A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn

My Wolf | May 28, 2010

In the dim light of the bedroom, we move together. Silent and eager for reconnection and touch. Outside the shutters, the wind whips the trees and cast elongating shadows into the room, flickered by moonlight.

Paris’s hands on my hips, his breath matching my own, before his mouth finds the skin of my neck and licks along the length of it as I arch further back towards him. Limited time for the good stuff before the shape shifting has to begin. But we were doing the best we can, given the short time span we have to be together like this again.

His hips dig in further, deeper into me as I sigh lightly at the touch of him inside me. Why hadn’t I wanted this before now? How could I possibly be without this? Passion is befuddling if anything. It sweeps you up and lets you coast along and makes you forget all other stuff, like sensibility. Reasoning. Or maybe it just puts it all into perspective. It has no problem drowning you in it, because while you’re drowning, you’re the happiest you’ve ever been. It’s all you know and all you want to consume.

“My wolf.” He growls his voice getting huskier, into my ear, before nipping it with his still human teeth. “My wolf.”

And we keep moving.

His reaction to the words he says outloud is to pick up the pace even more. He likes saying those words and I like hearing them and being them.

When we’d gotten back to Paris’s place, I’d barely been clothed. Paris had pretty much stripped me in the doorway as he was unlocking the front door. Pesky house keys, delaying us, ever so slightly in our rush for gratification, and make up sex. Guess that’s why I was partially covered, by his jacket around my shoulders.

“Your wolf.” I grunt as my body soars and I start drowning in a haze of feelings that fill me. I’m wanted, I’m loved, and I belong. All with this werewolf behind me.

This werewolf is the one I should be focused on, the one that made my insides do flip flops in a good way. The one that made me really smile, the one that would be mine and mine alone.

It’s all he could handle, those two words. The touch of me beneath him, around him, with him. As he throws his head back and howls, a very wolf noise into the dim light, echoing around the room. From a human male body that is making love to me. A howl of joy and possession. A howl of happiness and unity.
A howl for me, because of me.

I’d howl too, but it’s hard when you’re breathless and I don’t want to wake the neighbors, if Paris hadn’t already. Normally he’s the one in control. Not the other way around.

“I want to shape shift with you now.” He mutters tiredly happy, flinging his arm across me as we disentangle.

I roll my head to the side, trying to get my breathing back under control, looking at him, laying on his back. He has a big grin over his face. His eyes closed, his chest rising and falling quickly.

He doesn’t have to.

Paris doesn’t technically, physically or even remotely have to want to shape shift until full moon. That would be the night he couldn’t resist. But he wants to complete this with me. A proper connection, a real reunion of us together. He wants to shape shift because I need to. He wants to do it for me, with me, to be with me in my true form. Because he loves that form, and that wolf as much as he loves the werewolf woman still panting on her back, entangled in the sheets on his bed.

“My wolf.” I mutter back at him.


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