Moira just gave her a look, something along the lines of, 'yes, dummy'.
"Of course," Jeannie said slowly, "you could just be leaving so I don't see you're not werewolves."
"After everything you've seen? Felt? Eaten?"
"Ugh, don't remind me."
"You still think we're crazy? Half the town? And everyone in this house? And the father of your child?"
Jeannie harrumphed. "Well, I'm not saying you're not convincing . . ." But she squirmed under Moira's stern regard.
"Well." Moira picked up the tray. "As it is, we're leaving. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Wait!" She bounded to her feet and fought the urge to pluck at Moira's sleeve like a child. "You said the females are leaving. What about the guys?"
"The 'guys'," she said dryly, "think you should get over it. But we won't go there."
"No," Jeannie shouted at Moira's retreating back, "we certainly won't!" She kicked a pillow across the room.
There was a tap on the adjoining door, and Michael poked his head in. "We certainly won't what? And stop kicking that pillow, it's a hundred years old."
Jeannie, bending to retrieve the pillow, dropped it like it was hot. "The girls are all leaving," she said in an accusing tone.
He frowned. "Yes. They told me they were. They've gotten quite loyal to you in . . ." He checked his watch. "Seventy-two hours."
"But the men aren't leaving."
"No." Seeing the confusion on her face, he added, "The females will do what the alpha female wants, period. The males will do what is best for her. Not always the same thing."
"Fascinating. Really, and I mean that." She yawned theatrically, and rubbed her eyes, feeling sudden, surprising weariness she didn't have to feign. Then she looked at him and said, no screwing around, no wise cracks, "I'm afraid."
"I know."
"Why do you have to sound like that?" she asked crossly, rubbing her eyes again. "All loving and nice."
"Because I have great admiration for you. Not just, as you think, your physical charms." He paused, then said, as baldly as she had stated her fear, "I love you."
She choked in mid-yawn, and stared at him with wide eyes. "No, you don't."
"No?" He smiled, that slow, sexy smile that always charmed her.
"You just love the way I smell. Michael, be reasonable," she said, trying to sound reasonable herself, "you don't know me well enough to love me." Thinking with surprised, giddy joy: He loves me! He loves me!
"Yes, I do," he said casually.
"Michael," she said slowly, wanting to cross the room and touch him, but unable to make herself take that step, "if you really love me, why'd you—why'd you shame me like that?"
"Are you going to run away and find Gerald?"
"No!" She shouted the word before she thought, then blushed furiously. "I mean, yeah, maybe, what's it to ya?"
"That's why," he said simply. "I didn't want to punish you. I wanted to take you, but I wanted you to enjoy it. I hated having to scare you." To her astonishment, she saw his hands were shaking. "I hated every second of it," he added with savage emphasis, "but I would do it a thousand times if it meant you would keep away from Gerald."
There was a short silence while they looked at each other. "Um . . . thank you? I guess," she muttered.
He smiled a little. "Are you tired, sweet?"
"No," she said defiantly, but her eyelids felt ridiculously heavy. "I want to keep talking about this so-called love."
"Talk while lying down," he said, taking her arm and pushing her gently onto the bed. Before she could turn around or sit up, he had slipped into bed behind her, snuggling against her, spoon-style.
"I don't want to nap with you," she said, wriggling against him.
"If you don't stop moving," he warned, his breath tickling her neck, "you won't be napping."She went rock-still, and yawned again. "Seriously, though. Why should I reward you for—" He loves me, she reminded herself. "Oh fine, stay then," she grumbled. "See if I care."
His rumbling laugh was the last thing she heard.
***
It was dark when she woke, but she could see everything in the room quite clearly. She refused to think about what that meant (you've been doing lots of refusing to think this week, huh, babe?) and instead focused on Michael, who was pacing at the foot of the bed. His face was sheened with sweat and he kept running his fingers through his hair. In the gloom, his eyes were a tortured gold. He must have fallen asleep, too, she realized, and now there isn't time for him to leave before . . . before . . .
"Michael?" The word practically stuck in her throat. He didn't turn, didn't even glance at her. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," he muttered.
Abruptly, she decided: no more fear. She couldn't fear rape if she was the aggressor. And, to be completely honest, the bastard had a touch like nothing she'd ever felt. She wanted it. At night, in her lonely bed, she craved it.
"No more fear," she announced, and stood up in the bed. Then she leapt at him.
He caught her, as she had known he would, and staggered back so hard his back slammed into the wall.
"My thinking is," she said into his astonished face, as she looped her legs around his waist, "I've been terrified of a repeat of the elevator scene, right? All week, I've been worrying about it. Hell, I even tried to seduce you so you would send me away. Well, if I rape you, there's nothing to be scared of. Then I can go back to sleep."
"Are you out of your—"
She kissed him. Then she bit his lower lip. He groaned and staggered with her.
"Jeannie—"
She snaked her tongue inside his mouth. His own met hers in a frantic duel before he wrenched his face from hers. "No! It's not like earlier, it's not—this close to my Change, if you change your mind I won't be able to stop." He set her down and shook her. "I won't be able to stop! And I can't bear to force you again, even for punishment. If I find out in the morning that you were frightened, hurt—no."
She ripped open his shirt.
He spun away from her, panting. "No."
"For God's sake," she muttered, and jumped on his back. Looping her arms around his neck, she ignored his hoarse demand that she stop this at once, took his ear in her teeth, and bit. He howled and grabbed for her head, trying to pull her away . . . then changed his mind and pressed her face into the side of his head, hard. She bit him again and he groaned, "I will never understand you."
"Tough luck," she said sympathetically, then bit the side of his neck, and licked the spot.
He staggered to the bed and dropped, pinning her beneath him. She released her legs and he rolled over, shoving her sweatshirt to her neck and burying his face between her breasts. "Last chance," he moaned.
"My thought exactly," she grunted, pulling the shirt over her head, wriggling to get free of her shorts. He helped her with hands that shook and in moments they were both nude.
She started having second thoughts when he turned her over and eased her on her knees. "Michael," she managed as he kissed the base of her spine. "Anything else—any other way—but I'm not sure I'm ready for this yet."
He didn't answer, and she was about to try again when she felt his tongue flick past the opening of her vagina . . . then delve deeply. She bit back a moan and thought, What the hell am I hiding from? I love it, and he knows I love it.
When his thumbs spread her wide and his tongue lapped at her exposed flesh, she groaned so loudly she was fairly certain Moira, wherever she was, could hear her. He laughed at the sound, a rumble of unbridled delight, and then his tongue was inside her again, darting and wriggling.
In less than a minute she was rocking back against his sweetly busy mouth, keening softly, feeling the familiar delicious warmth start in her stomach, feeling the all-over tightening that meant her orgasm was approaching . . .
. . . then she felt the tip of him, engorged with blood, the head so like a delicious plum, ease into her . . . and then he shoved forward, the quick, hard thrust instantly jolting her into orgasm.
She shrieked his name and rocked back, meeting him thrust for thrust, on a roller coaster of pleasure, one swooping orgasm instantly merging into another. His low groans, so like growls, fired her blood and made her want to bite something.
She felt his teeth on her shoulder, gently, and then felt him pulsing within her. She thrust back once more, greedily, then felt him slide from her.
"Oh," she said, almost sighed.
"Christ," he groaned, and flopped face down on a pillow. She giggled, and he reached out, snagged her waist, and nestled her against his side. "Tell the truth," he rasped, and when he looked at her, she saw his pupils were huge, his irises only faint rings of gold. "You're trying to kill me, right? Wearing me out before I Change?"
She laughed again. "Does that mean you're not up for seconds?"
He didn't smile at her jibe. Instead he reached out a finger and touched her mouth. Then his rough palm was cupping her cheek. "Don't be afraid," he said, his voice so deep it was difficult to understand him. "I couldn't bear it if you were afraid."
"The funny thing is," she said seriously, "I'm not. The thing I worried about most . . . I made it happen. I had to throw myself at you—literally. But I didn't mind, because it's easier to be scared if you're the passenger, not the driver."
"Don't be afraid," he said again, panting. "I can't hold it off anymore."
He began to Change. And it happened so quickly, if she had blinked she would have missed it. His features and limbs and body seemed to shift, to melt, shrinking into a furred, four-legged wolf with a lush black coat the exact color of Michael's hair, and deep gold eyes. There wasn't a smell. There wasn't even a mess. She had just witnessed a physical impossibility.