Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

all those years I spent outwardly acquiescing to his demands while making sure I held my own, I’d won his respect. I’d had werewolves love me and hate me, but I’d never had one respect me before. Not even Samuel.
    Adam respected me enough to act on my suspicions. It meant a lot.
    I closed my eyes and let the flow of his voice surround me and drive away the frustration. Adam was right. I wasn’t suited for going after a vampire, any vampire, and certainly not one aided by a demon. I’d just have to be satisfied when Warren or Stefan did it. If Ben killed Littleton, though…I didn’t know if that would satisfy me. I hated to owe Ben any more than I already did.
    Adam hung up the phone. I heard the quiet sound of his feet walking toward me on the padded floor, and the hiss as the mat gave way when he sat beside me. After a moment he untied the top of my gi and pulled it off, leaving me in my T-shirt and white gi pants. I let him do it.
    â€œPassive isn’t like you,” he said.
    I growled at him, though I didn’t open my eyes. “Shut up. I’m wallowing in misery, here. Have a little respect.”
    He laughed and rolled me over until my face was pressed into the sweat-scented mat. His hands were warm and strong as they dug into the tense muscles of my lower back. When he dug into my shoulders, I went boneless.
    At first he was all business, finding the knots left by sleepless nights and days of physically demanding work. Then his hands softened and the brisk rubs became light caresses.
    â€œYou smell like burnt oil and WD-40,” he said, a smile in his voice.
    â€œSo plug your nose,” I retorted. To my dismay, it came out with more sugar than vinegar.
    I was so easy. One back rub and I was his. My susceptibility to him was the reason I’d been avoiding him. Somehow, lying on my face with his hands on my back, it didn’t seem like a good enough reason.
    He didn’t smell of burnt oil, but of forest, wolf, and that exotic wild scent that belonged only to him. His hands slipped under my tee and spread wide over my lower back then feathered over my bra strap. I could have told him that sports bras don’t have clasps, but then I’d have to take an active part in my own seduction. I wanted him to be the aggressor—a small part of me, the very small part of me that wasn’t turning to jelly under his hands, wondered why.
    I didn’t want to delegate responsibility, I decided lazily. I was more than willing to accept responsibility for my own actions—and allowing him to slide his warm, calloused hands into my hair was certainly an action on my part. I loved a man’s hands in my hair, I decided. I loved Adam’s hands.
    He bit the nape of my neck and I moaned.
    The door between the garage and the house popped open suddenly. “Hey Dad, hey Mercy.”
    Ice water couldn’t have been more effective.
    The hands on my butt stilled as Adam’s daughter’s quick steps paused. I opened my eyes and met her gaze. She’d changed her hairstyle since last time I’d seen her, going from startling to even more startling. It was no more than a half-inch long and yellow—not blond yellow, but daffodil yellow. The effect was charming, but a little bizarre. Not what a rescuer ought to look like.
    Her face went blank as she realized what she’d interrupted. “I’ll, uh, go upstairs and watch a show,” she said, not sounding like herself at all.
    I scooted out from under Adam. “And Jesse saves the day,” I said lightly. “Thank you, that was getting out of hand.”
    She paused, looking—surprised.
    I wondered uncharitably how many times she’d walked in on her mother in similar situations and what her mother’s response had been. I never had liked Jesse’s mother and was happy to believe all sorts of evil about her. I let anger at the games her mother might have played surround me. When you’ve lived with werewolves, you learn tricks to hide what you’re feeling from them—anger, for instance, covers up panic pretty well—and, out from under Adam’s sensuous hands, I was panicking plenty.
    Adam snorted. “That’s one way to put it.” To my relief he’d stayed where we’d been, sinking face down into the mat.
    â€œEven with my willpower, his lure was too great,” I said melodramatically, complete with wrist to forehead. If I made