by Amy Pennza
Her head spun. She clutched his head against her for support.
He returned the favor, wrapping strong arms around her back, one big palm splayed over her spine.
Now her whole chest was mashed against his face, giving her no choice but to sit in a straddle position while an Alpha werewolf suckled her breasts.
She settled deeper on his lap, her thighs parting wider. Her panties clung to her sex, which throbbed with need. Unless she got her jeans off soon, she was going to soak through them.
Glancing pain—more stimulation than hurt—shot through her breast. Thoughts muzzy, she realized he’d nipped her with his teeth.
Another shot.
Not his teeth. His fangs.
He turned his head slightly, and the bristly hairs on his jaw scraped the inside of her forearm. The telltale edge of a fang dragged down her nipple.
Heat flooded her sex. Her hips rocked forward of their own accord.
His tongue made a final flick, then he released her. Protest rose in her throat, but he took the other nipple in his mouth, his tongue already working her over.
A breathy sigh escaped her. Cool air caressed the damp breast he abandoned—a wicked contrast to the one enveloped in his hot mouth. Soft sucking sounds punctuated by her gasps and his occasional growl filled the quiet room.
She couldn’t tear her gaze off the sight of his head bent at her breast, one nipple wholly in his mouth, the other hard as a rock and cherry red from his attention. It bobbed up and down as her breaths came in faster, uncontrolled hitches.
Need built between her legs, her sex impossibly wet and aching. She spread her legs wider, desperate for relief. Dammit, she didn’t need much, but she needed something.
He kept at her breast, his teeth nibbling and teasing.
Irritation rose in her mind. The breast play was amazing, but she had other, more pressing needs. She ran her hands into his hair. If she could get him to kiss her again, they could move things along.
He pulled her more closely against him, then sucked her deeper into his mouth.
Okay, that didn’t work.
“Bard.” Her voice came out hoarse and smoky, as if she just ended her shift as a phone sex operator.
No acknowledgment. He was lost in his task. Her bare breast next to his head jiggled from his efforts, which rocked her whole upper body.
She slid her fingers deeper into his hair, tugging a little at his head. “Bard.”
Nothing.
“Bard!”
He jerked his head up, releasing her. At the same moment, her fingers tangled in the strap of his eye patch. She yanked her hand back, but it was too late.
The strap slipped over his crown, taking the patch with it.
They both froze.
Her thoughts stuttered, her brain struggling to comprehend what she was seeing.
His eye was there, but it was completely colorless, the whole thing covered in what looked like a milky film. Even the pupil was bleached. It was also tiny, as if it had shriveled under some powerful blast.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
Thick red scars formed a starburst around the socket, zigzagging across his eyelid all the way to his eyebrow. In the center of it all his eye stared, pale and unfocused.
He moved so fast she didn’t have time to react. One minute she was on his lap, the next she was in a sideways heap on the sofa, her hair all over her face.
She righted herself and scrambled to her feet. “Bard, I’m so sorry!”
He stood near the windows, his back to her as he pulled the patch over his head and settled it into place.
Indecision made her bite her lip. Should she go to him? Help him?
Outside, the snow fell so heavy the flakes made shadows on the floorboards as it drifted down. He was a tall silhouette, his broad shoulders framed by the window casing. Moonlight caught in the silver in his hair, making it seem like he wore a crown of snow.
A winter prince, more Fae than wolf.
He dropped his hands and faced her, the patch obscuring his eye once more.
She started toward him.
“Cover yourself,” he said, the words harsh and clipped.
She stopped. As a shapeshifter, nudity wasn’t that big of a deal. She’d seen everyone in the New York pack naked at one point or another. It was unavoidable.
But his tone made embarrassment creep over her. Which just made her angry. He’d been an avid participant in what passed between them, and now he sought to shame her?
On the other hand, arguing with him while she was half naked put her at a disadvantage.
She clamped her mouth shut and turned, her gaze going to the floor where her clothes lay in a messy heap. Her cami was on top, so she grabbed it and yanked it over her head. The fabric scraped her tender nipples, and she winced. No pain, no gain. She tugged the thin material to her hips and spun around.
“Listen, I’m sorry I—”
“So you’ve said.” He cut her off, his posture rigid as he remained in the shadows. “Apology accepted. Now go upstairs.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Anger sparked in her veins. “No.”
His good eye gleamed blue, his wolf showing its presence in the darkness. His voice grew quiet, almost silky. “No?”
The hair on her nape lifted. Danger, Alpha werewolf ahead. But she couldn’t just roll over and take his shit. Not when he was being so unreasonable. She swallowed. “I’ll go upstairs, but first I want to know why you’re acting like this.”
“How am I acting, Miss Michaels? Please enlighten me.”
She propped a hand on her hip. “You always do that, you know.”
“What?”
“You ‘Miss Michaels’ me whenever you’re uncomfortable.”
She sensed rather than saw him bristle. “I’m not uncomfortable.”
“Or when things get too personal.”
His laugh was a bitter crack in the quiet room. “I’m hardly responsible for things getting too personal between us.”
“Excuse me?” She pointed at him, then jerked her thumb back at herself. “You kissed me.”
“Please.” Condescension laced his tone. “You knew what you were doing with that little move with your tongue.”
Outrage was like an exclamation point in her brain. He was slut-shaming her? She let sarcasm fill her voice. “You know what, you’re right! I totally stuck your tongue down my throat, and I definitely made you pull me onto your lap.” She smacked her palm against her forehead. “Holy shit, I even made you suck on my tits!”
His voice rose. “It’s kind of hard not to when you stick them in my face!”
Speech deserted her—but only for a second. “You fucking asshole!”
He clenched his fists at his sides. “Watch your tone, Miss Michaels. You’re still a wolf, and I’m still an Alpha.”
She was too angry to stop. “What are you going to do, spank me?” The second she said it, an image of him paddling her ass popped into her brain. Desire curled low in her belly, and her nipples tightened. She bit the inside of her cheek, inwardly cursing her traitorous body. Trying to have an argument here.
His growl vibrated the floor. “Keep acting like a stubborn child and I just might.”
A light bulb went off in her head. “Is that what’s bothering you? The difference in our ages?”
“No.”
“Yes, it is. You think I’m too young for you.”
There was a long pause. Anger swirled between them, the air heavy with emotion. It was as if the room held its breath, the only movement the trailing shadows cast by the snowflakes falling outside.
Bard moved from the window, his shoulders stiff as he limped toward the foyer. “This conversation is over. I’m going upstairs.”
A fist squeezed her heart. “You can’t just walk away!” Not after what passed between them.
He kept going.
He was leaving.
Why did e
veryone always, always leave her?
Frustration climbed a hot path up her throat. “Coward!”
He froze, then slowly turned around. His doctor’s scrubs did little to muffle the menace that rolled off him.
She clapped a hand over her mouth. Calling an Alpha werewolf a coward was the verbal equivalent of swimming in a shark-infested ocean while wearing a raw meat bathing suit.
His good eye paled, the iris glowing an eerie blue. “Pack your things. I’ll take you to the airport in the morning.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. She searched her brain for the right words—the formal apology that would undo the insult. “I d-don’t doubt your leadership. Or your strength.”
He spoke as if he hadn’t heard. “We leave at dawn.” He turned and limped forward again.
“Bard, please.” She went to the edge of the living room. “What happened tonight—”
“Was a mistake.” He whipped around, his snarl echoing off the walls and through her head, rooting her in place. Old memories rose to the surface.
“I’m sorry you can’t come to my party, Haley. My mom said she sent the invitation by mistake.”
“It was a mistake for Lizette to Turn you.”
“You’ll never be a real wolf, Michaels. Just a mistake.”
Bard’s face was an expressionless mask, the sensual lover replaced by a cold, unreachable male.
A wounded male, she thought. One who had almost certainly experienced the same kind of rejection she endured for so long.
Maybe their age difference wasn’t the problem.
Maybe it was something else.
She took a trembling breath. “It didn’t feel like a mistake to me.”
“Miss Michaels—”
“I don’t care about your leg!” She took a step toward him, one hand outstretched. “Or your scars.”
For a moment, something like astonishment seemed to play over his features.
Then she blinked and his cold mask snapped back into place. He narrowed his good eye, his expression so hard it could have cut stone.
“I don’t need your pity,” he said, his voice laced with something dark and ugly. “I don’t need you.”
Her mouth went dry, and an icy finger ran down her spine.
The ugliness in his tone grew. “I’m the son of one of the oldest, more prestigious families in the whole race.”
She held still, as if some corner of her mind knew what was coming and wanted to brace for the impact.
“I’m an Alpha, a doctor, a Healer.”
She didn’t breathe.
He swept a slow, languid gaze down her body, and a little part of her died—her desire reduced to ash.
When he lifted his gaze, all trace of the male who brushed away her tears was gone.
“But you,” he said, “you don’t even have a Gift.”
The words were like a slap. For a second, she couldn’t move. Then her vision blurred and she was running on numb feet. She didn’t feel the stairs as she flew up the treads. She didn’t feel her heart pounding. She didn’t feel the tears streaming down her face.
She didn’t feel anything.
13
Bard didn’t move as Haley’s footsteps pounded up the stairs. He stayed still as her bedroom door slammed and more footsteps thumped overhead. He kept quiet as bed springs squeaked and a muffled sob drifted down.
Silence. He was alone.
The way it should be. The way it had to be.
As if on cue, searing pincers clamped around his thigh, sending waves of agony to his hip and lower back. He clenched his jaw and took shallow breaths through his nose. Outside, the snow fell so quickly it obscured the forest behind the house. If it kept up, the roads would be impassable by morning.
Which meant no airport. He’d be trapped in the house with a female who would probably rather gut him than speak to him.
Not that he could blame her.
He turned his head, his gaze on the stairs. Even if he had the nerve to face her now, there was no way he could do the climb.
Besides, he didn’t have the nerve. She’d been right to call him coward.
Gritting his teeth, he limped toward his office, where the closet held a cot and a few blankets. He’d put them there after one too many nights on the hard floor. The cot was the kind residents slept on when they worked two-day shifts fresh out of medical school. Back then, he’d been so tired he could have slept standing up.
The same kind of exhaustion swept him now, making him stumble as he gained the hallway. His hip twinged—a sign his prosthesis wasn’t properly seated. He made it to his office and banged his way into the small half-bath tucked beside the closet. Sweat dotted his brow as he flipped on the light, kneed the door shut, and braced his palms on the sink. He let his head hang down, his gaze on the drain as his breaths sawed in and out of his chest. The scent of wildflowers surrounded him, rising from his clothes and hair.
Fiery pain lashed his thigh, and a whimper slipped out before he could stop it.
Coward. Cripple.
Yeah, he was both of those things. Until tonight, however, he never thought he’d have to add cruel bastard to the list.
Clutching the sink, he eased all his weight onto his right leg. The pincers around his left continued to squeeze and stab, and the muscles in his thigh trembled. The prosthesis had to come off at some point, but first his hip and thigh needed a rest. The nerves in his leg were overstimulated. As a doctor, he’d diagnose himself with peripheral neuropathy. As a person, it just really fucking hurt.
As he stared into the sink, Haley’s face rose in his mind. She’d looked like he slapped her after he delivered that line about her not having a Gift. Her blue eyes widened then filled with hurt.
No. Hurt was too mild a word. She looked devastated, as if her whole world broke apart.
And that had been the goal, right? Mission freaking accomplished.
He wouldn’t have any trouble getting her on a plane now. As soon as his leg calmed down he’d call Joel and arrange a morning pickup. Explain what happened.
Bard grimaced. Except for the incident on the sofa. His father’s Beta didn’t need to know that.
Although Joel would probably find out eventually. The old wolf seemed to know everyone’s secrets.
Bard closed his eyes, weariness and regret stirring in his gut as Haley’s devastated expression swam in his mind. He’d tried to keep her at arm’s length. But Haley Michaels was hard to keep at a distance. She had a way of sneaking under a male’s defenses. Not even the sight of his wrecked and mangled leg phased her. Oh, other females would have expressed sympathy. But the sentiment would have been a thin veneer over repulsion. It wasn’t even their fault. That kind of response was hardwired into a werewolf’s psyche.
But not Haley’s. Her tears had been genuine.
And they smelled of rain.
When she talked about being lonely, her scent rose all around him, filling his lungs with hints of moss and leaves. It was like a long walk through the forest at the end of winter, when the snow melted and promises of spring floated on the air. No matter how cold the snow, there was always hope of sunshine and flowers. That was Haley’s scent.
She smelled of hope—a reminder of the inevitability of spring. The peek of sun through dark clouds. The persistent push of a seedling through frost. The tease of flowers in the air so strong you could almost taste it.
And heaven help him but he’d needed to taste it.
Kissing her was like discovering an oasis after years in a desert. Her mouth was as sweet and pure as her scent, and her little gasps of pleasure made his thirst ratchet higher. Mind clouded by lust, he pulled her onto his lap.
Her pussy was like a little forge, the heat searing him through his scrub pants. But it was her chest that held his attention. Her tits were perfect—high and firm and big enough to fill a male’s hands and then some.
A cracking sound split the air in the small bathroom, then pain shot through his right h
and. The smell of copper filled the air. He opened his eyes.
Blood pooled under his palm and trickled into the sink.
He lifted his hand. The sink was cracked, the white porcelain marred by a jagged gray line.
Cursing, he ran cold water and stuck his hand under the faucet. The cold dulled the pain but did little to cool his thoughts. Haley’s scent was still all over him—and would stay that way until he showered. His scent was all over her too. Any wolf that got within ten feet of her would know what happened between them.
He shut off the water.
Images danced through his head. Haley undoing her bra and tossing it aside, her generous breasts quivering with her breaths, the nipples hard and tilted up. Haley’s long neck exposed as she tipped her head back and arched her back, her smooth belly caressed by moonlight. Haley gasping as he sucked her nipple into his mouth, her hands clutching at his head as she writhed on his lap.
The scent of wildflowers had risen thick in the air, as if the heart of spring descended, obliterating the snowstorm outside.
And for the briefest moment, thawing some of the ice on his heart.
He looked in the mirror. The strap of his eye patch was off just a bit, the elastic stretched above a red mark that showed where it normally sat. He lifted both hands, ready to adjust the strap, then stopped. Gaze on the mark, he used a fingertip to trace it, following the groove from the top of his forehead to the corner of his eye. The mark wasn’t a scar, but it was probably just as permanent. Even if he stopped wearing the patch, the groove would remain.
Some things never went away.
He touched the patch. It had been years since he met his gaze in the mirror without it. Hand trembling, he peeled it away. The strap slipped off his head as it had when Haley’s fingers tangled in his hair.
It was a surreal thing, staring into an eye no longer capable of seeing. He ran his fingers over the scars that covered his eyelid, the red lines a garish contrast to the sickly white of his eye with its pinprick pupil.
Haley’s words drifted through his head, her voice high and impassioned. “I don’t care about your leg! Or your scars.”
She didn’t. He’d smelled the truth in her statement.