the tempting halves of her rounded bottom. His hands itched to squeeze. He imagined feeling the smooth skin of her plump ass caressing him as he mounted her from behind and drove into her in the traditional mating position.
Not the first time. Werewolf sex could be quite rough, too intense and passionate for her first time. Threading through Maggie’s female arousal was the distinct impression of innocence. Sexy, yes. Enticing. Oh, yeah. But experienced. No way. He’d bet a raw steak on her being a virgin.
He imagined gently initiating her in making love. Slow, sensual caresses. Perhaps a hot oil massage, his fingers sliding over her silky skin, caressing and stroking, delving into her secret hollows and making her writhe and plead. Slow for her first time, with lots of orgasms to compensate for taking her virginity. Then finally, igniting her passion and tangling together with her in hot, raw animal sex. He grew hard as granite, thinking about it.
Blood thrummed hotly in his veins. Nicolas hungrily watched Maggie walk toward two men.
What the hell?
Fists clenched, they fumed at each other. One, bristling sharp as the spikes on his crew cut, boasted muscles worthy of a veteran WWE wrestler. The other was leaner, but tall and wiry. They looked ready for a fight.
They were going to fight!
He swiveled, realized the crowd had quieted. They stared at the men, expecting action. He focused on the scowling men. And Maggie, his Maggie, was hurrying up as one drew back his fist.
Nicolas leapt off the bench. He bolted toward them, muscles tensed as he prepared to defend his draicara.
Maggie stepped between the pair snarling like angry dogs. She placed a hand on each man’s arm. Her honey-smooth voice rippled in soothing tones. “Stop it. John, you don’t want to hurt this man. Whatever it is, you can work through it without hitting each other. You don’t want to hurt each other. Listen to me. You’re here for a good time. Calm down. It’s all right.”
Serenity radiated from her. Maggie’s aura of peace extinguished the tension between the hot-tempered men like a bucket of ice water on a campfire. The two looked at each other, tension fading from their bodies. This is silly, their expressions said. Why are we doing this?
Nicolas ground to a halt between the pair. They backed off. “Lay a hand on her and I’ll tear you apart,” he growled.
Not giving them a chance to think it over, he wrapped his fingers firmly about Maggie’s wrist and tugged her back to their seats. Admiration for her courage and spunk filled him. Deep inside she possessed the qualities to battle the Morphs. Nicolas bit back frustration. First though, he must teach her to make war, not peace.
Better yet, make love. Then make war.
“What are you doing?” she protested.
“Saving your sweet little ass.”
He herded her back to the bar, barked an order for another pinot noir to the bartender. Nothing for him. He couldn’t risk another sip. Not if he had to stand ready and protect her from breaking up fights where she could get hurt.
Defiance snapped in her sea-blue eyes as they resumed their seats. The bartender set the wine down.
Nicolas pinned her with a censured look. “What the hell were you doing? They outweigh you by a hundred pounds.”
Maggie lifted her stubborn little chin. “I don’t like violence. John has already been jailed for getting into one fight. And what right do you have to interfere?”
“Same right you do.” Only more, he thought grimly. No way in hell would he allow her to endanger herself needlessly. “I had no desire to see you take a punch in the face.”
Her expression softened. “And I had no desire to see them fight. Fistfights serve no purpose.”
“They serve a great purpose when the fist is headed at your face. A man has to do what he must to protect his own.”
Her lovely mouth wobbled. “Sometimes a man is better off turning and walking away than risking violence. Men can die from a fight.”
“And there are those who seek nothing but a fight. You don’t turn and walk away from them. Because they’ll hunt you down and rip you into pieces while you’re singing the praises of peace and harmony. What would you do then, Maggie?”
Her gaze grew distant. “I’d try to negotiate.
Beg for my life, if necessary. And escape. Run.” Her voice dropped. “Anything … but fight.”
“There is no compromise. No negotiation. Run and they’ll run faster after you. Plead and they’ll ignore you. You must kill. Or be killed. Rules of the jungle, Maggie.”
“This isn’t a jungle.”
“Everywhere is a jungle. The covering is just different.” Nicolas braced his hands on the bar, scanning the crowd. The rose-gold sun had sunk into the gulf. Dark shadows spread over the sand. On the beach, the men playing volleyball laughed as they ceased the game.
Nicolas studied Maggie. Instinct urged him to see inside. Get an idea of her emotions. No. No invasion.
Her hand shook as she picked up the wineglass. Ruby liquid sloshed over the rim. Droplets splattered on the laminated counter, quivered, dark as blood. Nicolas fought a rising premonition. He gently touched her wrist, marveling at the heat sizzling between them.
“Are you okay, Maggie?”
Expression distant, guarded, she gulped down the wine. Nicolas kept quiet. Finally, she took a deep breath. Her voice cracked.
“I shouldn’t have … have come here. I knew this was a mistake. I just wanted … a little diversion. Some company. I’ve been working so hard.”
He didn’t invade her thoughts. Nicolas read her expression instead. It said she wanted to retreat to the safety of her four walls, where she didn’t have to encounter fistfights.
“What kind of work do you do?” He kept his tone casual. Inside, he ached at her wild look, like a cornered animal.
Enthusiasm chased away dark shadows from her eyes. She began talking about her practice as a veterinarian. Nicolas fired one question after another. Kept her talking, distracted her from leaving. He learned she’d been raised by a parade of indifferent foster parents after her mother and father died when she was twelve. Only after she turned fourteen did she finally have affectionate foster parents. Her foster father was a physician and encouraged Maggie’s studies.
“I skipped grades and graduated high school at sixteen and went to college. My foster father wanted me to major in premed and I was desperate to please him because he had been so good to me. It was almost … like having a real father.”
Her tiny sigh pierced him like a dart.
“I thought they both loved me as if I were their real child, until my second year of school when I knew I wanted to become a veterinarian. My foster father threatened to stop paying my tuition if I changed majors. Animal doctors weren’t as skilled as real doctors.”
Maggie’s gaze dropped to the counter. “I couldn’t force myself to comply with his wishes so they cut off all contact with me. It was challenging, but I had a few scholarships and worked through school as a phlebotomist.”
Nicolas steeled himself against the rising urge to take her hand and give it a comforting squeeze. “Your foster father was wrong. It takes a special skill, and empathy to treat animals. Animals don’t talk, and can’t communicate with words as to what’s wrong.” He gave a wry smile. “But in many ways, they’re easier to be around than people.”
A little laugh escaped her. “You think so, too? I had to force myself out to come here. Sometimes I don’t want to be around people, especially men. They can be such wolves.”
Nicolas raised a questioning brow.
“Not you. You don’t have that wolfish