by Amy Pennza
He brushed his lips against hers, inhaling the vanilla-sweet scent of her skin and the smell of his own shower gel and shampoo. A satisfied growl built in his throat. She’d used his bath products. She was wearing his clothes and sitting in his house, her belly filled with food he’d made her with his own hands.
The wolf liked that a fucking lot.
He dabbed his tongue against her lower lip, a subtle request for entry.
She whimpered—a sweet little sound that made blood pump straight to his cock. Her breaths teased his face in soft pants. She opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his.
“God, yes, Sophie.” He spoke into her mind without thinking. It just felt natural, like stroking her thoughts with his own.
She whimpered again, and this time satisfaction threaded through the husky sound.
“You like that? When I speak mind-to-mind?” he asked, sliding his tongue along hers. He cupped either side of her face and feathered his thumbs along her jaw. “Show me what you like, chère.”
A fluttering touch against his ribs got his attention, and he broke off the kiss long enough to glance down and catch her lowering her hands.
He clasped them in as gentle a grip as he could manage. “Touch me, Sophie,” he said, meeting her gaze. Jesus, she was beautiful, with bee-stung lips and flushed cheeks. He pulled her hands to his chest and held them there. “I want you to touch me.”
She flattened her palms against his pecs, her gaze drifting down, down. When it settled between his legs, her gaze widened, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth.
Desire, dark and wicked, shot through him, and he had to clench his jaw to stifle a groan.
“Like that?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Any way you want. With anyone else, he would have said it. With her, though, some instinct told him she needed reassurance. He smiled. “Exactly like that, sweetheart.”
She smoothed her hands across his chest and over his shoulders. The fire crackled softly in the background.
“Would you like to see more?” Inspiration struck, and he added, “Blink once for yes and twice for no.”
Her lips curved, and he almost came right then. Did she have any idea how sexy that smile was? Hands still on his shoulders, she looked up. She bit her lip again and blinked once.
“Your wish is my command, sweetheart.” He gripped the bottom of his T-shirt. Careful not to startle her, he lifted it slowly up his abs and over his chest, his biceps flexing with his movements. When the shirt bunched around his shoulders, he stopped. “Still interested?”
Her gaze was riveted to his abs. She pressed her lips together. A single blink.
Hell yes, he was on board for a striptease right about now. He grinned and pulled the shirt over his head. He tossed it on the ottoman and let her look her fill. Heat from the fire warmed his back. Under her admiring gaze, his cock swelled hard in his pants.
Without any prompting, she lifted her hands and smoothed her palms over his chest.
It was his turn to bite his lip. Ooh, he did love it when a woman took charge. “That feels amazing.”
She grew bolder, sliding her hands up his neck to his face, testing the contours of his jaw.
Lust unfurled inside him, stretching along every nerve ending. More. He needed her to touch him everywhere, but some instinct kept him in check. She had to go at her own pace—to have the luxury of exploring at her leisure. He leaned into her hand, inclining his head so the scruff of his day beard scraped her skin. “Do you want to kiss me again, ma pitchounette?”
Her lips curved in that sexy smile once more. “What does that mean?”
Good question. He turned his face into her hand and kissed the center of her palm. “I’m not sure there’s a direct translation,” he murmured against her skin. “The closest thing I can think of is ‘my little pitcher.’”
She let out a startled laugh, and her eyes flew to his. “Seriously?”
“Québécois endearments can be a little weird. I can switch to English if you want.” He kissed her palm again. “I’ll call you my boo.”
“I prefer the French.”
He smiled. “I thought you might.”
Her expression grew more serious as she moved her hands into his hair. “It’s softer than I thought,” she said, something like reverence in her voice.
Who knew he could get so turned on by a woman’s hands in his hair? With this particular woman, it seemed like everything was a turn-on. He slid his eyes shut and let her play for a bit before slitting them open. “Anything else you’d like to see?”
She froze, her hands tangled in his curls. For a second, he worried he might have pushed her too hard. Then she looked at his lap.
Yep, there was plenty to see there, all courtesy of the full curves on display in front of him. He didn’t have to follow her gaze to know the outline of his erection was visible down the side of his leg.
Just when he thought she might scramble away or cut the game short, she lifted her gaze and blinked once.
Victory pumped through his veins. If she wanted a Magic Mike routine, he was more than happy to give it to her. He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, then he stood and unbuttoned his jeans.
Her eyes followed every movement. In the quiet room, her rapid heartbeats were almost as loud as the crackling fire.
His zipper rasped, and he slid his jeans down his hips, freeing his erection from the tight denim. A dull ache spread from his bobbing shaft to the heavy balls underneath.
Sophie’s gaze darted from his cock to his face and back again. “You don’t—” She gave her head a small shake.
He raised an eyebrow and bent over so he could pull his legs free. Jeans in hand, he straightened, completely nude. “Don’t what?”
“You, ah…” She cleared her throat. “You don’t wear underwear?” The last part came out a little strangled.
He tossed the jeans aside. Feet braced apart, he ran his palms over his abdomen and let one hand snake down to his shaft. Gripping it in his fist, he shook his head slowly. “No, chère. I don’t.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, out loud this time. “I should have prepared you.”
“No, it’s okay,” she said faintly. The fire couldn’t hide the blush that stained her cheeks and spread down her neck. She pinned her gaze around his chest region, but it kept dropping south—as if she wanted to look but knew she shouldn’t. Her fingers twisted the edge of his sweatshirt.
Concern rose like fog in his mind, carrying away some of the desire surging in his blood. She was twenty-three years old. At her age, most wolves had been with several sexual partners. Puberty hit their species much harder than humans. Some theorized it came from harboring a wild animal inside them. Wolves in the wild didn’t care about pleasing their parents or settling down with someone who had a good stock portfolio. When the mating instinct struck, they went all in with it. Sophie might have lived a sheltered life, but that didn’t mean she was inexperienced…did it?
Red mottled her neck. She continued fiddling with the sweatshirt.
Doubt swamped him. From the moment he met her, she’d been unassuming and shy. That day by the cars, he chalked it up to wedding jitters. Last night and today, he knew it stemmed from the trauma she’d endured, both at home and under Asher’s roof.
But maybe those weren’t the only reasons. He couldn’t let this go any further without making sure she knew what they were doing—what she was doing. “Sweetheart, I have to ask you something.”
She stilled, a little frown between her brows. “Okay.”
God, this was embarrassing. His fingers itched to grab his jeans from the floor, but he forced himself to stay put. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“Is something wrong?”
Right. Out with it. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Have you been with a man before?”
“What?” She looked genuinely startled, like that was the very last thing she ex
pected him to ask.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Shit. He’d insulted her. The fire popped, mocking him.
But she made a dismissive gesture. “No, it’s okay. I’m not a virgin.” Her smile was rueful. “Not technically, anyway. It’s only been a couple of times for me, but you don’t have to worry.”
Worry? He tilted his head. “About what, chère?”
She looked down, her fingers twisting in the sweatshirt again. “That I might get…attached or something.” She risked a glance up. “Max said you take your pleasure where you can find it.”
He started to cross his arms but stopped and lowered them back to his sides. There was something ridiculous about a man with a raging hard-on standing with his arms folded.
Of course, with the turn their conversation had taken, he wasn’t quite as hard as before.
“Max has an awful lot to say about me.” He tried to keep the anger from his voice, but it was still there.
She heard it too, because her expression turned apologetic. “You like women. You’ve been with a lot of them. I won’t pretend I didn’t know that.”
“Sophie—”
“It’s not a bad thing.” Her voice rose. “And I’m not judging you for it. If anything, it’s a relief.”
Wait. His sexual history was a source of relief for her? Now he did fold his arms. Who gave a shit how stupid he looked?
Sophie was too keyed up to notice anyway. She continued talking, an air of apology in her voice. According to Lizette, that was common among abuse victims. They blamed themselves for everything, and they often took empathy too far. If they sensed another person’s discomfort, they frantically tried to fix it.
“I know this is just temporary,” she was saying. “A fling, as Max put it. You don’t have to pretend it’s anything more than sex.” As she talked, she seemed to arrive at some kind of decision, as if speaking it out loud shored up her confidence. “Who knows what’s going to happen in the next two or three days. My father and Hamish could show up at any time. I’ve spent my whole life trying to make other people happy. Right now, I just want a little happiness for myself. If I’m going to do this, it’s best to do it with someone like you.”
A frisson of apprehension raced down his spine. “Someone like me?”
“Max said I can’t afford to ignore consequences. He didn’t put it this way, but he meant the consequences of sleeping around. But that’s not an issue with you.”
The apprehension grew, and some instinct warned him not to press for clarification, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Why not, Sophie?” he asked softly. “Why isn’t it an issue with me?”
At last, the confidence that had seemed to buoy her ran out. She looked down, a furious blush in her cheeks. “I may be inexperienced, Remy, but I’m not deaf.” Her voice was quiet but steady. “Just about every female in my father’s territory dreamed of…I don’t know…testing you out or something. Just to say they’d done it.”
A beat passed, during which he felt nothing. Or maybe it was shock.
Sophie kept her gaze down in the face of his silence, her fingers once again working the edge of his sweatshirt.
All at once, the dynamic between them shifted. Her nervous gesture emphasized the juxtaposition of her clothed state and his nudity. He’d stripped to give her the upper hand—to help her feel comfortable and empowered after devastating abuse.
Standing before her now, he felt exposed and…shameful.
He turned and walked to the hearth. Made of flat stones hauled from the bottom of the gorge, it stretched all the way to the timbered ceiling. Underfoot, a soft bearskin rug offered relief from the hardwood planks. He braced one hand against the wooden mantel and stared into the fire.
Testing him out? Is that what people said? What females said? From the moment his Gift manifested, he knew it would be difficult to find a mate. Telepathy wasn’t such an obstacle for females, who typically didn’t participate in challenges or dominance contests. Even so, they almost always sought a non-Telepath for the lux catena. At least that way they had a shot at their offspring inheriting the father’s Gift.
He hadn’t lied when he told Sophie his Telepathy had its advantages. Despite his physical size, other wolves rarely saw him as a threat. Finders knew they were faster than he could ever be. A Tracker’s superior sense of smell meant they could always sneak up on him. The Sighted could see any defensive move he made, sometimes a split second before he made it. Seekers would always hear him coming. Even Healers held a revered spot in their society, since it was forbidden to visit a human doctor.
But a Telepath? Speaking mind-to-mind was a nice parlor trick, but it was useless in a challenge. Sure, his newfound ability to send to non-Telepaths was unique, but so far it was only good for holding clandestine conversations in cars with females.
Or enhancing foreplay.
A log shifted inside the fireplace, sending up a flurry of embers. One flicked against his thigh, searing his skin in a brief, sharp spike. He looked down, curiously disconnected from his body. His shaft now lay heavy against his thigh.
Testing. Trying him on for size. He was an experience, like a roller coaster or a carnival attraction. There was some thrill in it but never any real danger.
And now Sophie wanted a ride. Bitterness, ugly and sour, rose up. The funny thing was, he couldn’t even blame her. Goodness knew he deserved his reputation. He wasn’t ashamed of sex. As long as both people wanted it, why not enjoy the hell out of it?
It’s just that things had seemed different with her.
A quiet noise behind him made him turn, one hand still braced on the mantel.
Sophie stood just behind him, a worried look on her face. He’d been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard her move.
Yeah, some Hunter he was.
“Remy?” Firelight played over her skin, turning the creamy shade to gold. “Have I misread this situation?”
He faced her. “What do you mean?”
“I…” She cleared her throat. “I feel so stupid. I thought…” She frowned. “I mean, you kissed me earlier, and then we kissed again, and”—she gestured between their bodies—“you seemed like you wanted…” She blew out a huff of air and looked to the side. “I suck so bad at this,” she muttered.
Despite everything, amusement tugged at him. She was so pretty, bathed in the soft glow of the fire, and she looked so adorably frustrated.
“Suck at what?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“What, chère?”
She met his gaze as she wrapped her arms around her middle. “I thought you wanted me,” she said simply.
Not everyone would have heard the hurt in her tone. Even a skilled Seeker might have missed it. But he caught it—a deep vulnerability that grabbed at him. Whatever his flaws—and he knew he had plenty—he knew how to solve this. He was good for this, at least.
Sophie wanted a ride. Why not let her have one?
He stepped toward her, well aware of how the fire at his back limned his body, highlighting the dips and hollows of his muscles.
“Oh, I want you, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s just that you’re a little overdressed.”
Her lips parted. “You want…”
“If you do, then, yes. I want it very much.” When she didn’t move, he fingered the edge of her sweatshirt. Her rapid breaths lifted her chest, forcing her breasts up and down under the fabric.
He spoke a whisper into her mind. “Take this off for me, chère.”
Trembling, she grasped the hem and pulled the sweatshirt up and over her head. She stood topless before him, her eyes downcast, the pulse at her throat fluttering wildly.
Oh, she was perfection—even more so than he’d imagined. Her breasts were large and full, with delicate blue veins and dark pink nipples. They hardened under his regard. Under the heavy swells, her belly was softly rounded and nipped in at the waist.
Unable to resist, he cupped a thick breast, testing its weight in his palm.
He rubbed his thumb over the hard nipple, rolling the tight peak in a circle. “You are exquisite, Sophie Gregory.”
She looked up. “I’m not—”
“Exquisite,” he said aloud. He hooked a finger in her waistband. “And you make me want more.”
She licked her lips.
“Take them off.” He smiled. “Please.”
Her breaths were ragged. He kept hold of her breast as she brought her hands to her waistband and pushed the sweats down her thighs. They puddled at her ankles.
He kept up the circular pattern around her nipple as she used her toes to slide the elastic off her feet. Her movements jiggled her breast in his hand, and a bolt of lust shot through him. Jesus, there was enough here for two men, and he had it all to himself.
Now she was nude. Without releasing the plump flesh in his hand, he stepped back so he could take her in. As with her chest, the rest of her did not disappoint. Broad, womanly hips curved to thick thighs. Her legs went on forever, and between them a small thatch of golden hair beckoned.
“Ah, sweetheart,” he said in her head, “You don’t wear underwear, either.”
She made a choking sound. “I do,” she whispered. “Normally.”
He cupped her other breast, savoring the erotic sight of her ample flesh filling his big hands. He flicked his thumbs against her nipples, teasing the peaks into impossible hardness.
“Well, I have to say, I like you just fine without them.”
She moaned deep in her throat. The scent of vanilla rose around them.
“Please,” she said, her voice a throaty plea.
With another woman, he might have teased—drawn things out by making her tell him exactly what she wanted. There was pleasure in that kind of game.
But Sophie shouldn’t have to beg. And, if he was being honest, he didn’t have the stamina to delay this a second longer.
He released her breasts and ran his hands down her arms to her hands. Clasping them, he tugged her down to the rug. She went to her knees, her palms on her thighs. He froze in a half-crouch, determined to savor the erotic sight. Her hair spilled around her shoulders in golden waves. With her hands positioned the way they were, her arms squeezed her breasts together, forming a deep cleavage.