for tending my omega, there was some hope for me yet.

Right then, he was curled up. His top leg was draped over my hip, his breaths coming short and shallow while he recovered. I felt every exhale against my chest, catching in my fluffy chest hair that he was all too eager to nuzzle into. I cushioned his head with one arm, wrapped around his back at the elbow. With my other hand, I pulled the blanket over him, tucked it softly against his shoulder.

Archer blinked up at me with wide, blue eyes. If I could, I’d have bottled up his sweet smile and kept it in my breast pocket for the rest of my days.

“What is it?” His voice was rough from use and strain, but so quiet. I couldn’t help leaning in to nuzzle his nose and catch his lips in a quick kiss.

“Just admiring you’s all,” I mumbled, not wanting to break the quiet. It was clear again, the sun just starting to go down, and the birds were chirping. “I hope this has been... okay?”

“Okay?” Archer pushed up on his arm, but he was tuckered out. In the end, he flopped right back down and wiggled closer to me—so close he had to tilt his head back and I had to scrunch my neck to catch his eye. “What do you mean?”

For a second, all I could do was suck my cheeks in. Thing was, I knew this wasn’t enough.

Archer Sterling was rich. Every curve of his sweet, generous body was made from standing indoors, doing lab work, cushioned in fancy ergonomic chairs, eating fancy, ten-dollar salads for lunch every day.

For me, being out in the woods was no big deal. I was rough, used to the work and the sun beating down on my back.

Everyone in Grovetown expected me to take to the woods when Barbara and Henrik died. It’d be no surprise that when I saw an omega through heat, it was in the woods, trapped out here naked, like some kind of neckbeard weirdo, already half feral.

Archer deserved something soft, something indulgent. And there, for his first heat, I’d dragged him back to an actual man cave to have my wicked way with him.

“I just mean, this.” I raised a hand, waving at the rocks all around us. The outdoors. The complete and utter lack of a feather bed. “Your first heat should’ve been somewhere comfortable.” With someone who made him feel that way.

Archer’s lips twitched. “You’re worrying too much.” He nuzzled in close, and his lips were a ghost of pressure against my neck. Surely, he could feel my heart pulse under his kiss. “I don’t think either one of us could’ve changed a thing about where this happened. And—and I wouldn’t want to?”

I pulled back, brows furrowed. “No?”

He shook his head. He tightened his arm around my middle and pulled me back in. I gathered up my blanket burrito of an omega and buried my face against the top of his head, all too happy to hide in the jungle of his thick hair.

“Nope. This was good. Just the two of us. And after all, why do you think werewolves heal faster than humans do?”

I’d never really thought about that one. “Superior genes?”

His laugh was a gust against my front. “I think it’s because we’re supposed to be outside. Live rougher. Wilder. So we’re harder to hurt.”

I squeezed him tight. “Makes sense to me.”

Only, I didn’t think we were so hard to hurt at all. Wasn’t I testament to that?

Archer was right—out here, it was just the two of us, and it was all too easy to fall into being what he needed—but when we went back to Grovetown, I wouldn’t be able to look after him like this. I’d have to look Barbara and Henrik in the eyes. Work on the farm below Lily’s grave.

I couldn’t handle that yet, so I snuggled Archer close, nibbled his ear, and let myself fall into chasing his every sigh.

30

Archer

Afew days after Ford and Archer’s camping and sex extravaganza started, Linden left out a bag with clothes. They were the ones we’d left behind on the night of the run, so they smelled of Ford and I, and not of strangers.

Still, it managed to be weird.

Just the thought of putting on clothes again was uncomfortable at first, and then, as the heat receded from my brain and I remembered I didn’t live in a fucking cave, it was weird that we weren’t wearing any clothes.

I mean, I’d have been pretty happy to never see Ford in clothes again. The man was perfection in every way—from the soft golden pelt of chest hair, to the firm muscles that were the result of farm labor and not gym sculpting—evidenced by the fact that he didn’t have anything like a six pack. He wasn’t fat, but Barbara Hill had seen to it that he had a nice soft layer of mashed potatoes and Sunday roast around his middle. He was perfect, and I wanted to snuggle up next to him forever.

But maybe in a bed instead of a cave. I’d been serious about wolves handling the wild better, but I’d been born human. I liked a nice pillow under my head when I went to bed.

Or Ford’s chest.

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