Hot Blooded

on her
leg. She looked down at the animal, and it whined plaintively. Jenny stroked the
dog's head. "It's okay, Mojo. I'm not going to leave him, if that's what you're
asking."
    The animal seemed relieved, its jaw falling open and tongue lolling between
sharp teeth, almost like a doggie smile.
    Jenny went into the bathroom just off the bedroom, found a washcloth, towels,
soap and some antiseptic ointments. There was even a tube of old-fashioned
liniment. Carrying them all back into the bedroom, she dumped them on the
bedside stand. Then she hurried out to the kitchen, rummaged in the cupboards
until she located a large basin and filled it with the hottest water she could
bear on her skin.
    She took the water with her back to the bedroom, set it on a chair and poured
antiseptic into it until it turned a mustard-tinted brown. She settled herself
on the edge of his mattress, shaking her head at the scratches and cuts on his
back as she pulled the covers away. Then she dipped the washcloth into the hot
water, squeezed it out and began the slow, gentle work of washing him.
    The cuts, scratches and scrapes on his back were numerous. There were a
couple of punctures, tiny ones, and she even found a thorn poking from one of
them. That put a delay on her work as she paused to locate tweezers, then
removed the offending thorn, and made sure plenty of the antiseptic got into the
tiny wound it left behind.
    After washing one section of his body, she applied ointment to every scrape
and scratch, ointment and bandages to the larger cuts. She paused over each
bruise to gently rub liniment into it.
    When she finished with his back, shoulders and arms, she moved lower. His
buttocks were covered in injuries as well, mostly bruises, and she worked there
just as diligently, even if not quite as calmly. He had a perfectly shaped butt
and rock-solid thighs. She couldn't resist touching him as she worked, running
her hands over him, knowing he would never know the difference, and wouldn't
mind if he did.
    He felt good. She liked the smooth feel of his toned skin and hard muscle
beneath her palms.
    Finally, she moved on to his feet, the soles of which were not a pretty
sight. Nothing more sensitive than the sole of a man's foot. Well, almost
nothing.
    She worked on him for a long, long time, losing herself to an almost hypnotic
state induced by the act of rubbing, caressing, healing him.
    She rolled him onto his back, as carefully as she could, and started all over
again. And ministering to the front of him was even more interesting, even more
arousing and exciting. She ran her washcloth, and then her hands, over his
chest, exploring and touching every inch of it. Touching him this way, this
freely, this boldly, made every part of her body come alive. Every nerve ending
tingled. She savored him, the way he had taught her to savor her meal last
night. The feel of him, the sight of him, the smell of him. The sound of her
palms brushing over his skin. The sound of her heart pounding in her chest. The
sound of him sighing in contentment in his sleep.
    Carefully, she leaned closer, pressing her lips to his chest, daring to part
them, to taste him, just a little flick of her tongue. He would want her to do
it. She knew he would.
    He groaned deep in his throat, and his arms came around her, pulling her into
the bed. He was hard and far stronger than she'd have given him credit for
being, as he rolled her over and covered her body with his. He took her mouth,
and even while she began to protest that he shouldn't, that he was hurt, and
should wait, he began working her clothing free.
    His strong hands slid over her waist, to the bottom of her tank top, then
slid upward again, lifting the fabric with them higher, baring her belly, and
then her breasts. He pressed her arms upward, so he could strip the blouse away,
and then he paused, staring down at her.
    "You're hurt," he whispered.
    "It's nothing—branches and briars when I ran through the woods."
    "I frightened you."
    "Not you," she told him, pressing her hand to his cheek. "The wolf."
    "But I
am
the wolf." He closed his eyes and lowered his head until
his lips brushed gently over the scratch on her collarbone. He kissed the length
of it, then kept moving, finding her breast and kissing it as well. When he
tended the nipple with soft, teasing kisses, her blood heated beyond endurance.
    "Samuel," she whispered.
    He took that as encouragement,