Sentinels: Wolf Hunt

Jet shivered. She looked down at herself in surprise, at her own tight skin, and then out at the hot sunny yard. By no means was she cool enough to be chilled…and this feeling was far from it. No, this feeling was hot and vaguely uncomfortable and seeking—wanting. On its own, her wet hand drew down along her body, from collarbone past the thin material of her bra and across her stomach—hard and toned, and yet somehow softer than his.

With no more thought than that, she trailed fingers down his torso, feeling the smoothness, the hard strength beneath…the texture of the crisp hair and distinct flutter of his skin beneath her touch. She lingered at his collarbone, following the curve to his shoulder and arm—so different from her own.

She had examined her body often enough, those first days. Looking down at herself, or in the mirror Gausto provided. Never had it looked quite as it did now, simply for being in contrast with his. A sweeping curve of waist, a lean flare of hip; her muscles, while just as hard as his, ran sleeker beneath the skin. Her hair stayed fine and downy soft, nearly invisible in most places. Not at her crotch, which had surprised her at first. Not on her head.

She frowned at her breasts, now—even beneath the one-piece hosiery bra, they looked different to her. Fuller, tighter, nipples distinct beneath silky material. They felt different—hot and heavy and aching. She crossed her arms, cupping herself with protective uncertainty. Trying to ease herself. Being held…

Yes, she wanted that.

And she wanted…

She didn’t know.

And, too, she did. She needed, she wanted, her body demanded. She felt hot in places she’d only considered with matter-of-fact practicality until this moment. She wanted to touch herself; she wanted to touch this man before her. She put a hand on his damp skin, above his waistband where his abdomen hollowed out as he breathed.

For that instant, his breath stopped.

She found him watching her.

“I—” she said, and nothing else, because while she had plenty to say, she had no words to say it. How did one talk about this feeling, a sudden raging howl within her? How it stammered through her chest and wrapped around her heart, or how looking at him, human body with wolf’s soul, made her want to laugh and cry all at once?

He still struggled with himself, his skin twitching beneath her touch, his gaze ever so faintly confused.

“I—” she said, and ran out of words all over again, even if her hand still reached.

Nick’s hand shot out to capture her wrist. “Jet,” he said, from between gritted teeth.

But oh, she wanted. She searched his gaze, looking for understanding—looking for the clues to this world, to the way things should be. And she knew what she saw there. Also wanting. “You, too,” she told him, in case he hadn’t known it. She drew the back of her knuckles lightly across the hot skin of his cheek, ever watching his eye. “Still, you are not well.”

He grasped her wrist again, more gently this time. He bit gently at the knuckles that had touched him, and then simply held her hand against his chest, trapped and still and as gentle as he might hold a living bird.

“Jet,” he said, full of wonderment. “Who are you?”

How could she explain such a thing? How could she truly explain what she’d done for Gausto—done to Nick? She tried to tug away; that gentle grip turned insistent. She tipped her head ever so slightly, exposing her neck. “He said you would not be hurt,” she told him, unable to hide the anger. “He told me he wanted to talk to you.”