pressed me against the wall, nuzzling my neck as I shuddered and gasped.
“Speed record?” he asked.
“For us? Probably not.”
He chuckled and kept kissing my neck, inhaling deeply, telling me how good I smelled, how much he’d missed me, how much he loved me, until the distant clang of a door had us jumping apart.
“No sign of Reese here,” I said as I pulled my jeans back on.
“You can tell Jeremy we checked every nook and cranny. Now time for that run.”
* * * *
First we had to get the luggage and rental car. As much as Clay disliked dealing with people, I sent him for the car, since Clay and crowded baggage claims really don’t mix. If someone picks up one of our bags by accident, his territorial instinct kicks in. Usually one glower makes the offender drop it and scuttle away, but on our last trip, a guy tried to take off with my bag even after I politely suggested it might not be his, and Clay… well, it was really best for all if I got the luggage alone.
Having also seen a young woman at the car-rental booth made the task-splitting decision that much easier. Jeremy would have reserved us a decent vehicle, but we can always use a free upgrade… and Clay gets a lot of free upgrades—double butter on his popcorn, an extra large coffee when he orders medium, high-test fuel for the price of regular. I think it has something to do with being drop-dead gorgeous. Muscular body, chiseled face, bright blue eyes, golden curls. At forty-seven he looks midthirties, which is no longer a “hot young thing,” but apparently a “hot mature thing” is still serious catnip.
Clay hates attracting attention of any kind, and to him when he has a wedding band on his finger, attention of that kind is an insult. He makes no secret of his feelings, which only seems to earn him more freebies and upgrades, as women try harder to coax a smile.
“They were out of Explorers,” Clay said as he met me pulling the luggage. “We got an Expedition.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And this.” He held up a navigation system. “It was some kind of monthly deal.”
“Did they have any free T-shirts? Ball caps? Travel mugs?”
“Nah. Got some maps, though.” He held up a handful. “Good ones.”
“Monthly deal?”
“Guess so.”
We found our vehicle—a massive SUV with tinted windows.
“We didn’t need to find a quiet corner inside,” I said. “We could have just crawled in the back of this.”
“Huh.” He opened the hatch and looked in. “Could try it out…”
“I’m sure, we will. Later. Right now, I want my run, followed by my postrun romp. Once took the edge off. Twice would spoil my appetite.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” he said, and heaved our bags in.
* * * *
The presumed wolf kills had both occurred about twenty miles south of Anchorage, so with my laptop open to a newspaper article’s rough map, we headed out, planning to run in the same general area in hopes of picking up a wolf or werewolf scent.
Clay and I can play at being irresponsible—stopping for sex at outrageously inappropriate times is one of our specialties—but it’s just a game. Neither of us would be able to really relax and enjoy our run unless we felt, in some small way, we were still doing our job and fulfilling our Alpha’s expectations.
The map in the article was very rough. It showed the highway, one side road and two X’s to mark the kill sites, with no concept of scale. So until we talked to locals, we were guessing at the location. But neither of us realized how much we were guessing until the highway left Anchorage.
In daylight, I’m sure the scenery was spectacular. The highway weaved along between an inlet on one side and mountains and valleys on the other. In the predawn darkness, it was awe-inspiring—the endlessness of it all, the choppy water and the looming hills and the snowy fields and forests.
The
“Speed record?” he asked.
“For us? Probably not.”
He chuckled and kept kissing my neck, inhaling deeply, telling me how good I smelled, how much he’d missed me, how much he loved me, until the distant clang of a door had us jumping apart.
“No sign of Reese here,” I said as I pulled my jeans back on.
“You can tell Jeremy we checked every nook and cranny. Now time for that run.”
* * * *
First we had to get the luggage and rental car. As much as Clay disliked dealing with people, I sent him for the car, since Clay and crowded baggage claims really don’t mix. If someone picks up one of our bags by accident, his territorial instinct kicks in. Usually one glower makes the offender drop it and scuttle away, but on our last trip, a guy tried to take off with my bag even after I politely suggested it might not be his, and Clay… well, it was really best for all if I got the luggage alone.
Having also seen a young woman at the car-rental booth made the task-splitting decision that much easier. Jeremy would have reserved us a decent vehicle, but we can always use a free upgrade… and Clay gets a lot of free upgrades—double butter on his popcorn, an extra large coffee when he orders medium, high-test fuel for the price of regular. I think it has something to do with being drop-dead gorgeous. Muscular body, chiseled face, bright blue eyes, golden curls. At forty-seven he looks midthirties, which is no longer a “hot young thing,” but apparently a “hot mature thing” is still serious catnip.
Clay hates attracting attention of any kind, and to him when he has a wedding band on his finger, attention of that kind is an insult. He makes no secret of his feelings, which only seems to earn him more freebies and upgrades, as women try harder to coax a smile.
“They were out of Explorers,” Clay said as he met me pulling the luggage. “We got an Expedition.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And this.” He held up a navigation system. “It was some kind of monthly deal.”
“Did they have any free T-shirts? Ball caps? Travel mugs?”
“Nah. Got some maps, though.” He held up a handful. “Good ones.”
“Monthly deal?”
“Guess so.”
We found our vehicle—a massive SUV with tinted windows.
“We didn’t need to find a quiet corner inside,” I said. “We could have just crawled in the back of this.”
“Huh.” He opened the hatch and looked in. “Could try it out…”
“I’m sure, we will. Later. Right now, I want my run, followed by my postrun romp. Once took the edge off. Twice would spoil my appetite.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” he said, and heaved our bags in.
* * * *
The presumed wolf kills had both occurred about twenty miles south of Anchorage, so with my laptop open to a newspaper article’s rough map, we headed out, planning to run in the same general area in hopes of picking up a wolf or werewolf scent.
Clay and I can play at being irresponsible—stopping for sex at outrageously inappropriate times is one of our specialties—but it’s just a game. Neither of us would be able to really relax and enjoy our run unless we felt, in some small way, we were still doing our job and fulfilling our Alpha’s expectations.
The map in the article was very rough. It showed the highway, one side road and two X’s to mark the kill sites, with no concept of scale. So until we talked to locals, we were guessing at the location. But neither of us realized how much we were guessing until the highway left Anchorage.
In daylight, I’m sure the scenery was spectacular. The highway weaved along between an inlet on one side and mountains and valleys on the other. In the predawn darkness, it was awe-inspiring—the endlessness of it all, the choppy water and the looming hills and the snowy fields and forests.
The
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