by Anne Marsh
“We need to stop,” I say, pushing at my skirt. I’m clearly not ready for Cruz’s kinky repertoire. Maybe I used up my tolerance for sexual exploration with our one-night threesome?
“You think you need to stop,” he counters, dragging his knuckles higher. His fingertips graze the edge of my panties, and that feels so, so good. “I know what I need.”
“Cruz.” Don’t whimper. Remember you’re a strong, independent woman. “We’re in public.”
Hello, Captain Obvious. I tug my hem back down.
Or try to because, damn it, Cruz isn’t budging. He just captures my fingers in one hand, stretches me out like some kind of sensual sacrifice (a move my good parts thoroughly applaud), and keeps right on exploring. Worse, now he’s looking at me and my bare thighs in the unforgiving light of the stairwell. This isn’t vanity lighting. It’s two hundred watts of unwelcome harshness. The only consolation is that my panties are pretty.
“That’s not a no, sweetheart, and you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen all day.”
He’s right about the first part. I’m not saying no, although I should. I really, really should. But his desire just turns me on more, and apparently part of me gets off on the possibility of getting caught.
I look down, following his gaze. He’s tangled his fingers with mine in the bunched-up skirt, and I love the contrast between us. His skin is sun bronzed, a rich, dark gold-brown that makes my skin look that much paler. Anticipation builds in me, and I do nothing to stop it. He’s going to touch me now. Right here where I work and where anyone, really, could walk in on us. I’m not going to say no. My bright red panties with the sassy bows on the sides are the white flag of my surrender after a month without him. Or the opening salvo in my campaign to bring Cruz to his knees, because I definitely like the way satin clings to my curves, and Cruz’s hoarse groan as he strokes one big finger down my hip tells me he does too.
I squirm. Honest-to-God squirm.
“You think this is the best place for this?” Maybe I can hurry him up, convince him to skip straight to the good part. We must have five minutes before some other lawyer decides he’s too impatient or too late to wait for the overcrowded elevator and chooses the stairwell instead.
When did I become the kind of woman who’s eager for a quickie in public?
“Stop worryin’ so much.” Cruz brushes his mouth over my forehead. Protesting the order-Gianna-around part of his agenda seems prudent, but for all my claims that I don’t do orders, part of me apparently does. That part is due north of his knuckle. Shoot. I’m soaking wet for him, and we both know it.
“Lose the panties.” He draws a knuckle down my center. The wicked caress is the sensual exclamation point on his order, and I force myself not to move. Arching into his touch—moaning—would be an admission of defeat in this game we’re apparently playing.
Once I shuck my panties, there’s no going back in more ways than one. I hadn’t planned on turning protective custody into seven nights of BDSM games—or using it to explore our relationship. Letting Cruz talk me out of my panties, no matter how amazing it feels, is foolish.
He repeats his caress, clearly not tormented by the same doubts as I am, and holding still gets harder. “You even know why you’re here, boo?”
In the stairwell? Not really. In his arms? Yeah, that’s a different story with a different answer. Something about Cruz calls to me, and I don’t have the words to explain it. I can barely focus on anything but the exquisite pressure of his finger inching slowly toward my sweet spot. Plus when I do think, I yo-yo between Cruz and Luc. I hate indecision.
“You wan’ to come for me right here?” Cruz slides his thumb over the crotch of my panties.
“I’ll keep my options open.” The words fly out of my mouth on a gasp as he rotates his thumb, finding my clit. He holds me in place so effortlessly, and it’s strangely sexy. Sure, I could duck under his arm. Go left and then choose either up or down. I’ve got the entire stairwell at my disposal, and we both know he’d let me go if I asked him. So naturally, I arch into his touch, twisting the fabric of my skirt into a thousand tight, needy wrinkles.
“Make a choice,” he growls, his mouth so close to mine. He lowers his head, one arm braced over my head and the other working my clit through my panties. Oh. God. I need him to kiss me too, because I’m greedy like that and I’m so, so close.
“Kiss me.” I lean up to find his mouth.
“Choose,” he counters, and a new pulse explodes to life between my legs.
“Kiss me and I’ll choose,” I promise, although damned if I have any idea what I’m vowing.
Cruz leans into me, his mouth on mine. “You don’ think of him here, not with me. Right here, this week, there’s just the two of us. At the end of the week, then we’ll talk about him.”
“You’re the one bringing him up.” This isn’t my fault. Not this time. And honestly, thinking about Luc right now isn’t something I want to be doing anyhow because then being with Cruz stops feeling good and starts feeling all wrong. I broke things off with Luc, too. I’m not sneaking around behind his back, and I’ll tell him. I absolutely will.
Just later.
I don’t like myself. I intend to say something because I really have to—I need to be able to live with myself when I walk away from this stairwell and this magic moment—but Cruz whispers something rough and too soft to catch, and I’m lost all over again. Cruz.
My panties disappear. When I move, I can feel the soft restraint of the satin around my knees. There’s no give to the fabric, no more than there is to Cruz, and I can’t shift my legs more than a handful of inches. What would it be like to really be tied up and at his mercy?
I could find out. He sinks his fingers deep into me, twisting, finding some hidden, electric spot, and rubs. Heat explodes through me. This is why I’m here, this unexpected, unstoppable, wonderful chemistry with this man. He makes me want more, and I have zero ideas about what more really means, but I’m going to find out, going to ride this freaking chemistry train to the very last stop. Wherever we end up, it’s going to be memorable.
He parts me, his fingers slick with my wet, and right now I’d kill for him to shut up, but he’s apparently decided now is the perfect time for a conversation. “Me, I’d be happy to forget Luc Breaux existed.”
Part of me agrees with him. Right now there’s only room for the two of us in this crazy, mixed-up, way-too-new relationship. But the rest of me… the parts not riding Cruz’s fingers… that saner, wiser, more prudent part of me knows sex isn’t the only thing I share with Luc. I love my other wolf, even if we’re on hiatus.
I loved him first.
And yet here I am, riding Cruz Jones’s fingers and enjoying the hell out of myself. I’m not sure what I expected when he promised to protect me for the next week—if I thought I’d be doing crossword puzzles with him or possibly having nice-but-boring sex that would make me realize once and for all that Cruz Jones is just a passing fancy and not a man I could care for.
Or possibly love.
“Boo?” He twists his fingers and pleasure jolts through me. “I’m gettin’ my mouth on your pussy next,” he mutters, but apparently he’s not done making me feel good now either.
Thank God.
He takes my mouth with his, and he kisses me like I’d asked, his tongue driving past my closed lips, opening all of me up so he can taste and lick and conquer. And rather than protesting his hand fisting my hair or our awkward position in the stairwell, I kiss him back, desperate to get even closer. His tongue strokes and glides along mine, mirroring the slick working of his rough fingertips lower. Then he goes for my back door, dragging moisture from my pussy along my crack and working a finger deep inside me.
“That’s not nice.” But oh how I like it.
“Boo, we’ve had this conversation. I’m goin’ to do every dirty thing I’ve fantasized about.”
His mouth sweeps over my cheek, my neck, finds my ear, and explores in a way that
makes me shiver. And while he kisses me, he pushes his finger in, pulls back. Repeats the dark caress. He feels so good, and all I want is more of him. We can sort everything else out later.
“You like that.” He doesn’t stop touching me, doesn’t stop pushing me closer and closer to the orgasm I need so badly.
“I thought you were the nice one,” I say way too breathlessly, rocking into his touch.
He curses and pulls back. Shoot. That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Of course, if I had a dollar for every time I put my foot in it, I’d have myself an island in the South Pacific.
“I’m not nice,” he declares roughly, tugging his fingers free of my body. “Don’ ever think that.”
He sounds pissed off, as if I’ve accused him of roasting puppy dogs or beating old ladies. What’s wrong with being nice? He can be nice and still have a dirty side. I mean, clearly he can. My body throbs where he touched me, and I want him back.
He shoves my skirt down. Wait. That’s not supposed to be the next thing that happens.
“Why are you stopping now?”
“Because apparently I’m nice,” he growls. “And nice wolves definitely do it in a bed and not up against a wall.”
“Make an exception,” I snap and drag his head back down to mine.
Cruz kisses differently than Luc does. Comparing my two guys has to be wrong—hell, having two guys isn’t exactly model behavior—but as long as the words stay in my head and don’t come out of my mouth, I can live with myself. Maybe.
Plus they’re both really, really good kissers.
Cruz devours my mouth with the same slow, heated intensity he does everything, and he’s thorough. God help me, but he’s thorough. I lose myself in him.
A door slams somewhere above us, the sound sharp and bright like a gunshot, and I jump before I remember where we are. While no place is one hundred percent secure, this is the courthouse. I’m as okay here as I’ll be anywhere… but I’m not getting caught with panties around my knees. I yank my panties and my dress back into place.
Cruz cups my face in his big hands. “Nothing’s going to hurt you,” he promises calmly, like somehow he can see me through it all. Random traffic accidents, acts of God, werewolf bikers out for revenge—he’s got me covered. The funny thing is, part of me believes him when he says it, and that irritates me. I know better than to rely on anyone else for what I need. I tug away from him and start back down the stairs.
He falls in beside me, his body brushing against mine with each step. “Protective custody won’t be so bad,” he says, as if I’ve asked for a cheeseburger and been told my only option is a salad. If he tells me living under twenty-four-seven surveillance is good for me, I’m arguing I have grounds for justifiable homicide. “You promised me a week,” he continues calmly, “so you get a two for one.”
Is he crazy? “I can’t just drop everything and date you for a week.”
Luc will lose it. He’s been coming around my place every night, even if I’ve been refusing to let him in. He’s going to know when I move into Cruz’s place—and he’s going to have plenty to say about that.
Cruz shrugs as we hit the next-to-last landing. “Opportunity, sweetheart.”
I’ll opportunity his ass. Except… he has a point. Protective custody sucks, but if I take a deep breath and shove the past back into the, well, past, I can see the value in having a bodyguard. After all, I’ve seen what the Breed can do, and I have zero interest in a repeat visit to their motorcycle club—and that’s if they’re interested in talking. I suspect they’ll shoot first and discuss later over my dead body.
“Fine,” I agree grudgingly. “You can spend the next week at my place protecting me.”
At least then we’ll be on neutral ground.
He’s already shaking his head. “I have my pack, sweetheart. And I’m sheriff. You’ll come out to my place.”
Sleeping together could be perceived as a conflict of interest. It certainly won’t look good if the prosecuting attorney discovers our less-than-professional relationship, so Cruz is right about protective custody killing two birds with one stone.
And because I want what he wants and I’m going to say yes, I also tell him the truth. “You know this thing between us is crazy.”
Which is why I broke things off. I don’t need crazy in my life.
He lifts one shoulder, reaching around me to place a hand against the door that will take us from the stairwell to the lobby. Apparently Cruz has something else to say to me. “Crazy don’ make it any less special or sweet.”
“Crazy makes things complicated,” I emphasize. “How can I want two men?”
Cruz gets a teasing glint in his eyes. “You could just pick me. All I wan’ is one woman. You.”
I wish I could. One wolf is more than I can handle, but two is relationship-apocalypse material. Cruz and Luc barely tolerate each other, and the only reason they’ve avoided outright war before now is me.
“Help me out here?” I ask and he exhales roughly, not shifting his hand from the door.
“I don’ know,” he says finally. “This is a first for me too. Somehow, you got to trust me to give you pleasure and not make your life more complicated. I wan’ you happy, sweetheart, and that’s the truth of it.”
He opens the door, waiting for me to step through it. The courthouse lobby is loud and cheerful, filled with attorneys and other visitors. It smells of coffee, masculine cologne, and leather shoes. There’s a thread of something else though, something darker and less happy. Many of the people milling around the lobby would rather be anywhere other than here, but they’ve used up their chances or made mistakes, and now their attorneys are their last hope to explain and make good.
A week with Cruz is a second chance at figuring out our relationship. It’s a chance to get it more right, to see where we can take our feelings—and if I don’t spend it with him, I’ll likely spend it with some other uniformed member of the police force dogging my every footstep.
He looks down at me. God, he’s big. I shiver but tell myself he doesn’t notice how he affects me.
“I can drive you out to my place, or you can follow in your car,” he says. He knows he’s won this battle. We both know it.
“My car,” I answer immediately, because it’s important to have an escape route I control. My keys, my car, my out. I’m not letting Cruz take over my life, no matter how much he wants to—or how sexy it could be.
CRUZ
The bayou calls me by name most days, the empty, wild stretches begging me to shift and run. To hunt. I was born here, and God willing, I’ll die here. I don’t know how the Breed do it, living in Baton Rouge, surrounded by concrete and buildings. In some ways, they’re trapped there, penned in by walls and boundaries, for all their rule breaking. Fuck. Maybe that’s why they live the way they do, because breaking the law is the only way for them to feel free for a moment.
Part of me, a part I don’t like to admit exists and that I never, ever let free, admires their fuck-you attitude. They’re fierce, free, and predatory. They hunt. They take what they want. If I lived by a different set of rules, that could be me.
Instead, I’m standing here in front of my pack’s home, feet planted on the ground as my gaze skims over the empty riverbank. And the empty gravel road. Fuck me, but the empty space in front of my family’s home matches the unexpected hole somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. Gianna Lynn is either running fashionably late—or she’s changed her mind and isn’t coming at all. A white ibis wades into the bayou, probing the muddy bottom for dinner. The long beak emerges from the water holding a crayfish captive. The bird is happy.
Me? Not so much. I have more in common with the crayfish. Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, Gianna snuck up on me and staked out my heart for her own.
“You really think she’s comin’?”
Shooting an elbow out to nail my brother in the stomach takes my attention off the empty road for approximately two seconds. Old habits die hard,
and Jace has always been hell on my ego. I’m also worried about his place in the motorcycle club—he’s taken to his undercover work with the Breed a little too enthusiastically, and I can almost feel him pulling away from me, his wolf lured by the freedom of the other pack. Take what you want. It’s a simple philosophy and seductive as hell.
Jace grunts, and I look up the road again like some kind of pansy-assed pup. Naturally, the road’s still empty. Jace might have a point.
“She’s comin’,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
My brother moves closer to stand next to me, not to return the blow but to offer some comfort. Fuck. The whole family knows what this means to me. I don’t know how I feel about my private business being public knowledge. It also means that my mating has become pack business, and I’ll need to act decisively if I don’t intend to risk my position. Wolves can’t be weak. Wolves take.
“You think a girl who Luc Breaux has decided is his blue moon bride is going to drive on out here and give you a week so she can compare and contrast and pick the best man for the job? Because I thought this was about protective custody and keeping her butt safe.”
Put that way… I’ve heard saner stories from the meth heads I’ve busted tearing up county roads. And yet it is the truth. I’m not the wolf for the wild and crazy, especially not when it comes to sex. I know what I like—who I like—and I go after it with single-minded determination. Plus, as I’ve already proved, I’ve never been good at sharing. This week is my chance to prove I’m the better man, the better wolf, and the right one for her.
“I asked her to give me a week. She said yes.” I mentally dare my brother to say anything derogatory about Gianna.
Jace shakes his head. “Do your job. Keep her safe. Anything else, though, is crazy. The packs will be at each other’s throats if you and Luc fight.”
All true.
I’m standing in the driveway because I want to bring Gianna home. As opening salvos go in an erotic campaign to win her body and her heart, the gesture is fairly lame. Roses. Diamonds. Or a sky-writing blimp. Any or all of those would be better choices. More romantic. More… fun. Shit. I can’t remember the last time—my one night with Gianna excepted—that I had fun.