TO CATCH A WOLF By Susan Krinard

But his anger, his seeming ferocity, was as much a facade as his ordinary human shape. Even now his hold on her was tender as that of a she-wolf carrying her pup in jaws that could crush bone.

His mouth formed her name against her lips, and he released her arms. She left them where they were, though she felt far from passive. Her instinct was to reach for him and pull him down, down, into herself.

But he must feel in control. She sensed that the way she sensed the crushing sorrows of young, unwed mothers or the anger of men who could not find work to feed their families. In such cases she knew how to respond—how to give, heal, mend—but now she must find her way like one blind.

One blind who had just begun to see.

Morgan nuzzled her ear, hot breath sizzling against the cool flesh at her hairline, and did something indescribable with his tongue. She gave a brief cry of surprise. He kissed her again, first on the lips and then on her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her chin. Each kiss was little more than a breath, yet charged with such potency that she could not mistake it for anything like a brotherly salute.

No sooner had she recognized the utterly erotic nature of the caresses than he surprised her again. His tongue swept down the angle of her jaw, from earlobe to chin. It was as if he were sampling her before beginning his feast, a promise of more to come.

More than what had transpired in her bedroom, or even in her dream. It could go so much further, if she dared let it. All she need do to stop it was tell him “no.”

He pressed his mouth to the underside of her jaw, where the pulse beat very fast, where she was most defenseless. She bent her head back and closed her eyes. He nipped her here, there… love-bites that she vaguely thought must be common among his kind. Their kind.

Then he began to unbutton the top of her nightdress.

She held her breath. One button undone: he peeled back the two seams and kissed the space between. One more: another kiss. The third button lay nestled in a valley of flesh. The last ended just where her breasts pushed up so shamelessly against the sheer linen.

Needles of sensation prickled in her belly and nipples. When he got below the buttons, he wouldn’t be doing what an importunate suitor might have done, if she had suitors. She had no illusions about his intention.

Why? her much-abused common sense cried. Why here, now?

Why not? Did you expect avowals of love, a slow and formal courtship that any normal woman might prefer? Are you normal? Is he?

Might this not be your only chance to know what it is to be loved?

He laced his fingers through hers and pulled her arms above her head. He did not hold her there. Instead, he let his hand slide down her body, grazing shoulder and breast and hip without lingering, coming at last to rest on the juncture of her legs.

Her legs, which were no longer dead weights but strange appendages not yet sure how they belonged to the rest of her. They would not yet obey her, but they could feel.

She felt the heat of his palm through the lawn of her gown. She felt him begin to slide the fabric up her thighs, inch by inch, from the middle of her calf and higher. She felt the draft of cool air lick at her bared skin as his tongue had licked at her ear and chin.

Then his hand was on her, nothing between.

He brought his face close to hers. His lungs worked like those of a man who had been running many miles without rest. Her nostrils drew in scents that belonged only to him, unique and intoxicating, wolf and human. Damp, heavy locks of his hair curled under her jaw and into the cleft between her breasts.

“You feel so much for others,” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. “But do you feel for yourself, Athena?”

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