Chapter Three
It was way too early in the morning to be knocking at Starr’s door. The sunlight still had that fresh-but-sleepy slant, and there were more twittering birds than traffic sounds. Too early, especially since Gentry knew how late she’d gone to bed. So, he made sure to pound extra hard.
While he waited for the lazy brat to answer, he hummed and rocked back and forth on his heels. He wore socks with sandals—usually a fashion faux pas, but he thought he pulled it off fine with his wide-legged jeans that covered most of his feet anyway. Only problem was, his socks didn’t match. One white, one blue. He’d lost the other white one, and it seemed a shame to dirty up both blue ones.
Through a pink haze, he stared across the street at a row of little shops. At least he’d gotten his glasses back. He sighed and looked at the door again. His fingertips were getting uncomfortably warm on the bottom of the Styrofoam container.
He pounded on the door again. This time, he heard a thud and Starr’s muffled voice shouting that she was fucking coming.
A few more thumps, the distinct sound of huffy footsteps, and then the lock clicked.
Her hair was rumpled, dark circles were under her eyes, and she wore a blanket around her shoulders. Not her best look, but his instinct, his hunger for her, still rose unbidden.
“I might have known,” she grumbled in a sleep-graveled voice. “What do you want?”
He grinned. “Good morning, brat. I brought you some breakfast.” He held up the Styrofoam container.
She muttered something that had the word “fuck” in it, and turned away from the door, leaving it open. Gentry took that as “come in,” so he did.
Starr’s apartment reflected its occupant, in that it was both nice to look at and messed up. The walls were covered with complex pieces of artwork and vintage movie posters. She also owned a few interesting conversation pieces, among them an authentic copy of Marylin Monroe’s nude calendar. However, once one looked away from the walls, it was a disaster. She didn’t seem to think furniture was something every household needed, so she only owned a couch and a coffee table. Beyond that, any books, magazines, DVDs, or anything that could have benefitted from a shelf, was scattered about in boxes, crates, or on the floor.
The air smelled like a mixture of cigarette smoke and incense. The couch reeked like someone had been fucking on it recently, though.
“Oh, there’s my sock.” He bent and plucked it from between the cushions.
Starr slammed things around in the kitchen. “It’s seven fucking thirty!”
“Seven fucking twenty-three, actually.” He set the Styrofoam container on the coffee table.
Starr came from the kitchen carrying two bottles of beer. Her blanket-cloak was slipping off her shoulders and all she had on beneath it were her white panties from the night before.
“I don’t drink before noon.” He flopped down on the middle cushion of the couch, so she would have no choice but to sit beside him. “You shouldn’t either.”
“When you drink as much as I do, you have to start this early.” She sat down heavily on his left and plunked the bottles on the table. “Suit yourself.”
“Why do you look so wiped out?” he asked. “You weren’t drinking that much last night.”
She gave him a dark look as she reached for a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a Zippo on the coffee table.
“Unless you were doing something else before I got there.” He propped one of his sandals—the one with the blue sock beneath it—on the edge of the table. “Some smack? Some crack? Some X? Some E? Some ABCDEFG?”
She lit a cigarette and then tossed the lighter on the table with a clatter. “E and X are the same thing. Stop lording yourself over me.”
He nodded. “I forgot, you’re so into that scene, little punk girl. Even though the hardest thing I’ve ever seen you do is ibuprofen. You don’t even drink that much.” He nudged one of the bottles with his foot. “I’m not impressed because one of your overage friends bought you beer.”
She glared at him, smoke curling around her face. “At least I’m still young. Unfortunately, I’ve got a creepy old man stalking me.”
“I’m twenty-three! And in werewolf years, that’s practically a baby, I’ll have you know.”
She shook her head. “You know damn well why I look like I haven’t slept for more than two hours. Because I haven’t.”
He chuckled and extended his leg so he could nudge the empty condom box on the table. “You should clean this place up.”
She scowled around her cigarette and let it dangle from the corner of her mouth while she reached over and grabbed the Styrofoam container. She opened it and jerked back a little as a billow of steam blasted her in the face.
“Finest home-style breakfast in Beverly Hills,” he drawled. “They use whole wheat for their pancakes.”
She poked around in the box and nudged the bacon out of the way. “You know I don’t eat meat.”
He snorted and leaned back. “That one’s too easy, so I won’t say anything.” He yawned and rubbed his face.
“Good, keep your mouth shut.”
She ate some of the pancakes, in the most grudging fashion she could muster. Gentry dozed off, until she whacked him in the gut.
“Quit sleeping on my couch. This isn’t a hotel.”
He snickered and rubbed his face again.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked around a mouthful.
“I brought you breakfast.” And I can’t control myself. It’s getting worse.
“You left at five AM. Why the hell didn’t you stay here last night if you were gonna come back this early?”
“I’m still trying to pretend I can be autonomous.”
“And I’m still trying to pretend I can kick you out.”
He sighed. “I can’t stay away from you.” He smirked at her. “I’m not sure you want me to stay away, either.”
She was now sitting with her legs folded and her back against the arm of the couch, facing him, the container open on her lap and her blanket barely covering her breasts.
“Plus, I needed to get my sock back.” He picked up the sock and dangled it.
“You don’t even remember how you lost that sock, do you?” She made a face at it. “You used it to wipe jizz off my thigh.”
Gentry cracked up. He tossed it on the floor and then stretched. “I wanted to see if you’d go to breakfast with me. Might as well make the most of this. Maybe we might even like each other, eventually.”
She looked at him in disbelief and held the container up. Her mouth was full again.
“I know, but I’m hungry. I thought you could come and keep me company. Watch me eat. The full moon is this coming weekend. I’m always starving leading up to it.”
She rolled her eyes and finished chewing. “Can’t we go to lunch, so I can get some more sleep? Better yet, dinner.”
“No, I’m hungry right now. And you’ll change your mind if we put it off.”
She sighed, closed the container, and then tossed it into his lap. He flinched and grinned, able to grab it before it spilled all over his crotch.
“Fine,” she said. “Maybe I can get something a little healthier. Let me get a shower first though. I smell like cock.”
She shrugged off her blanket and got to her feet. He opened the container, but she snatched it away.
“We’re going to breakfast.” She headed toward the kitchen with it.
Gentry pushed his sandals off and propped his mismatched socked feet on the table, and rested his head on the back of the couch. He stared at the ceiling, his t-shirt tugged up, and he played idly with the hairs on his stomach. The shower came on down the hallway.
Starr’s half cigarette was still in the ashtray. It made him want one, but he tried to ignore it. He stood up and wandered around the living room, peering at the posters on the walls. Starr was here to become an actress, of course, like all the pretty, young women. She waited tables, like all the hopeful actresses. She partied hard and acted hard, like all the hopeful actresses waiting tables.
“How can this be my mate?” he’d asked his father. “She’s nothing like I expected.” Or hoped for, he thought with dismay.
“You don’t pick your mate, you find her,” his father said. “There is no denying the attraction between you. You will learn to love her later.”
Yeah, but how? Gentry was a little rough around the edges, true enough, but nothing … nothing like her. She wasn’t only rough, she was abrasive.
He walked down the hallway and paused outside the bathroom door, which was cracked open. Warm, steamy air drifted out.
He turned to the open door next to it.
Starr’s bedroom smelled like her. Sweat, slept-in bed, and a faint hint of flowery perfume. And another smell, one he couldn’t describe, but knew without a doubt what it was. The scent of mine, whether he liked it or not.
This room wasn’t much more organized than the rest of the place, and the only furniture was a dresser and bed. Her closet was open to reveal a full-length mirror on the inside of the door and that she owned way too many clothes. The top of the dresser was covered in makeup and jewelry. A pile of clothes sat between the dresser and doorway. Her white panties now rested atop it.
He inched into the room, feeling both like he shouldn’t be invading this personal space and inexorably excited by it. He wanted to lie down on her bed and bury his face in the sheets. He’d never been invited to her bed. Her couch, yes. Her floor, yes. Once her kitchen counter, but not her bed.
At least they had the lust part down.
This room also had posters all over the walls, eating up every inch of space. He noticed a pile of books on the dresser and peeked over. His lips split into a grin. Surely not. Not hardcore punk girl Starr. She couldn’t be reading such things.
The water shut off in the bathroom. He stepped back into the hallway. The shower door slid back.
“Starr?”
“Ah!” A shout. “Damn it. What are you doing lurking around out there?”
The bathroom door opened, releasing a gust of steam. Starr was dripping, a towel held loosely around her breasts. Her hair was slicked to her neck and shoulders.
“Sorry. Just seeing if you were done yet.”
“Yeah, right.” She eyed him. “If you wanted to watch me shower, you don’t have to spy. You could have come in.”
“Oh yeah?” He leaned forward, hand on the doorframe, above her head. She tilted her chin up and looked him square in the face.
“I gotta get dried off.” She turned. He stayed put and watched.
She tucked the towel at the top so it wouldn’t fall, and grabbed another towel and rubbed her hair vigorously before draping it over her shoulders. Then she unhooked the other towel and started drying off.
Her body was slender and toned. She had long legs, a great ass, and firm, perky breasts. She was gorgeous, really, like all the young women who wanted to be actresses, but she had a certain uniqueness. Maybe it was in the slope of her cheekbones or the curve of her back. Maybe it was the way her hair fell or the sea-green color of her eyes. Or, maybe he only thought that because of the mark.
She propped one of those long legs up on the edge of the toilet and rubbed that lucky poly/cotton blend up and down her sleek thigh. He stirred in his jeans.
She went about drying the rest of her body with the same casual attitude, like he wasn’t standing there. The only clue that she was at all moved by his keen observance was the fact that her pale pink nipples were hard.
Finally, she tossed the towel over the rack next to the shower and pulled the other one off her shoulders. She sauntered toward him.
“Gotta get dressed. Move.”
He didn’t move, except to put his other hand on the doorframe, effectively blocking her way.
She looked him in the face again. “Don’t wanna go to breakfast?”
He didn’t answer, but that stirring in his jeans was now a definite stiffness.
“No?” She arched an eyebrow. “Wanna go down on me instead?”
He smirked. “How about you go down on me?”
“I went down on you last night.” Her voice had turned huskier. “It’s your turn.”
“You keeping track?”
“Either eat my pussy or get out of the way so I can get dressed.”
He liked her directness, if nothing else. No nonsense. She made a little oomph sound as he pressed her against the door and made it hit the wall. Her inner thighs were still damp. The floor was wet and soaked through the knees of his jeans.
He loved the taste of her, rich on the silken wetness of her folds. He tingled at the way her fingers curled in his hair, and he was keenly attuned to the way she emitted a breathy sigh above him. She draped a leg over his shoulder.
“Fuck,” she moaned, and it was genuine and eager. A growl escaped him in response. Maybe she had started out wet from the shower, but now she was slick with desire. He clutched her quivering hips as he swiped his tongue over her.
After a few minutes, he leaned back and gazed up at her. “You got any more condoms?” She was his mate, but they clearly were not ready to mate.
She dropped her leg off his shoulder. Her smooth, shaved mound remained tantalizing in front of his face, her slit pink and glistening. She was beautiful. Damp hair hanging around her face, glassy eyes, flushed cheeks. This was her best look.
“Um, yeah. I think in the bedroom.”
She stepped around him and out the door. He rose to follow, unsnapping his jeans to give himself more room.
She walked into the bedroom. He paused in the doorway and watched her root through her top dresser drawer, breasts jiggling. She pulled out a box.
“Yep.” She pushed the drawer shut. “Thought we were going to breakfast, though?”
“It’ll still be there. You in a hurry?”
****
Starr studied this long, tall beautiful golden god of a man for a moment, and then shook a foil square out of the box and tossed it to him. “Better get those pants off before you injure yourself.” He was pushing out the front of his jeans. “Don’t wanna get it bent.”
Gentry rubbed his finger over the edge of the packet. He glanced at the bed.
She looked over at it too.
“Come on.” She crawled onto the mattress. Might as well invite him into this last vestige of her privacy. Besides, she was horny as hell now and it would be more comfortable than the couch.
He hopped around in an amusing fashion while he removed his jeans, boxer briefs, socks, and t-shirt, so he was stark naked. He was chiseled, muscle-y and firm everywhere. The kind of guy you saw on movie screens.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad to be mated to him. Of course, he probably got a lot hairier sometimes.
He crawled on top of her, and to her surprise, buried his face in the pillow next to her head and breathed in. She swiped the condom from him and tore the package open.
“What are you doing, idiot?” The words came out softer and less taunting than she meant them to be, though.
“Your scent drives me crazy.” He grinned and bumped his forehead against hers. They were all bare tangled limbs and warm, silky skin pressed together.
“Here.” She held out the glistening circle of rubber. The smell of latex overwhelmed everything else for a moment.
She was never much interested in foreplay, at least, not with him. Despite her protests, when she got near him, all she wanted was for him to be inside her. She helped him roll the condom on, her fingers nimble on his twitching flesh. Their heads were bent in concentration, eyes focused downward. So close their shuddering breaths mingled.
She pressed a hand against his chest when he tried to nudge her over. “No, like this this time.”
Usually she faced away, and let him give it to her from behind, so she didn’t have to look at him or let him look at her and see all the weird feelings he stirred in her. Being vulnerable didn’t come easy.
Today—maybe it was the early hour and fog of sleepiness that hung over her, or maybe the comfort and intimacy of the bed—she wrapped her legs around him. High up on his back, knees near his shoulder blades, heels finding purchase above the swell of his hips, thighs clenched tight around his ribs. They both gasped when he slipped into her. His face was beautiful. Open-mouthed and furrowed brow, teeth bared for a moment as he hissed in pleasure. He was a big boy, and she wanted this, and he made her feel so good and full inside.
“That all right?” he whispered.
Afraid to disturb the quiet, she nodded.
They didn’t say much during sex, but he made her moan. God, did she moan. He usually got to hear it through the muffled filter of a pillow, or the couch cushion, or her forearm. He seemed happy to hear it unabated now, to watch her mouth open as he pulled those sounds out of her.
Her thighs quivered and loosened around his sides, feet jerking helplessly in the air as he drove into her. The headboard thumped the wall. His scent was all over her, musky, pungent and male. She gripped the gold strands of his hair and yanked. They were going at it like they hadn’t done this a few hours ago.
It all felt so disturbingly right, but she would enjoy it now and freak out about it later, like she always did.
The problem was, sometimes it was too right, too hot.
“Fuck!” Gentry buried his face in the pillow next to her head. He growled and shuddered. His cock pulsed inside her, filling the condom.
She groaned.
He panted, tilted his head down a bit, and kissed her sweaty shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “You’re just so beautiful, and this is so good.”
She trembled, her breath quick. “S’all right. That was the point, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, but you—”
“If you can’t figure out how to get me off other ways, we’re going to have a rotten life together.” She shifted. “Climb off.”
He slid out of her. She was soaked and still clenching inside with need. He pulled the condom off and pressed against her side, slick skin to slick skin. Then he slipped his hand between her legs, his fingertips drifting across her clit.
“No, I’ll do that part.” She pushed at his wrist and forced his hand lower. She bent her knees and spread her legs wide.
She moaned again as he pushed his fingers in.
The first actual sexual experience they’d had—dry humping against the door of his car didn’t count—involved his fingers buried in her pussy. They’d only recently come to terms with what was going on between them, and were helpless to fight the attraction. Outside a club, they found a dark, secluded spot down an alleyway next to it. He had his hand under her short skirt and down her panties. She’d never been so wet in her life. She screamed her fucking head off when she came. After, in his car, she gave him the best blowjob she’d ever performed, if she did say so herself.
She squirmed and bucked her hips off the bed. His fingers squished inside her, his forearm tense, shoulder cocked as he worked them deep. She could barely breathe or make a sound. He watched her fingers as they frantically strummed her clit. He flicked his tongue against one of her taut nipples and fucked her harder.
She clutched the headboard as she came, and let out the scream that had been building inside her. Her inner muscles convulsed around his fingers and she gushed all over the sheets.
Easier to clean up than the couch, at least.
“You’re gonna need another shower.” He sprawled beside her and sucked his fingers clean.
“We’re getting better at this.” She panted. “Maybe next time you’ll actually be able to last long enough to get me off first.”
“You really know how to stroke a man’s ego.”
She got up, cleaned up in the bathroom, and then came back after a trip to the living room to retrieve her cigarettes. She crawled over him and put one between his lips before lighting her own.
“I’m trying to quit,” he said around it, and took the Zippo when it was offered.
“That’s nice.” She settled back on the pillows and blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling.
They lay there, winding down, smoking, quiet for a while. How the hell was she going to do this? How was she going to fit a werewolf into her life? She couldn’t run away. And she found as the days passed, she didn’t want to.
Gentry peered through the haze of smoke at her dresser. He smirked. “So, you read romance novels?”
She glanced at the dresser and drew on her cigarette.
“Shut up.”