by Anne Marsh
She spluttered, but words weren’t getting Miu out of this mess. Not this time.
“Shut up,” Jafar whispered tenderly into her ear. For good measure, he licked the delicate shell, letting his tongue trace the curve with wicked intent. She squirmed. “Just let me handle this.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, but turned to the assembled Guardians.
Cats pressed in around them. “Thief,” the Guardian nearest them said, his blade leaving its scabbard. To her surprise, Jafar placed his body between the male and his mate. She wasn’t alone. He was going to stand with her.
“It is true: my mate came to the temple to steal,” he began. “Yes, she took the moonstone necklace, but she has brought it back.” He swung her body in front of his, so that everyone could see the silver necklace about her throat. “She has sworn to turn over a new leaf. The moonstone necklace is her last theft, the hundredth stolen artifact she needed to free her from the thief master.”
“All well and good,” the Amun Ra drawled. “If what you say is true.” His cool eyes examined her. “I do not wish to see Jafar lose another female. He needs a loyal mate to settle him down. Since Pho’s betrayal he has been a bit too bloody vicious for my liking.” He glanced at Jafar and her Cat looked down. “Doesn’t leave much of the Ifrits he captures,” Amun Ra added, when she looked confused. “No one to ask questions of. And,” he added meaningfully, “it’s the questions that tell me so much.”
She had to say the right thing. And she had to say it now.
“I’m done stealing. And I have other skills,” she pointed out. Jafar’s hands tightened on her shoulders.
“Think, femi, before you speak.” Right. As if a little well-considered forethought had ever really changed her path.
“Already thought,” she whispered back. And she had, too. She wanted this man—and she was beginning to suspect that he really, truly wanted her.
“Skills such as picking pockets?” the Amun Ra asked slyly.
Behind her, Jafar stiffened. “You picked someone’s pocket, femi?”
She remembered the dead Ifrit, the items she’d lifted from his pockets. How did the Amun Ra know about that? This male’s power constantly surprised her.
“Granted,” the Amun Ra mused, “he was a dead man. I suppose that might be a mitigating circumstance. Couldn’t use what he had in his pockets.”
She kept her mouth shut.
“But still, you took something that didn’t belong to you.” The Amun Ra approached, put his hand into her pocket. Metal clinked and behind her, Jafar groaned. The flat metal disk she’d taken appeared in the Amun Ra’s hand.
“Recovery,” she said boldly, and Amun Ra looked at her, leveling the dark power of that gaze on her. “Mazhykal artifact that seemed better off in your hands than in some dead Ifrit’s.”
“You were bringing me the artifact.”
Keep the act together. Make it seem like she didn’t care if seven feet of mazhykal aggression was toying with her, probably before killing her.
Jafar poked her in the ribs and muttered, “Answer.”
“You want the Qaf dwellers to have it?”
“Right.” He lifted her chin and regarded her, all
smooth, towering male. Maybe challenging him had been hasty. “Not particularly, no.”
“I concede that you could be useful to me. Your ability to use the necklace to open Doorways might be very helpful. And I have no wish to send Jafar back to the vortex.” He met the Guardian’s hard gaze. “If I were to kill you, I believe I would have no choice but to do that.”
Jafar merely growled in response.
“So it is settled.” He smiled darkly. “By my reckoning, you’re a female in our temple and the summer moon is rising over the Valley even as we speak. Surely, my little daemon halfling, you know this.” It was true. She could feel the silvery plucking of the moon deep inside her. “So,” he growled, “you will run again, and your mate will hunt you. These are my orders, and for once . . . You. Are. Damned. Well. Going. To. Follow. Them. I can’t have a Guardian,” he added, when she looked surprised, “who doesn’t know how to take orders when the time is right.”
“A Guardian?” she repeated, as Jafar’s hands closed on her shoulders. “You want me to be a Guardian.”
Amun Ra nodded.
“Why, A.R.,” she said, and someone groaned audibly at her shortening of his name, “I didn’t think you cared.” And she’d never considered gainful employment before. Maybe it would make an interesting change.
“I can recognize talent when I see it.”
Right. “And I thought you only created Guardians from that creepy vortex of yours. Yet here you are. Offering me a deal. A job,” she added with some surprise. “Do I get a paycheck?”
He ignored her last question. “Well?” he demanded of Jafar. “Are you just going to stand there?”
“Enough talk,” Jafar said sternly. “Get going, my Miu. I figure you’ve got a whole lot of running to do.”
She knew a threat when she heard one.
And a promise.
Blowing him a kiss, she turned and ran.
***
Pho’s tomb seemed like the right place to confront her Cat, so she sat there waiting for him, swinging her feet. Being naked as a jaybird might have gotten the point across more clearly, but that seemed a bit too blunt. Just in case she’d misunderstood that raspy declaration of love while she was stuck in the lava tube.
“You said this was your last job,” he said carefully, as he came through the door. His eyes scanned the chamber, but she could have told him that all was safe. No treasure daemons or death spirits. No traps. Not now. “The hundredth theft. End of the contract. I don’t know if I can stand to have you facing danger again. And the Amun Ra will put you in danger. You do realize you’re trading one impossible master for another?”
Her eyes met his. “Yeah. But I’ll be facing danger with you. We’ll be together.” She slid off the coffin with a squeak as he stalked toward her.
“There is that.” He reached out a hand and slid the tunic from her shoulder. The ball of his thumb stroked feather-soft over her skin, skimming the sweat-slicked hollow.
“It’s actually kind of a turn-on to be in the middle of the action,” she admitted in a rush.
Jafar’s eyes snapped up. His hand fell from her shoulder, grasping her by the elbow.
“Say that again?” he asked, in a deceptively quiet voice.
“I’m not the stay-at-home, mind-the-fire kind of a female. I enjoy danger, a challenge,” she admitted.
“But now you’ve got a partner. Someone to watch your back.” He said it cautiously, as if he weren’t completely sure she would accept his role in her life.
“Yeah.” She smiled. “You.” “You’re really going to be my mate this time?”
She looked deep into his eyes. “I trust you, Jafar. You’re the first.”
“Say it,” he insisted.
“I love you,” she admitted, still a little hesitant to speak the words out loud.
“And I love you, my femi,” he growled. “Never doubt it.”
He prowled toward her as if to remind her of the sensual bond between them, of his unique ability to satisfy her secret needs and desires. She loved his body, large and aggressive and—hers. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
“We do?” She stared at him, confused.
He sat on the edge of the coffin and pulled her down onto his lap. “Spread your legs,” he said darkly. “You’ve had this coming to you for days now.”
“For what?”
His large hand was already shaping her ass, finding the slit in her leather pants. The titillation of his teasing touch made her cream. Oh gods, he knew what she wanted. What she needed. One large hand bluntly traced the seam of her ass and slipped inside her creaming entrance.
“Yes,” he demanded. “You need this. Mate.” His finger gently stroked the opening, testing her slick readiness.
“Yes,” she pan
ted. She did. And he needed to give it to her.
His other hand descended, delivering a sharp crack to the leather that faded into a stingingly erotic burn. Each sharp smack drove her farther onto his impaling finger, making her ride him deeper, stronger.
“For thieving,” he said gently, paddling her harder. Orgasm coiled inside her, building. “I would not want you to forget. And,” he added, his voice a low, dark whisper promising unspeakable pleasures, “because your ass is mine and I would not want you to forget that, either.”
“Is this what mates do?” she gasped. Gods, she could not hold back the pleasure. It rippled through her in long, hot waves.
“Yes.” He smoothed the leather over her ass. “They do this, and whatever else they can think of. I love you, my Miu.”
“And I love you. Look, I can say it without sounding surprised. I’m thinking of it as an adventure.” She rolled over and pulled his head down to hers. “You’re part merck, after all, Jafar.”
He tested the word. “Merck. Thief.” The words no longer seemed so alien.
“Yes. Stealing females, breaking hearts.” She stared up at him hopefully and then wriggled, offering him a tantalizing glimpse of her pink, glistening sex.
“Plundering and pillaging,” he offered. She raised one leg to his shoulder and let her legs fall apart. He gasped, unable to bite back the sound. Gods above, he wanted her.
“Yes,” Miu agreed, “starting with the mate you’ve carried off from beneath the master’s nose. What penalty do you think such a theft might merit?”
“If she loved me?”
“Yes, if she loved you?” Which she did. “Which I do.”
“A very stiff one indeed,” he agreed solemnly, and then proceeded to show her that he was more than able to pay the price.
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Once in a blue moon…
For Rafer Breaux, life in the Louisiana Bayou is harsh, violent—and deeply sensual. The Cajun werewolf lives for his Pack and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep his brothers safe. The longer a wolf lives without a mate, the harder it becomes for that wolf to shift back. To remember that he is a man—and not a monster. And those mates can only be found during a blue moon. When a blue moon finally rises, Rafer will need every weapon in his sensual arsenal to tempt one special woman into his arms and the heart of the Pack.
The Pack hunts for mates
Fighting to keep her family farm, Lark Andrews isn’t looking for love. Even if the very sexy Breaux brothers make her dream of hot bayou nights spent in their arms. When the blue moon leads Rafer to her door, however, Rafer has her rethinking her position on all work and no play. Now, the bayou nights are heating up as Rafer fights to convince her, one sensual touch at a time, to give love and passion a chance. But Rafer isn’t a one wolf deal. Is there room in Lark’s heart—and bed—for Rafer and his Pack?
Her scent was delicious. That captivating fragrance had hidden beneath the tumultuous smells of the farmers’ market, so the wolf’s first breath carried only flowers and vegetables, the tangy bite of overripe produce and dirt. And then her.
His attraction was immediate and powerful. She smelled more than good; she smelled right. He moved closer, following the trail she had unknowingly left him. She crouched over a bucket of frilly pink flowers, the tough stems falling away beneath her blade, wet and earthy. One quick slash, a deft twist of her wrist, and she handed the newly shorn flowers to a customer. Her hands riveted him even as her scent intoxicated him.
He’d visited this farmers’ market many times before he’d grown weary of fighting his wolf and had concealed himself deep inside the bayou, where he could be both man and beast, safe from the enemies who hunted him. He’d never noticed this female on those visits. She was new. Wonderfully different, even though the market was the same sleepy slice of stands perched on the edge of the Louisiana bayou he remembered from his previous visits. The summer heat slowed her down, putting a sleepy glint in her eyes as she fanned herself, fighting the sensual prickle. Her skin glistened with a sheen of sweat despite the airy sundress she wore.
He liked that sundress. The skirt was all colorful patches, the hem stopping mid-thigh and putting her long, long legs on display for him. She’d kicked off her shoes and twisted her honey-blonde hair up on top of her head. Tendrils escaped, however, curling insistently in the heat. The flower tucked in her hair was a surprise, a bold, deep pink hibiscus that drew his eyes away from the thin straps crisscrossing her bare back and shoulders. The dress cupped her breasts, molding her the way he wanted to shape her with his hands.
She wasn’t wearing a bra, and she looked good enough to eat.
His mouth watered from her delicious scent. He wanted to drag his tongue over all her curves and folds until he discovered if her taste matched that scent.
An answering heat tore through his body, an unexpected arousal that lengthened his cock. Right now, he watched from the shadows, his wolf unseen, but staying there much longer was impossible. He was hunted, and the market had no room for the wild and the uncivilized—or for the dark animal side he kept trapped inside. When he inhaled, he knew who had recently had sex and which women were coming into their fertile times. Sex was a pulsing rhythm beneath the surface of their everyday transactions that none of them were aware of. But he was.
He didn’t know her name—his wolf had no use for names—but her scent covered the market. While he’d been hidden deep in the bayou, she’d come here, often enough to mark this place as her own. She smelled of sunlight, of honey and sage. Good things, although her scent whispered of arousal too, and the strength of her needing made him wonder if she could possibly be the one. There were dark shadows under her eyes. A blue-moon brides always dreamt, sexy, erotic dreams that would wake her early and leave her sleepless and aching for a lover’s touch. She was aroused now, but he didn’t know if she enjoyed that sensual state. Maybe she ignored that side of her nature like so many of the fully human did, denying her body had desires.
He wasn’t human. And he needed.
If she was his blue-moon bride, she could ease his loneliness. He’d never again have to worry that one night he’d fail to shift back from wolf to man. Tomorrow night, when the blue moon rose over the bayou, he’d know for certain if this woman was the one. For now, though, he stalked her from the shadows, watching her engage with the market’s customers, laughing. Alive. Wonderfully human.
She represented famille and a future as something more than an animal. If she wasn’t the one, if he failed to find his bride, he could den with a local wolf and produce pups. Whether or not that litter would be human, he didn’t know. It wouldn’t matter. That kind of pairing couldn’t save him from the animal madness slowly consuming him—and his Pack.
Tomorrow night, when the blue moon rose, the wolf would hunt whomever the blue moon found—and that chosen mate would run.
Let her be the one.
Read all five books in the Blue Moon Brides series: Tempted by the Pack, Pleasured by the Pack, Claimed by the Pack, Taken by the Pack, and Captured by the Pack. A three-book boxed set is available now and a complete edition will be available on September 3rd, 2015.
More by Anne Marsh
The Hunt
THE HUNT: Part One – Domination
THE HUNT: Part Two – Pursuit
THE HUNT: Part Three – Capture
THE HUNT: Part Four – Discipline
THE HUNT: Part Five – Challenge
THE HUNT: Part Six – Claim
THE HUNT: COMPLETE EDITION
Blue Moon Brides
TEMPTED BY THE PACK
PLEASURED BY THE PACK
CLAIMED BY THE PACK
TAKEN BY THE PACK
CAPTURED BY THE PACK
The Fallen
BOND WITH ME
HIS DARK BOND
SAVAGE BOND
Warriors Unleashed
<
br /> VIKING’S ORDERS
AT THE VIKING’S COMMAND
Smoke Jumpers
BURNING UP
SLOW BURN
When SEALs Come Home
BURNS SO BAD
SMOKING HOT
SWEET BURN
YOURS FOR CHRISTMAS
HEATED
ONE HOT SEAL
HER FIREFIGHTER SEAL
The Hotshots
REBURN
HOT ZONE
FIRED UP
SEALs of Discovery Island
WICKED SEXY
WICKED NIGHTS
WICKED SECRETS
SEALs of Fantasy Island
TEASING HER SEAL
PLEASING HER SEAL
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About the Author
After ten years of graduate school and too many degrees, Anne Marsh escaped to become a technical writer. When not planted firmly in front of the laptop translating Engineer into English, Anne enjoys gardening, running (even if it’s just to the 7-11 for slurpees), and reading books curled up with her kids. The best part of writing romance, however, is finally being able to answer the question: “So… what do you do with a PhD in Slavic Languages and Literatures?” She lives in Northern California with her husband, two kids and four cats.
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Copyright © 2009, 2014, 2015 Anne Marsh
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locations or organizations is entirely coincidental.