Page 77 of Wanted

Thoughts, words, and even any action aside from being in his arms is unfathomable at this moment.

We come together, our bodies doing what feels natural in one another’s arms. With Chance, like this, there is no shame, no guilt or second thoughts on how I’m supposed to behave. There’s no desire or cause for me to suppress what feels natural for me.

For a brief second, I wish I could always be this way. Free to feel and behave in a manner that feels right. Free from outsideopinions or fear their perceptions of me, or what they’ll think of my family.

“So, fucking perfect.”

Chance’s words cause my eyes to meet his again. They’re still glowing as he stares right at me. One of his hands strokes my cheek in a soothing manner. He’s still inside of me, his cock pulsing as if gearing up for another round.

For a moment, I expect to feel ashamed or somehow embarrassed by the way I allowed him to take me. Right here outside where anyone could walk past.

I mean, we’re in a cave, but still. Who knows who could be out here, hiking or even hunting.

But none of that comes to mind.

Only one thought comes to mind over and over again.

More.

CHAPTER 21

Emery

“And this one?” I point to the scene on the wall of a woman washing a man’s hair at the side of a river.

Chance and I have been in this cave for, what must be, hours. I’ve mentally recorded the background of a number of the drawings on the cave’s walls, as he’s told me about them.

He sits up from his position lying on his side, bringing me with him. He remains naked as he leans his body against the boulder. His long arms wrap around my waist, hugging me to him.

I should find it awkward or uncomfortable being here in a cave with a man who’s completely nude while I only wear a T-shirt and bra.

Yet, there’s no discomfort at all. Just the kind of intimacy I’ve been searching for my entire life.

I swallow at that thought. This can’t be real. Can it?

“For many generations,” he starts, answering my question. “Hairstyles were passed down from one generation to the next. The alphas of our pack always wore their hair past their waist, with a braid on each side. It was a symbol of our strength, our wisdom and even our secrets.”

“Secrets?”

He nods. “The style of our hair could signify a particular warning or plan to our pack members. It was a way of communicating without words.”

“That’s so interesting.”

I turn fully to place my hands on his shoulders. “While in college I did research on enslaved Africans in the Americas. Hair was one way in which people who’d been forcibly removed from their way of life, were able to preserve some of their culture.”

Chance tilts his head to the side, giving me his full attention. It encourages me to continue.

“Enslaved women would often wear their hair in braided styles and hide food in the plats. That’s how a lot of foods from West Africa crossed the ocean. Some braided styles were also used as maps for escapees to know which way was North.”

I push out a breath in amazement as I recall my research.

I brush my fingers through the hair that spills over the side of Chance’s face.

“There’s a whole world of stories and memories that exist in a culture’s hairstyle.”

Chance’s eyelids grow heavy as his lips spread into a smile.

“I felt it the moment you began washing my hair.”