Page 40 of Bewitching the Wolf

I didn’t expect him to get his kit off this early in the piece, did I?

I throw the glass into the sink and shove the rest of the wheatgrass into the fridge.

I make a big thing of checking my itinerary for the rest of the day in the file I’ve made up.

When Jax strolls out, thankfully fully dressed now, I clip out in my best professional voice, “Okayyyy then. A run first. Followed by a high-protein lunch.”

He grins, ruffles a hand through his hair. “I’m up for the challenge.”

If I just keep busy… and keep Jax busy, then my hormones won’t get a chance to surface, I reason.

I can do this.

I’ve coached literally dozens of mixed species, even done some health retreats before.

I’ll just pretend he’s Arlo.

Gosh, I lived in the same house as Arlo for a whole year without a problem.

You didn’t have the hots for Arlo, idiot.

“Okay, let’s go,” I say, and head out the door.

I’m good at running, though more fluid and faster in my shifted state. But that’s rare. Apart from at our festivals, it’s only happened once in my training, after I’d been practicing wixen mating dance steps in my room for several hours. It was brief, but I’d caught a glimpse of my pointed snout, the black tip to my nose, the soft red and white fur of my pelt. It shocked and kind of delighted me.

When I told Aunt Felicia, she said that wasn’t unusual, and that it also happens before mating sometimes. Since I’ve never been close to that, I have nothing to go on...

Shit!

Stop thinking of the M word.

I run faster. My feet pound the pavement, my tail bouncing behind me.

Jax keeps level with me with an easy grace that is disconcerting.

He runs well. I sense the wolf in him has made his long limbs more fluid, his quads more powerful.

Eventually, I’m out of breath. I stop and swig from my drink bottle, and Jax drinks too. I try really hard to ignore the way his t-shirt has stuck to his pecs. The way his throat muscles bob as he gulps from his water bottle, the bunch of his bicep as he holds it to his mouth.

I drink more cold water myself, so fast that it dribbles out the side of my mouth.

When I wipe it away with the back of my hand, he’s gazing at me, hands looped on his hips, with that lazy lopsided grin of his. The lush softness of his mouth makes my clit hum alarmingly into life.

I snap the top back on my bottle. “Had enough?” I ask. Because I sure can’t take much more.

“Nah, I could keep going.”

“Lungs feeling okay?”

“Yep. Fine.”

“Not out of breath?”

“Nope.”

He certainly doesn’t look it. He’s coping better than me. He looked unhealthy when I first knew him, pale and gaunt, but since he got bitten, he’s changed, even though he still vapes. He’s fitter, healthier.

Sexier.