Disclaimer: I do not own Skinwalkers nor its characters. They belong to LGF, After Dark, and whoever else screwed the movie up.

Note: Script canon.

***

Bodily Fluids

He was still dazed and weak after the first night of the full moon. He'd meant to get home while Rachel was still asleep, pass out before Rachel woke up, and wake up after she was gone. He didn't want to explain his haggard appearance, or why he was gone all night. He didn't want to hear her, see her, deal with her. He just couldn't.

But his plans went all wrong when he opened the door. He heard the shower. He could almost smell her shampoo in the air. Bloodshot eyes clenched shut, and nostrils flared.

Caleb stalked up the stairs with a predator's grace that he couldn't feel. Caleb wasn't himself; something primitive and bestial lingered inside him, its control not fully receded.

The bathroom door wasn't closed, and he could see the outline of his wife through the white curtain. He was hard almost instantly; rut, rut, rut. Instinct tugged at his human mind, still lost in the haze. He stripped; quickly, eagerly, he was still someone who wanted out.

Rachel didn't hear him. She didn't see him step into the tub; eyes shut as soap suds cascaded down her face and hair, over her shoulders. Skin, miles and miles of skin; sweet flesh underneath it all. She looked like a doe on a platter.

Caleb wasn't sure what he was doing. He grabbed her, pinned her; his mouth covered hers before she could say a word; he didn't want to hear her right now. His eyes clenched shut to avoid the confused stare in hers; he didn't want to see her right now either. He kissed her; his mouth was harsh, teeth scraping. They were blunt, not drawing blood but he knew her lips would be swollen for a while.

Rachel didn't seem to mind. Her body relaxed; her confusion eased into arousal. She was holding onto him now; arms and legs and the scent of her was musky and overpowering.

He couldn't smell her shampoo anymore even though his face was now buried in her hair as he buried himself in her wet scent. He was moving like an animal. Rabid, rabid; mad dog, bad dog, he was out of his mind with a wolf laughing like a jackal in his head.

She smelled sweet - like lamb. Her skin tasted fresh - like a recent kill. Her flesh felt wet and warm - like tender meat.

Caleb groaned; it sounded like a leftover growl. His hips thrust; he heard her moaning against his ear and felt her nails scrape at his skin. Not hard enough, not rough enough, not sharp enough. He bit at her neck, risking everything; he wanted a half-blood and that wouldn't happen if she was a skinwalker too.

But he didn't want her living after he was done biting her.

Stop, stop; down, boy, down.

She wasn't telling him to stop; she wasn't aware of any danger. As ignorant as an ewe, as fragile as a doe. She was the perfect prey, and he was ready to burst, ready to bite.

Caleb let go; his fingers would leave bruises on her hips and he would regret not breaking the skin. His hands braced on the wall. He thrust; in, out, in out. Rinse, repeat. He kept going, kept holding back. He was almost ready to break, almost about to give in.

His teeth would break her skin when he lost all control. He was ready to lose control.

Stop, stop; down, boy, down.

The wolf faded; human consciousness rushed back, and he faltered. He slowed, he ignored her protests, he slowed but kept going. His teeth let go; he kept going.

"I can't."

Caleb pulled back; pulled out. He didn't look at her confused eyes. He didn't want to see her now. He got out, stepped back. He didn't listen to her questions. He didn't want to hear her now. Caleb staggered and stumbled; fled the scene like a wanted criminal.

He never could finish inside her during full moons.