Werewolf?

I laughed. He was doing such a convincing job of being worried about my reaction to his 'lycanthropy.' I wondered what he'd really been upset about. But... given how big a difference there was between casual-Hans and passionate-Hans, I bet he'd scared a lot of girls off over the years.

"Hans, please. Mr. Salvatore is a vampire, and you don't see me trying to stake him, do you?" My mouth was running rampant again, because I'd just remembered what I'd been thinking before Hans had freaked, and it was winding me up pretty bad. "I'm not going to freak out if you get a little bestial every now and again." I swallowed. "Or maybe I will." After all, I'd freaked out a bit when he'd been kissing my neck. But I'd liked it a lot, too. A lot. But was I really ready to have my clothes torn off and his hands and mouth raking over my body and... "Whatever," I said. "If I freak, I freak. But you said you're in control, so if I do you just have to stop and let me pull myself together, okay?"

Hans chuckled. "Alright," he said. "Is that the rule?"

"Yeah." I bit my lip. I was thinking about Hans picking me up and trapping me against the door again, his hands on my ass, maybe after pulling off my sweater and tearing open my blouse so his mouth could do wolfish things to my breasts. "In fact, why don't we give it a try," I heard myself say. Shit! What was I thinking? Was I actually provoking him again... while wearing a plain, padded bra? Yeah, like that would keep him enticed.

I found myself thinking about those two drawers of Megan's. This would be an excellent time for her to be here instead of me. She had lots of silky, lacy, sexy things. She'd encouraged me to get some for myself when she'd been trying to get me to expand my wardrobe, but nooooo: I'd been too much of a self-conscious moron for that.

Hans frowned. "Are you sure?" he asked, conveniently giving me an out.

"Yeah!" I said, re, moron; no verbal filters. Maybe I should add self-betrayal to that subject line? Whatever. "I mean, it's not like I don't know it's there, right? So go ahead and 'wolf out' and we'll see if I can handle it." Well, maybe I'd get lucky and he wouldn't realize what I was thinking. I shivered. Maybe he'd do something worse.

Hans smiled crookedly and kicked off his shoes. "Okay," he said as he stood.

I blinked: he wasn't wearing socks. But before I could even think to comment he reached down, and a second later he wasn't wearing his t-shirt, either. He pulled it up over his head and tossed it carelessly aside.

There were no comments to be made at that point. I know my mouth was hanging open, but nothing came out, and thank God, because right then I was torn between screaming and drooling. The part of me that is constantly concerned with survival was yelling at me to get out, but the part of me that comes up with graphic, indecent mentalrotica at the drop of a hat was too busy being all aflutter at the sight of Hans' chiseled abs and broad shoulders and slender waist and all those muscles and bare skin and....

If the options had been to tear off his shirt or tear off mine, all I could think was: Good. Choice.

Also... the door behind me was locked, so there was no way I could run away. Which made it good timing, too. Unless I needed to run away. Did I? Oh, God, what was he going to do?

I stood, paralyzed from internal conflict. Then Hans stepped forward and unbuttoned his jeans. That tipped it. Survival won.

No! My thoughts screamed. Oh no. No, no, no NO! But I was still frozen, too scared to move or speak. Too terrified.

Hans' jeans slipped down over his hips. He was going commando. That's the term, right? My mind was scrambling for anything inconsequential to take it away from what was happening, and urban slang fit the bill. I yanked my gaze up to Hans' face before anything else could register. I couldn't believe he was doing this, even though the paranoid part of me, the part I have to fight down just to go out to the store, was smugly satisfied that I was finally going to get what was coming. That it had been right, and I was fucked because I was too scared to even say "stop."

The expression on Hans' face was unreal, it was frighteningly intense. Focused. The entire situation was unreal. I sucked in a breath to scream with, even though it would do no good. I live at the far end of a row of apartments, with no neighbors. No one would hear.

But then Hans' face spasmed, and I clamped my jaw shut. He was focused, but I'd seen him watching me all night, and he wasn't focused on me. His mouth twisted in a snarl, and he threw his head back. Then his face just... it exploded outward, stretching freakishly, elongating into a snout. And there was fur. Fur was growing everywhere: a thick, golden brown coat.

Hans' hands curled into fists and he lurched forward. He hit the ground on his hands and knees, but his legs and arms were withering. His whole body was twisting grotesquely, bones and flesh reordering themselves in defiance of nature.

And then it was done. Hans stretched. His snout, muzzle? crinkled and he opened his mouth wide, exposing fangs and canines and far too many other teeth meant for rending flesh. Then he shook out his coat and sat. He tilted his head and looked at me. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth; he was still panting from the exertion. But his tail was wagging. It thumped against the side of my bed.

I just stared in shock. Hans was a wolf. There was a wolf in my living room. A werewolf. A werewolf I'd been making out with. Or, who'd been making out with me. Or necking with, at least. Holy shit: Hans was a werewolf?