“I don't know if I could do it without the moonshine.” Claire watched him get dressed without moving from her debauched sprawl. "It was nice and all, but I'm still sort of waiting for you to throw me out for being a freak."
He looked at her for a moment and shrugged. "I'll call you a cab. Come back when you don't need to be high to fuck me."
"Wait—" She scrambled to her knees and grabbed his hips. "Why do you care? I'm probably a better lay when I'm high, anyway." He heard the pain beneath the words, felt her confused fear in the way her fingernails dug into his waist.
It made him hesitate. Why did he care? He pondered the question as he shook free of her grasp and walked to the refrigerator for another beer. "The 'shine is fun sometimes. But I'm not interested in someone who needs it. Get your clothes, and get yourself straightened out."
For a few seconds, she didn't look like a powerful woman. She looked like a hurt, confused college kid who needed someone to hold her. Someone to protect her.
Then that look was gone and she was on her feet, jerking her clothes on with rough efficiency. Her anger filled the room, so strong he could almost taste it. "Fine. I'll leave you alone."
While she dressed, he called the first cab company listed in the phone book. Then he grabbed a pen and scribbled his number on the back of an old receipt. "Look, take this. If you need anything, call me."
She looked like she wanted to tear the paper in two, but he didn't miss how carefully she folded it and tucked it into her wallet. "Fine. Thanks for—" She waved her hand vaguely, looking embarrassed.
"Yeah." He knew what she meant, and wished to hell he was handling the whole situation better. "You, too."
Awkward silence stretched between them, measured by her rapid heartbeats as she stared at him with nervous, confused longing. She opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it shut again without saying a word. Then she was gone, leaving the trailer door hanging half open.
He stared after her, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He wanted her. More than that, he'd marked her, which meant she was his. But he didn't want someone who had to lie to herself, to be under the influence just to touch him.
He only hoped she'd come back.
Claire resolved not to call Lars. She didn't need him. Didn't need his dark, brooding eyes or his wicked smile or the way he brought her body to life like no man had ever done before.
She even tried to fuck another coyote. His name was Charles, and he was nice and funny and held the door for her after dinner. After four dates, she accompanied him back to his place, where he gave her the romance of which her mother had always spoken so highly. Flowers and candles and missionary sex beneath the sheets with the lights off. He seemed determined to please her, but she found his careful, shy fumbling about as arousing as the nightly news.
In the end she faked it, just to get him to stop trying. He invited her to stay and looked hurt when she rose instead and pulled on her clothes, not quite meeting his eyes. "I've got a test tomorrow," was her excuse, and she turned down his offer to drive her home with a smile that probably looked a bit guilty.
As well it should. She called Lars from a pay phone two blocks from Charles's apartment, her heart pounding in her throat when he picked up on the second ring. Even his voice made her tight with desire, something Charles had failed to evoke no matter how hard he tried. She clutched the phone to her ear, ignoring the sounds of cars rushing by and the cool rain that had started to fall. "I need you."
His voice tense, he asked, "What's wrong?"
Claire pressed her cheek to the cold metal phone booth and closed her eyes. "I don't know if I can let go without being drunk or high, but I want to try."
Lars was silent at first. Finally, he said, "Do I need to come get you?"
"No." She took a deep breath and let it out. "My address is three-seventy Fifteenth Avenue South, apartment five-ten. I'll be home in ten minutes."
"I'll be there." The phone clicked in her ear.
He was waiting on the stoop outside her building, cigarette in hand, when she pulled up in her sensible, boring compact car. "Nice ride."
"Thanks." Her hands shook as she fumbled for her door key. "I'm on the fifth floor."
He didn't say anything, just crushed out his cigarette on the brick wall next to him and followed her inside and up the stairs. When they reached her landing, he wrapped his fingers around her arm and tugged her closer. "It's been two weeks."
He smelled like cigarette smoke and leather, and underneath was that spicy male scent that made her wet. She pulled out of his grip and moved to her door, shoving the key into the lock.
"Had to go out with another guy four times before he'd put out." It was a dangerous statement, rubbing his nose in the fact that she smelled like sex and another man.
"Yeah, so I can tell." Lars stripped off his jacket and followed her inside. "He must have been one hell of a lousy lay if you had to call me before you even showered."
"He wasn't bad, he was—" Boring. She bit her lip to keep the word from spilling out. Then she slammed the door shut and dragged her little black dress over her head, leaving her in the expensive black lingerie Charles hadn't even seen in the dark. The look she gave Lars challenged him. "Weak. He was weak."
Lars’ eyes roved over her, and he arched an eyebrow as he tossed his jacket over a chair. "You were the one in bed with him. It was a bed, right? Not a floor or a bathroom or...a kitchen table?" His gaze flickered past her into the small breakfast nook.
Claire leaned against the cool wood of the door, watching his slow, graceful movements. His tattoos emphasized every flexing muscle in his arms, and she found herself transfixed by the play of dark ink over his skin. "Just the bed," she agreed in a hoarse voice. "Under the blankets with the lights out."
He laughed, a low, almost mocking sound. "And how was that supposed to be better than me?"
His laughter brought tears of frustration to her eyes, and she knocked her head back against the door. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" she whispered. "Why can't I just admit I'd rather fuck you than let some boring loser make boring love to me?"
"I don't know," he admitted, taking a step toward her and reaching out. His movements seemed almost involuntary, and he stopped short, dropping his hand. "I don't know, Claire."
Her mouth dry, she dropped to her knees. She grasped his belt and tugged at the buckle, only looking up at him when she'd freed the leather and moved her hands to the button on his pants. "I want to be wild. I want to fight, and I want to lose. I want to be as strong as I can be, and know you’re someone who can stop me if I need it."
His breathing turned ragged. "You want a lot," he observed hoarsely.
"Maybe that's why I'm never satisfied." The rasp of his zipper seemed unnaturally loud. He wore nothing under his jeans, and she wrapped her hand around the hot length of his cock and stroked him from base to tip.
A growl ripped out of his throat. "I want a lot, too. Are you ready for that?"
"Yes." She said it without hesitation, stroking him again. She leaned closer, until her lips almost touched him, letting her breath tease his skin as she spoke. "I don't have to pretend with you."
"Not interested in that," he agreed. "Right now, I'm interested in your mouth."
Claire laughed low in her throat and licked the head of his cock before pulling back. "Are you?"