begin my shift from human to cougar, watchful of my body as it twists into an entirely different form. As I shift, I mentally keep vigilant - there’s no kicking from my belly to indicate that they’re uncomfortable or responding to my shift. A good sign. I finish my shifting with ease, and then I’m a long bodied, sleek cougar.
With a big, pregnant belly.
I scratch my ear with a hind paw and scent the air, testing for prey. Now that I’ve shifted, my senses are keener, and I can smell a few interesting things. There’s a skunk somewhere, something that smells rodent-like, and something off to the west that smells pretty dead.
Being a cat and curious, I immediately head off for the dead things. Not to eat, of course. Just to peek at. I lope into the woods - my woods - with an easy, relaxed gait. I’m in no particular hurry. It feels so good to be in my cat form. I’ve missed this. I don’t think it’s nearly as bad for the babies as Dr. Lamb says it is. It’s certainly great for the mother. I feel invigorated, my paws picking up the pace until I’m racing through the nighttime forest, exhilarated.
My smelly dead thing turns out to be an armadillo on the side of the road a mile or so away, which is a shame. Dead armadillos in Texas are a dime a dozen and uninteresting. I immediately head deeper into the woody brush in search of more interesting things. My cat’s feeling playful.
Two hours later, I return to my house, the hot stink of skunk in my nose. I’d narrowly managed to avoid being sprayed, but the stench was still lingering in the air, making my eyes water. I’d toyed with the idea of nabbing a squirrel or two as a snack, but my stomach wanted real food after expending all that energy, and all the real food is at my cute new house.
My house. Just the feeling makes me lash my tail with pride.
I complete the slow change back to human, and yawn. The effort - and the run - has made me exhausted. Time for a hot shower and a snack, and a nap. I love naps. My babies kick at my stomach as if to agree. I climb up the steps and head through the back door into the kitchen. I open the fridge…and then pause.
The shower’s running upstairs.
I tense, terror ripping through me. Intruders? I have to protect my children. I grab a knife out of a nearby drawer to defend myself.
Then I pause, because what kind of burglar breaks into a house way out in the country just to take a shower? I sniff the air, but my senses are askew from the stupid skunk. Crossing the downstairs of the house, I flip on the light switch to the front porch. There’s a familiar truck parked in the driveway.
Connor.
Damn it.
My terror gives way to anger, and I storm up the stairs to the master bathroom. Sure enough, a dirty pair of jeans and a t-shirt are on my floor, shoes thrown aside. The bathroom door is ajar and I can smell the scent of my favorite body wash in the air, mixed with the intoxicating scent of wolf shifter.
That jerk should not smell nearly as good as he does.
Ignoring propriety I fling the door open and push my way inside. “Connor Anderson,” I bellow. “What do you think you’re doing?”
It’s Connor all right. I’d recognize that taut, tanned backside anywhere. It’s like two tiny globes of muscular perfection attached to a rippling, strong back. Both of which are currently covered in streams of water and soap. He slowly turns around, his hair in a soapy mohawk. And damn it, he looks amazing. There’s not an ounce of fat on him. He’s all thick muscle.
And I feel fat and dumpy and utterly pregnant.
A slow smile crosses his handsome face at the sight of me. “Savannah.”
“Don’t you ‘Savannah’ me.” I wave the knife at him, still pissed despite his naked, wet glory. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
His brows lower in confusion. “I’m taking a shower? I had a long day.” He steps under the spray and more suds go cascading down his rock-hard abdomen.
Not that I’m looking. I jerk
With a big, pregnant belly.
I scratch my ear with a hind paw and scent the air, testing for prey. Now that I’ve shifted, my senses are keener, and I can smell a few interesting things. There’s a skunk somewhere, something that smells rodent-like, and something off to the west that smells pretty dead.
Being a cat and curious, I immediately head off for the dead things. Not to eat, of course. Just to peek at. I lope into the woods - my woods - with an easy, relaxed gait. I’m in no particular hurry. It feels so good to be in my cat form. I’ve missed this. I don’t think it’s nearly as bad for the babies as Dr. Lamb says it is. It’s certainly great for the mother. I feel invigorated, my paws picking up the pace until I’m racing through the nighttime forest, exhilarated.
My smelly dead thing turns out to be an armadillo on the side of the road a mile or so away, which is a shame. Dead armadillos in Texas are a dime a dozen and uninteresting. I immediately head deeper into the woody brush in search of more interesting things. My cat’s feeling playful.
Two hours later, I return to my house, the hot stink of skunk in my nose. I’d narrowly managed to avoid being sprayed, but the stench was still lingering in the air, making my eyes water. I’d toyed with the idea of nabbing a squirrel or two as a snack, but my stomach wanted real food after expending all that energy, and all the real food is at my cute new house.
My house. Just the feeling makes me lash my tail with pride.
I complete the slow change back to human, and yawn. The effort - and the run - has made me exhausted. Time for a hot shower and a snack, and a nap. I love naps. My babies kick at my stomach as if to agree. I climb up the steps and head through the back door into the kitchen. I open the fridge…and then pause.
The shower’s running upstairs.
I tense, terror ripping through me. Intruders? I have to protect my children. I grab a knife out of a nearby drawer to defend myself.
Then I pause, because what kind of burglar breaks into a house way out in the country just to take a shower? I sniff the air, but my senses are askew from the stupid skunk. Crossing the downstairs of the house, I flip on the light switch to the front porch. There’s a familiar truck parked in the driveway.
Connor.
Damn it.
My terror gives way to anger, and I storm up the stairs to the master bathroom. Sure enough, a dirty pair of jeans and a t-shirt are on my floor, shoes thrown aside. The bathroom door is ajar and I can smell the scent of my favorite body wash in the air, mixed with the intoxicating scent of wolf shifter.
That jerk should not smell nearly as good as he does.
Ignoring propriety I fling the door open and push my way inside. “Connor Anderson,” I bellow. “What do you think you’re doing?”
It’s Connor all right. I’d recognize that taut, tanned backside anywhere. It’s like two tiny globes of muscular perfection attached to a rippling, strong back. Both of which are currently covered in streams of water and soap. He slowly turns around, his hair in a soapy mohawk. And damn it, he looks amazing. There’s not an ounce of fat on him. He’s all thick muscle.
And I feel fat and dumpy and utterly pregnant.
A slow smile crosses his handsome face at the sight of me. “Savannah.”
“Don’t you ‘Savannah’ me.” I wave the knife at him, still pissed despite his naked, wet glory. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
His brows lower in confusion. “I’m taking a shower? I had a long day.” He steps under the spray and more suds go cascading down his rock-hard abdomen.
Not that I’m looking. I jerk
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