She takes off her belt and it hits the concrete floor with a heavy clank. It's a clunky, ugly thing, leather and silver chain and a belt buckle the size of her palm, and she's relieved to be free of its weight as she kicks it to lay across the doorway. All of the other ways out of this crowded, dusty place have been very thoroughly nailed shut and boarded over. The one she's looking for will have to cross this makeshift barrier of silver to get away, and she knows he won't.
As she turns to walk down beside the first row of crates, she sees movement out of the corner of her eye. No sense in trying to be stealthy, then: he must have scented her the second she came in the door. This close to the full moon, a bright, organic scent like hers, even muddled by the smell of damp soil and wet clothing, would be impossible for him to overlook.
Her pants are caked in mud to the knees and soaked the rest of the way through from the rain; she stops to peel them off, holster and all, and leaves them draped over the top of a wooden crate. Weapon in one hand, she can feel his eyes on her as she crouches to leave her boots there as well. Better indecent and fast than weighed down by propriety and soggy jeans. Junior-high monster hunter she is not, but she sometimes wonders about the merits of short skirts and halter tops in places where speed and agility is more important than-
Movement again. She pretends not to see it, her bare feet leaving footprints in the dust behind her. She feels ridiculous walking through a dim, musty warehouse in nothing but her thermal undershirt and panties. The glock 17 with a full clip of silver bullets she's carrying makes her feel a little less silly, but not by much.
He's shadowing her through the maze of crates and abandoned furniture and she lets him. He won't approach until he thinks she's let her guard down, and she won't let her guard down until she's ready for him to approach. She explores the warehouse in a grid pattern, always aware of him a dozen paces away, lurking just out of her sight.
It only takes her five minutes to find where he sleeps: a tangle of old canvas and couch cushions, dimly lit by an old kerosene camping lantern. A pile of well-gnawed bones has been shoved aside, and nearby, in old blood faded to brown, the track of a wolf's paw. The makeshift bed is pushed up against one wall of crates, closed in on three sides by broken bits of furniture draped over with more canvas- for insulation against the cold, probably. Can't wear wolf fur all the time. She steps forward to reach for the lantern, wondering what he intends to do if he knocks it over and starts a fire, then realizes two things in quick succession: first, she can no longer hear him shadowing her. And second, she has just backed herself into a corner.
She tries to bring her weapon around just as he catches her from behind, and the impact of his body against hers sends the gun spinning off across the floor and into the darkness. The moon isn't full- not yet- and he won't have the strength to kill her, but even his man's strength is enough to hold her tightly against him. She can hear her pulse in her ears, deafeningly loud, and the warmth of his breath on her cheek.
"Your heart is pounding," he observes quietly.
"You scared the hell out of me!" She hisses back. "You didn't have to grab me!"
"You were going to point a gun at me." His calm is maddening. The press of his lips against her throat, twice as maddening. She presses back against him and is rewarded with a throaty chuckle.
"That's my job," she says, but much of the anger has gone from her voice.
He's warm, and he smells clean and wild and male. He kisses her again, one hand trailing down her belly and into her panties. Her body responds rapidly to his touch. He inhales deeply, fingers brushing briefly against her clit, never hard enough, never long enough. She squirms against him and can feel his growing erection against the back of her thigh.
"I knew you'd be in here," she says, trying to keep her voice steady. He's slipped both hands underneath her shirt and is rolling her nipples between his fingers. "We agreed you'd go further up the mountain during the full moon. Remember? So nobody else finds you."
He doesn't respond. Instead, he turns her to face him and she gets a glimpse of his amber eyes and dark hair before he draws her to him for a kiss. His hand is between her thighs again, stroking her skin and then exploring her through the cloth of her panties until they're soaked through with more than rain.
She reaches forward to curl her hand around his cock through his pants, but he pushes her away with a growl. In a moment she's on her back in his bed, surrounded by his smell and his presence and he's peeling her panties off of her and spreading her thighs apart, leaning close to inhale her scent again. She feels the heat of his mouth on her clit an instant before the moisture of his tongue and whatever words she was going to use to scold him for being reckless and careless are dragged out of her in a moan.
He pulls away, too soon, letting the cold rush in to fill the space between them. His mouth is on hers again, and this time he lets her hands scrabble for his belt, undoing it by feel. He growls in pleasure and anticipation when she wraps her fingers around his cock, thumb against the head. He thrusts into her hand, once, and she can feel the power in his body, can feel that although he still has control, the waxing of the moon is pulling it from him with every second. They've been together before, been here before sharing kisses and the heat of each other's bodies, but always the danger was in being found out. Now the danger is him, not in his strength but in how it's crumbling away before something much more primal. Then he's inside of her and every thought of caution falls away.
She arches her back, lifting her hips with every thrust. He moves slowly at first, lost in the satisfaction and completeness of the moment, but it isn't long before his body, and hers, begin demanding more. She whispers it in his ear as he pulls her to him; he pins her to the bed, fucking her harder, and her next breath is sucked in as a gasp and released as a high, animal sound of pleasure.
She wraps her arms around his shoulders, presses her thighs against his body, pulls him down for another kiss, a kiss with teeth in it. She'd come here looking for him, after all, come here knowing what she wanted from him. Now with every thrust driving her toward orgasm, she can feel his body quivering with something neither of them can control. She can hear the note of helplessness in his moans, the trembling as he moves inside of her, and when he finally cums it's less of a release and more as if something powerful and deadly has broken loose from inside him. It's a wild, howling thing, and her own body jerks in orgasm in response. She throws her head back, exposing throat and breast and soft belly as she cries out.
Somewhere beside her he's panting, getting shakily to his hands and knees. She turns on her side to watch him, sees him glance not quite at her, a wolf's wariness returning to him. She knows she ought to remind him that there are other hunters looking for him, ones much less forgiving than she is. She ought to be on her way back by now, to tell the others that she hadn't found anything in the warehouse but old bones and an abandoned den that hadn't been slept in in months. Instead, as he comes back to her side, wrapping an arm around her waist, she lays her head back down, inhaling his scent, and listens to the sound of the rain on the roof.