Chapter Twenty-One
TWENTY-ONE
Bishop starts counting down from fifty. I presume he’s looking away or closing his eyes, but I’m not taking that extra moment to check. At least he let me keep my boots on, which means I can move fast, and I do, dodging around bushes that would scratch my bare skin.
I get about ten paces before I realize the problem with my strategy—that it’s not a strategy at all. I’m running full out to take advantage of my head start, as if my pursuer is a human and not a werewolf who can smell where I went.
I stop and check the air. There’s definitely a breeze, and I’m running straight into it, which means my scent is billowing out like a flag behind me. I veer left and circle an oak and then run full out again, only to realize I’m still making a mistake.
He’s a werewolf. He can hear me.
Bishop is counting—slowly, as promised, wanting to make sure I have enough of a head start that he’ll get a proper chase. I listen to his voice, the rawness of it, the growl to it, and I shiver. He wants this. And I want it, too.
A chase. A hunt. Pursued through the forest, naked, the cold air prickling my skin, my heart hammering.
A wedding night fit for a werewolf and his lycan mate.
I can’t make it too easy.
He has to earn it.
I grin and survey the landscape. Then I race to a bush and tuck into it, paying no heed to how much noise I make. I wriggle around inside it, and if the branches scratch and scrape, I barely notice.
“Eighteen, seventeen.”
I slide out from the bush and creep across open ground, my boots making no sound.
“Sixteen, fifteen.”
I ease over to a dead branch and light a fireball, setting the dried leaves afire. They don’t burn for long, but by the time they go out, I’m on the move again.
“Ten, nine.”
I go another five steps, swing around a large oak, and press my back to it. Then I wait.
“Two, one.”
I close my eyes and track Bishop’s footfalls.
He goes straight upwind at first, the easy part of my trail.
Then he pauses, as if realizing I changed direction.
He moves slower then, and I’m not sure how well he can follow my trail upwind, but he seems to do it …
until he smells the smoke, which conceals my scent.
He snorts, as if expelling the smoke from his nose. Then a grumble that makes me smile.
“Nicely done,” he calls.
Undergrowth crackles under his feet as he heads one way and then the other, still audibly sniffing. Another grumble, which might mean he’s giving up on following me by scent—the smoke is getting in the way of any trail I left.
“Where-oh-where could you be hiding?” he calls. “You can’t have gone far. There’s a thicket over there, but something tells me you aren’t pushing into it without clothing. Which leaves…” A low chuckle. “One tree big enough to hide you.”
His footsteps tromp straight for my tree. Then he pauses on the other side.
“Would you like a five-second head start?” he says.
I don’t answer.
“All right then. I believe the game is at an end.”
He lunges around the tree, only to find no one there. I watch, from three paces away, hidden under a cover spell, as he darts around the tree again. It takes a full revolution before he stops with a grunt and peers about.
Then he must catch my scent, because the corners of his lips curve up. He takes one slow and deliberate step my way. Then another. He stops inches from me, and I hold myself very still as he tilts his head.
“Let’s see,” he murmurs. “I’m quite sure you’ll be facing me.
You’ll have wanted to see me chasing my tail back there.
Which means, if memory serves…” He closes his eyes to slits, reaches both hands, and firmly grasps my breasts.
He grins, eyes sparking as I appear from behind the spell. “It seems my aim is perfect.”
His fingers move to pinch my nipples, and I let him, enjoying both the heat and the jolt of pleasure.
But when his hands slide under my breasts, using them to pull me to him, I back out of his grip.
His grin widens, and he steps forward. I keep retracting and he keeps advancing, until finally he lunges … and I hit him with a knockback.
He’s mid-lunge when the spell hits, and it sends him faltering back. And then I’m gone, running under a blur spell, dodging through trees as I go.
“That is cheating,” he calls.
“If you get to use your powers, I get to use mine.”
“I can’t turn mine off.”
“What did you say? All I hear is…” I make a noise like a dog whining, and that gets a startled laugh from him.
Then he runs after me. I’m not only dodging trees, though; I’m intentionally staying in the light, between him and the setting sun, which makes my blur spell more effective—I’m a streak of pale skin between him and the blinding sun as it falls.
“I can’t see you,” he grumbles as he runs in the wrong direction.
I whine again, and he chuckles. “Go ahead. Mock my complaining more, please,” as he turns toward the sound of my voice.
I launch a fireball to my left, as I run right. His gaze catches on the movement of that ball, and I manage to get all the way around him. Then I stop, ending the blur spell.
He slowly pivots until he’s facing me, maybe a dozen paces away.
His gaze slides to my breasts. “You still look cold.”
“I’m fine, actually. Running warmed me up.”
One step my way. “Are you sure? I can warm you up better.”
I arch my brows. “Are you trying to tempt me into surrender? That’s hardly sporting.”
Another slow step, but he stops as soon as I lift my fingers. Then he lets out a growl.
“Am I thwarting you?” I say. “Is this game too tough? Maybe we should try another?”
“I like this one. I’m just ready for it to be done.”
My gaze drops to the bulge in his trousers. “I see that. However, I do believe we neglected to properly define the parameters of the game.”
“I believe we set them just fine. When I catch you, I take you.”
A delicious shiver runs through me.
“Are you sure you aren’t cold?” he says. “Or does that shiver mean you’re as ready to be done as I am?”
“You need to catch me. Then you can do anything you like.”
“I have already established what I’d like.”
Another step. Another finger lift. Another growl.
“But what happens if I win?” I say. “That’s the missing part.”
“You can do whatever you like. Luckily for me, it’s also what I’d like.” His tongue runs over his upper teeth.
Damn it. He has a point. However …
“That tree over there,” I say, pointing. “The lightning-struck one.”
“What about it?”
“If you catch me before there, you claim your victory.”
“And if I don’t?”
I shrug. “I still get my overdue wedding night. But you don’t get the pleasure of winning.” This time, I step toward him, my voice lowering. “Of catching me. Of throwing me down. Of taking me.”
He lunges, but I see it coming and knock him back, and then I’m running.
I race full out for that tree, about fifty feet away. I don’t hide under a blur spell. I just run as fast as I can, because if he’s going to win, he really needs to win. There’s no thrill in the victory otherwise.
And here I discover something I didn’t expect.
That Bishop isn’t actually faster than me.
He’s stronger. He’s more agile. His sense of smell and hearing and night vision are all better.
But when it comes to running, we’re shockingly well matched.
Or maybe he just expects me to be slower, which I would be …
if I were wearing my dress. I might even be faster in a corset, undeterred by the infernal bouncing of my breasts.
I can hear him behind me. The pound of his boots. The pound of his breath. I swear I can even hear the pound of his heart.
And then the tree is right there. Less than ten feet away.
I’m struck by the temptation to slow, just a little.
Because I do want this to end the way he said.
But I also don’t want to give him this win.
I want him to earn it. Some primal part of me says that he needs to prove himself. He needs to win me.
So I don’t slow, and I see the tree, getting closer with every heartbeat, and in those last seconds, I’m not actually disappointed. I’m going to win this race and—
A growl as Bishop launches himself at me. His arm goes around my waist, and I trip, and I’m about to fall face-first to the ground, but at the last second, he twists us both, and instead I land on him.
I lift my head, and I see the lightning-struck tree mere feet away, and adrenaline rushes through me. I grin down at him, and then I launch myself up off him, reaching—
“Uh-uh,” he says, and tackles me.
His hands catch me around the waist, and in a blink, I’m under him. I look up and see him, his eyes burning so hot they send heat coursing through me. He reaches down for his trousers, and I push up, stretching my arms overhead, knowing the tree is right there, and if I can just touch—
He grabs my hips and yanks me away from the tree, and I keep squirming, grinning at him as he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half growl.
He’s pushing between my legs, parting my knees, and I keep wriggling away, reaching for that tree, my grin telling him I’m not actually trying to escape—just to win—and the look on his face, delight and determination, tells me I am more than welcome to try, that he wants me to try, stretching this game to the last possible second—
And then he’s in me. I don’t know what to expect. In the heat of the game, I’d forgotten this part—that I’m a virgin, and I have heard stories, so many stories, about the horrors of the first time, and the reassurances that it will get better.
Without the game, I think I’d have dwelt on that, braced for it, but I’ve forgotten, and when he pushes in, there’s only the barest resistance.
I’m ready for him. Beyond ready, and if I feel any discomfort at all, it’s like the discomfort of the cold, nothing except raw sensation, new and exhilarating.
I am, however, not the only one who forgot the virgin part. At that brief resistance, Bishop pauses, his eyes widening. I wrap my legs around him and reach to pull him in deeper, and he lets out the most gloriously ragged chuckle and then gives me what I want.
As much as I’ve thoroughly enjoyed all of our play, even when I lay there afterward, exhausted and sated, I couldn’t help feeling as if I had missed something.
Feeling as if some need hadn’t quite been met, and now that he’s inside me, growling softly, lips parted, my own sounds rising to meet his, I realize what had truly been missing.
Not the physical sensation but a deeper one.
We are together, joined together, finally, in the most intimate and incredible way, and it feels glorious. Beyond glorious.
He moves inside me and I push against him, matching his strokes, matching his breathing, matching his growls and then matching his climax, both of us gripping each other, his head thrown back and then coming to mine, lips locking as the waves rock through us until we both drop, exhausted, to the ground.
He holds me tight for a moment, and then he lifts up, hands cupping my face.
“Caught you,” he says.
I smile. “You did.”
“I truly did.” He kisses me and then whispers, “And I could not possibly be happier.”