He wanted her, wanted to rip the white flannel nightgown off of her.
Very cautiously he reached out for her, and took her in his arms. His heart was pounding. The desire for her was as strange and undeniable as the desire to kill, or the desire to feast. Beasts are creatures of imperatives.
Her flesh was white in the light of the lantern, sweet, tender - and her lips opened and she gave a little gasp. Carefully, ever so carefully, he touched her lips with the edge of his paw.
He picked her up, easily lifting her legs over his left arm. She weighed nothing, absolutely nothing. She put her arms around his neck, letting her fingers slide into the thick hair.
And with these simple gestures, she drove him right over the edge. A low secretive growl came out of him.
He had to have her if she would allow it. And she was surely allowing it.
He carried her towards the door, and gently pushing it back, carried her into the warmer, sweeter air of the house.
All the domestic scents swirled around him - of polished wood, scented soap, candles, a touch of incense, the smell of a fire. And her perfume, her lovely natural perfume and a tasty citrus essence she,d added to it. Oh, flesh, oh blessed flesh. There came that low caressing growl from him again. Is that how it seemed to her? Caressing?
There were embers in the small black stove. A digital clock gave its numbers with a tiny bit of light.
A small bedroom materialized around him. He made out an antique bed against the wall, with a high back of golden oak, and white covers that looked as soft as foam.
She was clinging to him. She reached up and touched his face. He could barely feel her touch through the hair, but then it began to zing right to the roots. She touched his mouth, the thin ribbon of black flesh that he knew was there. She touched his teeth and his fangs. Did she realize he was smiling down at her? She closed the thick hair of his mane in her hand tightly.
He kissed the top of her head, and he kissed her forehead, hmmmmm, satin, kissed her upturned eyes and made them close.
The flesh of her eyelids was like silk. A silk and satin little being, hairless, fragrant, petal soft.
How naked and vulnerable she seemed; it maddened him. Oh, please, my dear, do not change your mind!
They sank down together on the bed, though he did not put his full weight on her. He would have hurt her if he had done that, but he nestled close to her, cradling her with his arms, stroking her hair back from her forehead. Blond and gray, with lots and lots of softer gray.
He bent to kiss her lips and her lips opened. He breathed into her mouth.
"Gently," she whispered, her fingers pushing the hair back from his eyes, smoothing it back.
"Oh, beautiful, beautiful," he said. "I won,t hurt you. I would rather die than hurt you. Tender stem. Little stem. I give you my word."
Chapter Twelve
THE LITTLE CLOCK on her bedside table said 4:00 a.m. in bright digital numerals. Just this clock gave the room all the light his eyes needed.
He lay beside her, staring at the dark beaded wood paneling of the ceiling covered in a thick and lustrous varnish.
This had been a porch once, this bedroom, and it ran along the entire back of her house. Above the surrounding wainscoting were small-paned windows on three sides. And he could well imagine how lovely this would be when the sun came, and the dark forest which he could see would close in visibly for human eyes with its reddish trunks and feathery green leaves.
He could smell the woods here, smell it as deeply as he had when he was out in it. This was a little house of the woods made by someone who had loved the woods and wanted to be in it without disturbing it.
She lay against him, sleeping.
A woman of thirty, yes, and her hair was an ashen blond, but mostly grayish white now, and long and loose and natural. He,d ripped open her nightgown all right, destroyed it, freeing her from it bit by bit, with her irresistible compliance, and the remnants of it lay beneath her like feathers in a nest.
It had taken all his control not to batter her in the lovemaking, man and