“In my time, it is the she-wolf who decides the grooming of her mate. If you would have me bare of face as the men in your land, I shall not argue.”
Chloe could see he was a little reluctant to part with his beard, but she was dying to see what he looked like under all that facial hair, so she didn’t do the polite thing and offer to just give him a trim. “Awesome. Just sit right here on the counter.”
Forty minutes, one towel wrapped around the Viking’s waist, and a few bumbling explanations about how a video camera worked, later, Chloe scraped away the last of the shaving cream to reveal what turned out to be a man with movie star good looks, complete with a square jaw and a strong chin that when paired with his intense grey eyes, somehow made him look even more bad-ass than he had with a sword.
“Wow, you’re really good-looking,” she told him.
“’Tis a surprise, I see,” he said, with a teasing smile.
“No, I just didn’t expect the face to match the body.”
He took the razor out of her hand and set it aside on the counter before, once again, taking her hands in his and placing them on his chest. From what Chloe could tell, this seemed to be his favorite talking position, at least where she was concerned.
“I am glad you are well-pleased with my face as I am with yours.”
He then began to lean his face towards hers.
“Nuh-uh-uh,” she said, averting her lips. “I’ve still got to warm up your food and figure out how to wash your leather pants, and we’ve got to re-run your bath.”
“Do not hie away,” he said, rubbing his nose into the side of the face she turned away from him. “I wish to gaze upon you as I soap, and I would also have you wash my hair.”
She laughed. “I think you can handle washing your own hair.”
“Your skin is very soft. I find it hard to believe you have really passed twenty and five winters as you claim.”
“Well, we have this stuff called moisturizing lotion these days. It’s kind of like a liquid butter for your face. And it helps our skin stay softer longer—”
He took a hold of her chin and turned her face back towards him, cutting off her explanation with a firm kiss. “Your lips are also soft. Is this to be credited to your liquid butter as well?” he asked, before running his own lips down her neck.
“No, the stuff I use on my lips is more like an ointment,” she said, trying to stay firm in her resolve, even though his kisses had her heat smell filling up the small room. “I really should go.”
“And these?” he asked, reaching into her robe and palming her breasts with both hands. “What manner of butter do you use to keep them so soft?”
She bit her lip against the sweet, aching tug his playing with her breast induced. “Fenris, seriously, you need to stop.”
He untied her robe. “You are softer all over than any woman I have ever known. Mayhap even down here.” He cupped her mound, pressing the ball of his palm into her clit.
“Yea,” he said, his voice a deep whisper. “Most assuredly softer.”
And that’s how she ended up sleeping off their third mating in a drained bathtub, waiting for them to unlock.
This time when she woke up, she was starving and she knew Fenris would be too, considering he’d only had breakfast. She left him in the bathtub. Even with her extra werewolf strength, she doubted she’d be able to move someone as large as him by herself. Plus, she was finding out the hard way that when sexual heat was involved, they had a rather narrow window of time between both of them being awake and frenzied boom-chicca-wow-wow.
First she consulted the internet about how to clean his leather pants and spent half an hour gently rubbing the soft suede with white vinegar and a dry cloth. Then she tried to clean his ridiculously heavy sword, partly to be nice, but mostly because who wanted a sword coated with animal blood lying around the house? But she figured out why neither the doctor nor the professor had tried to clean the sword themselves, when her fingers came away burning, the cleaning cloth she had attempted to use on it ruined by hers body’s reaction to the blade. Apparently Fenris did not mess around when it came to getting his sword fight on. The entire blade was covered in silver. So she ended up lining the tub in the guest bathroom with aluminum foil and using baking soda, boiling water, a wooden stick, and a rag to clean the blade without burning her fingers off.
By the time she was finished she had worked up a nice appetite, so she heated up the last two plates of chicken and fennel, but frowned when she set them on the counter. She doubted this would be enough food for both her and the six foot-something werewolf who hadn’t eaten all day. And she cursed herself for not having any easy-to-make packaged food in the house, other than the one emergency microwave dinner, which was already gone.
Technically, she didn’t “believe” in food that wasn’t made completely from scratch, and on the rare occasion she didn’t feel like cooking, she either went out to eat or ordered a pizza.
But she wasn’t sure a pizza would get here in time for her to not succumb to another mating with the Viking. And even if she did call, she doubted the local pizzeria, which was owned by one of Rafe’s high school basketball teammates, would be willing to deliver.
Thinking of the other Wolf Springs residents, who were all shifted back to humans and probably fully aware of what had happened between her and the Viking by now, sent another wave of guilt through her body.
Usually, when a female went into heat and joined with her mate, the town pitched in to keep them fed. She herself had left too many stews and pasta dishes to count outside of doorways, dreaming of the day when it would be her official job to either carry out or organize others to do this duty as Rafe’s mate.
But no one had approached the house, much less left food. No one would dare cross the alpha prince in that manner, even the wolves she had left food for when they’d gone into heat.
She frowned to herself. There was nothing to be done but throw on some real clothes and make a trip out to her chicken house.
A few minutes later, she was overjoyed to find a veritable feast of eight whole eggs. That meant she wouldn’t have to work up the guts to wring a chicken’s neck for the first time by herself until the following day.
The find filled her with an unexplainable relief and for a moment, her guilt and anxiety slipped away. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be all right, she thought, putting the eggs in her basket.
Then she emerged from the chicken house and found her ex-fiancé standing in her backyard, his hair a ragged mess, and an axe in his right hand.