Page 46 of Claimed By Werewolf
He kissed like I was his next breath.
He broke away a fraction.“Too much?”he asked, and the fact that he asked at all undid me almost more than the kiss.
“No,” I said.“Not enough.”
Something in his eyes flashed.He stepped me backward until my shoulders touched the shelves.Boxes rattled; a bolt rolled to the floor and spun.He kissed me deeper and pushed me into the shelves.My fingers fumbled at his cut, and he dropped his head to my throat.
“Demi,” he said into my skin, like the word was an answer and a plea all in one.His palms slid under the hem of the hoodie and over the thin cotton of my tank top.His fingers mapped me in slow, sure lines over my ribs, waist, the narrow of my back, and everywhere he could touch.
Voices moved past the door.The outside world returned for a heartbeat then receded because his mouth was at my jaw.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.It didn’t sound like a question.
“Don’t,” I said.It didn’t sound like a choice.
He kissed me again.Slowly turning hungry while bleeding into something that was on the edge of rough.I arched.He groaned.His hand splayed at my lower back.The other framed my jaw.
“Door,” I whispered, uselessly, because it was shut but not locked.
“It’s fine,” he said and kissed me until I believed him.
When we finally broke, the room felt too small to hold the air we were using.We stood forehead to forehead, drawing in the same breath and bargaining with ourselves about what to do next.He smoothed a hand over my hair like the gesture could put back pieces I hadn’t noticed he’d undone.
“I need to go to church,” he said, reluctant.
“I gathered.”
“I’ll keep it short.”
“I gathered that less.”
A huff, almost a laugh.“Stay here.Lock the door.If anyone knocks, no one will, but if they do, you don’t answer.You text me.”
I swallowed the protest, saved the eye roll, and nodded.“Fine.Stay in the closet.”
He kissed me once more, quick and possessive, then was gone.The door clicked behind him, and I was alone.I twisted the lock on the handle and sighed.Not at all how I thought I was going to be spending my day, but life hadn’t really been normal lately.
I checked my phone.No service in the closet.Of course.The hum of voices swelled through the wall, then settled into a rhythm.Time stretched.I traced the edges of a shipping label until the glue lifted.
Minutes or years later, I wasn’t sure, the doorknob jiggled.
My breath shot out of me.It happened again, sharper.“Hello?”a voice called, muffled.Young.Nervous.
Footsteps moved away.Silence returned, then the low thud of the bass from the main room resumed.I unclenched my fist and buried my face in the hoodie.It smelled like Werewolf, and it helped to calm me.
I forced myself to breathe slowly and my eyes moved around to inventory the small closet: two metal shelves, a stack of rags, eleven quarts of oil, a red toolbox with a drawer half-open, a patch kit for something bigger than a bicycle, and at least eight cans of paint.
I was about to start reading the paint colors on the cans when there was another knock on the door.
“Demi?”The voice was close to the door, pitched low.It was familiar, and I knew it was the brunette from the bar with the winged eyeliner.“You in there?”
I said nothing.My pulse kicked up.The knob turned once but didn’t open because I had turned the lock.“Look,” she said, “you can either learn how this place works the easy way or the hard way.The easy way is another woman tells you before the men shove you into it.”
My throat tightened around a dozen stupid responses.I said none of them.
“He’s got enemies,” she went on.“Some with patches, some without.You think being his makes you safe.It makes you visible.Learn where to stand and when not to talk.Learn who not to look in the eye.”A pause.“And learn that sometimes the thing you make a man do to protect you is the one that kills him.”
The floor tilted.I hated that her words got through the door.Hated more that they hit anything inside me that could be hit.
