The slice of skin and the pale curves of her breasts showing between the edges of the blanket undid him. Nathan pulled her toward him; she came eagerly, straddling his lap. Her mouth found his, then moved to his jaw, his neck. Her skin was hot beneath his hands. Her fingers worked frantically down the buttons of his shirt.
He thought about putting a stop to it. Thought that he'd always intended a bed for her, roses and wine—not the front seat of his truck. But thought that he'd never heard anything sweeter than her soft gasps and moans, nothing sexier than her growl when he slid his fingers down her stomach.
Her hips rocked, her back arched, her hands gripping his shoulders. She cried out his name when he pushed inside her. He offered himself to her just as he was, and took her just as she was.
Running a hundred miles couldn't have wrung her out as completely. Emma hadn't moved since she'd collapsed against Nathan's chest, her body limp. Didn't want to move.
But knew she needed to. With a soft groan, she slid from his lap. Nathan smiled, but he looked as shaken as she felt. Emma reached over the back of the seat for the bag she'd stuffed there before they'd left his house, not even trying to suppress the swelling emotion that constricted her chest, her throat. It was a sweet pain, knowing that it came from the wonder of fitting so perfectly with him.
It had been good between them. Better than good. Amazing.
Nathan finished buttoning his shirt, shoved the tails into his trousers. "I'll call Osborne, let him know we're heading back. You think Letty will notice if you sleep in my room?"
"Yes." Emma fished out her panties and jeans. "But she'll get used to the idea."
Actually, Emma would have been surprised if her aunt didn't already think that she and Nathan had been together all those years ago. She listened idly as Nathan spoke with Osborne, to Daisy's faint bark in the background.
Emma hurriedly shoved her jeans back down to her ankles. "Oh, my God. Nathan. Get out to your place. As fast as you can. Tell Osborne to get to Letty's room, and take his gun."
He didn't ask; he swung the Blazer immediately onto the road, repeated her instructions to Osborne.
As she removed her clothes again, she explained. "I can hear Daisy barking. She doesn't do that—she never does that. Except the night after I was bitten. She barked like crazy the first night."
Nathan nodded, his lips tight. Despite the two inches of snow that had fallen, a fresh set of tire tracks led down the lane that her aunt shared with the Forresters.
"Oh, shit," Emma whispered, then turned to Nathan. His gaze was fixed on the road. "I'm going to change. I'm faster that way, quieter. He's probably still in human shape."
"And he might have a gun," Nathan said grimly. "So don't you think you're going anywhere yet. Emma! Dammit."
She heard his curse, the slam of his fist against the steering wheel, then the agonizing crack of her joints as she began her change.
Letty's place rose up out of the darkness like a gingerbread house frosted with white icing. Nathan glanced over at Emma, sitting up with her ears pricked forward. "Okay, I agree. You're safer in that form. Harder to argue with, too—which I'm sure you love."
Emma turned her head and grinned at him before facing forward again.
"There's his truck," he said, unsure if Emma's wolf eyesight had picked out the extended cab pickup parked just off the lane. "He drove past the house. Then did he walk back to Letty's or head out on foot to my place?"
Emma gave an uncertain whine. Nathan pulled up behind the truck and drew his weapon. "Stay behind me."
He approached the truck slowly and noted the magnetic sign stuck to the door. Fuller's Plumbing. He pictured its owner, Mark Fuller—tall, sandy-haired, easygoing—and shook his head. Jesus Christ. He'd played ball with Fuller in high school.
In all the years since, he'd never heard a whisper of trouble connected to Fuller. In a small town like Pine Bluffs, word got around. If Fuller had even looked at a woman strangely, had an argument, or made an unwanted advance, Nathan probably would have heard of it. But Fuller had managed to stay squeaky clean.
Footprints led away from the pickup, heading further off the road, into the pine trees. "Do you hear anything from inside the cab?"
Emma shook her head. Nathan checked the truck, found it empty. A bandage, crusted with dried blood, lay crumpled on the passenger's seat.
What had Fuller thought, Nathan wondered, when the bleeding stopped so quickly? When his thumb had begun to heal over? Did he understand what was happening to him?
"This guy has the right smell?"
In answer, Emma put her nose to the ground, began following the foot prints. They lead to his place, Nathan realized, jogging beside her. Fuller must have parked here rather than risk anyone at Nathan's house seeing the truck's headlights or hearing the engine.
Nathan dialed Osborne's cell, and was putting his phone to his ear when the gunshots cracked through the night. He broke into a run. Emma streaked ahead.
He didn't slow to catch his breath when Osborne answered the phone. "Who fired?" Nathan asked.
"I did. It's Mark Fuller, hopped up on something. He took off, out of the house."
"Injuries?"
"Not me or Miss Letty, sir. I hit Fuller but it didn't slow him down."
"Did he have a weapon?"
"If he did, he didn't use it."
All right. "Hold your position. We're coming up on the house now."
Or he was. Nathan disconnected, searching for Emma. Her tracks followed the footprints across the wide, moonlit clearing that separated his house from the woods, but he didn't see her or Fuller.
He stopped, used the wide trunk and low branches of a pine at the clearing's edge for cover. The shadows around the house were deep; movement near the back porch caught his eye.
Fuller. Hunched over, and using an eerie, loping gait that sent prickles of dread down Nathan's spine. That gait didn't look human or wolf, but simply inhuman. Moonlight reflected in Fuller's eyes as he turned his head.
He stopped, straightened—and stared directly at Nathan.
Nathan held his breath, but his hopes that Fuller had just been searching the tree line and couldn't see him were dashed when he hunched over again and began loping toward him. An eager, hungry growl carried across the clearing.
Nathan stepped out of the trees, set his feet, steadily aimed his gun. "Drop to the ground, Fuller! Get down, or I will fire!"
The werewolf kept running—grinning, panting.
Nathan squeezed the trigger. Blood sprayed the snow behind Fuller's left leg. But he kept on coming.
Cold sweat trickled down the back of Nathan's neck; he fired again: an abdomen shot that twisted Fuller to the side, briefly, before the bastard righted himself. If anything, he seemed to run faster. Nathan had time for one more shot. The chest was a bigger target than the head. The head was a kill shot.
His next bullet ripped through Fuller's scalp, laid white bone open to the moonlight. He didn't miss a step.
Nathan stumbled back, searching for the tree branch. He'd get higher, defend himself from a better position, if he had time.
A dark form raced across the clearing and launched at Fuller. Nathan heard the impact of flesh and bone, saw the wave of snow that flew back from the two bodies hitting the ground.
Nathan sprinted toward them. Growls filled the air, yips of pain. Emma's?
No, Nathan realized with relief as their twisting battle came to a halt. Emma pinned Fuller on his back with her large forepaw pressing into his bloodied chest. Her teeth closed over his throat.