Spirit of the Wolf by Vonna Harper

dropped their hay. “I’m working as fast as I can,” she informed them, and heaved hay over the top rail. Her breasts jumped.
    Why’d you do that to my bra, Matt?
    She quick-stepped back to the lean-to and got another pitchfork full of hay. There probably was a more efficient way to handle feeding time, but the manual labor kept her in pretty good physical condition.
    She’d never match his strength, she admitted, and threw the horses another pile. If he wanted to rape her, she wouldn’t be able to stop him.
     
    Could it come to that? she pondered when she stepped into the shower a half hour later. Despite their sex’s frenzied quality, until today she’d believed she had nothing to fear from the man. Now she didn’t know.
    Lukewarm water slid over her hair and back, freeing her thoughts. Today aside, her relationship with Matt had been everything she’d ever wanted from a man physically. His body was hot; he was hot. A look, a touch from him and she was off and running.
    Shampooing her long hair was no one-minute task. Sometimes she wondered why she didn’t simply chop it off. But her folks had insisted on keeping her hair short and stylish throughout her childhood, and hardheaded or not, she’d be damned if she’d follow the path they’d tried to lay down.
    Enough with my parents, she ordered as she began rinsing. They were—where were they now anyway?—doing their selfabsorbed thing. They certainly weren’t worrying about her.
    So if any worry was needed, it was up to her to do it.
    Matt. Body carved from an unforgiving land and never-ending work. Eyes that hinted of things unsaid. A cock made for wrapping more than just her pussy around.
    Straightening, she backed away a little so the spray struck her breasts. Lifting one and then the other, she watched the water attack them. Matt wasn’t gentle with her, never had been. No kid gloves. Crazy determined to match his frenzy, she approached his body as if it were a prairie-wild bronc. She clung to his cock. Sometimes she planted it in her mouth and raked her teeth over sweet steel and satin.
    Mostly she took it into her starving, impatient core.
    Groaning, she braced her back against the small shower stall and slipped a hand between her legs. He hadn’t worn a condom today. For the first time, it had been skin against skin between them. Wonderful. Memorable.
    Breaking the rules.
    Damn him.
    Her eyes closed. The sound of running water became everything, that and the fingers gliding over flesh that jumped and wept with every touch and thought.
    Decision time. She could either set out a list of rules of behavior for Matt to adhere to from this moment on or leap into the unknown and embrace whatever happened next. Maybe die happy.
    What about the wolves? Where did they fit into all this?
    Wolves. Sex doggy style. Mating simply to reproduce, unlike humans who came together for pleasure and sometimes a sense of belonging.
    Bombarded by the reality of how little she and Matt shared, she didn’t fight her tears. Lonely and a little scared, she splayed her legs, tilted her pelvis upward, and worked two fingers deep inside. Her thumb unerringly found her clit, stimulating it and turning her stupid. Surrounding her in pressure followed by the harsh, wonderful climb to the top.
    Her nerves twanged, her sex muscles gripped, and as her hard climax rocked her, more tears fell.
     
    “I’ll be back early next week,” Addie said. “Maybe as soon as Sunday.”
    Now that the calls to Fish and Wildlife and his fellow ranchers were behind him, Matt had been looking forward to a cold beer and the evening news, which was something he seldom had time for. Although the beer was in his hand, Addie’s call had changed any hope he’d had of being able to put the day behind him. Sooner or later, Addie needed to know what had happened.
    “You sound eager to get back,” he told the woman who’d slowly and lovingly shown a confused and angry teenager the meaning of trust.