by Anne Marsh
Which, no matter how fucking stupid I feel, is still true.
Unfortunately my little mate is a lawyer with superb instincts for blood in the water. She promptly goes for the jugular. “Would you have cheated on me?”
I counterattack. “You didn’t look at any other male, but you didn’t think about takin’ him into your bed?”
Her blush, that teasing flush of pink on her cheekbones, gives her away, as does the little hitch in her breathing. I don’t share, and I’m a possessive bastard. Wolves share sometimes, but only to pleasure their mates.
She raises her chin and stares me down. “I’m ready to settle down. To get married and have kids.”
I can help her with that, so I pat the sofa beside me. “Come right on over here.”
She shakes her head, not done with her explanation. “Not with you.”
Right. Because I don’t even merit a spot on her list of potential mates. My mate isn’t talking about sharing—she’s planning on cutting me out of her life entirely. I have no intention of going quietly into that good night. A male can’t hold a woman who doesn’t want to be held. The blue moon’s a beacon—not a mandate. That’s one of the reasons I let her run from me in Vegas. I might be an animal at heart, but I’ll be a goddamned fucking human when it counts most.
Disappointment lances through me. Stupid, because I always knew I’d have to give her back. That one day I’d really and truly have to let her go. A piece of paper and a few words in front of a justice of the peace don’t begin to cover what I feel for her.
I look at her. “You don’ remember anything you like about Vegas?”
GIANNA
I remember too much.
Or not enough.
God, I have no idea which is true. Around Luc, everything gets crazy mixed-up so fast. I press my cheek against the cool glass, staring out into the garden.
“Come here, shug,” he orders in the rough-tender voice that has haunted my dreams. Of course I look over. Stupid. He’s sprawled on my couch like some kind of pasha, and when my eyes meet his, he pats the cushion beside him. I’m not his pet. His toy.
His woman.
But the heat building inside me demands attention, and it’s been so damned long. Wanting a lover is perfectly natural. He’s here and he’s temporarily mine. Why not make use of him? My logic sucks, but it’s been one of those days, and I’m ready for it to end on a happy note. Without conscious thought, my feet take me right over to the man on the couch.
My knees bump against the silky fabric, inches from his. “If we’d been married, I would have wanted a divorce.” I put the words out there. Tonight I’m in the market for a lover, but tomorrow I still want to move on with my life. This non-thing between us has to be resolved.
He nods, linking his fingers gently around my wrist. “I hear you.”
Not agreement, but it’s enough. Isn’t it? He tugs and I land on the couch beside him, the whole world freezing and slowing. No, not freezing. Burning. Every part of me is on fire around this man.
In no rush, he brushes a finger down my throat. I left my jacket in the car and undid the top button of my blouse in deference to the warmth I worked up walking. The callused pad of his finger moves down the open space, over my traitorous pulse, my collarbone.
“I missed you,” he growls.
Has he? Then he should have come knocking, should have looked me up. He trails his finger lower, flicking open the next button, tracing the valley between my breasts where I’m sweat-slicked and soft. My skin gives beneath his touch and I arch upward.
“This have a name too?” The hoarse rasp of his voice is a lifeline in a sea of sensations.
His hand gets busy, unbuttoning me, spreading open my blouse. I like sexy lingerie. Even if no one but me sees it, I love the way the fabrics touch me. Silk and satin. The soft cups or the crueler ones that push me up, hold me in place for a lover’s kiss that isn’t coming, and leave red marks on my skin. Even better is the satisfaction of sliding the thing off, of slipping free at the end of the day. This bra is my favorite, a rich gold with petal-soft cups and black lace.
“La Perla.” The words tumble out of my mouth.
“I like it.” My skin heats up where his fingers tickle me, like the champagne did ten years ago. But does he like me? I’m more than my lingerie, more than the things I’ve acquired along the way.
“Souvenir. That’s what you need. A little keepsake reminder.” His Cajun-French accent still does wicked, wicked things to my insides. Surrendering to the moment, I lean back against my couch, savoring the slick sensation of the upholstery beneath me. When I look down, La Perla is doing its job, shaping my breasts into the prettiest mounds. I like my breasts. That part of me isn’t the problem.
My breathing hitches. This is such a bad idea. But it’s been so long and I crave another taste of him. He’s such a pretty poison.
“Jus’ a memory,” he growls softly, as if he can read my mind. He drops to his knees. The change in position should put me in the position of power, but he’s in charge. Oh, God. Is he ever.
He brushes his mouth over the lacy cups and the exquisite pressure against my nipples has me sucking in a harsh breath and arching up. Take it off, I mentally plead. Bare me.
Like he did in Vegas, he knows what I need. Big hands fold my skirt up, the fabric creasing around my waist, and I’ll have to send it to the dry cleaners, and should I take him up to my bedroom and… my brain sputters and stops. Naked. Luc makes that rough sound of pleasure I love so much as he finds my knees with his hands and opens me up.
“You’re downrigh’ gorgeous, shug.”
For him, I want to be. He’s beautiful himself in a rough, fierce way. From the hard line of his jaw to the dark glitter in his eyes as he stares at my body laid out for him. His. For this one moment. Because right now, I want him and he’s offering. By tomorrow or even later tonight, however, the orgasms will fade, and then what will I have? He draws his fingers up my thighs, leaving small sparks of pleasure where he touches and… I’m ten years older. Softer. My body has more than a little wear and tear on it, and what if the reality of me isn’t as good as whatever fantasy he’s nursed for those missing years?
“Panties stay on.” My sudden nerves are ridiculous. He’s seen everything before. I am what I am, and no amount of wishing can transform me into a swimsuit model in the next five minutes. Five years wouldn’t be enough time to effect that particular transformation.
He nods. “Whatever you wan’.”
Oh, the fantasies of having him at my beck and call… He runs his thumb over the center of my panties, like he’s testing to see just how soft I am. And wet. I’m wet because I like what he’s doing way too much.
More than like. His fingers brushing over my lace-covered folds make me ache and dampen. I want him beneath my panties, stabbing deep inside, but I made the rules. He’s only playing by them.
He circles my clit with his thumb, and I moan, unable to hold back the little sound. It’s the white flag of my surrender, an unabashed admission that he’s in charge. And that I’m not.
“Oui,” he growls. “That’s what I wan’ to hear. You, comin’ on my fingers. Lettin’ me know how much you enjoy this.”
He hooks a finger in the side of my panties and tugs, making room for himself. Still playing by the rules I set, he slips a rough, male finger beneath the edge. Strokes over me where I’m wet and swollen. Oh. God.
I make noise after noise as he touches me. Pets me. He’s in no rush, and that’s one more thing I didn’t expect. Somehow, I thought he’d fall on me, take me fast-and-furious style, and so the sweet, slow loving undoes me. It feels good. He feels good. I can kick him out later. Do all the things I’m supposed to do… later. These stolen moments right now, however, are all about Luc.
Curling his fingers into me, he leans closer.
“Now I’m takin’ your panties down.”
Please.
Not waiting for an answer, he pulls, leaving the lac
e stretched around my upper thighs. Luc Breaux is definitely in charge. Bound by my panties, I can’t move. Can’t open my thighs wider in silent demand for more.
And he delivers. That’s the thing about Luc. He doesn’t disappoint when it comes to bedroom things. He kisses me. No lead up, no sweet tease. He just closes his mouth over my clit and sucks gently. God. The erotic suction has me crying out, my hands flying to his shoulders, digging into his T-shirt, marking the hard skin beneath.
He lifts his head, and I groan in frustration. “Hands by your side,” he orders.
When I hesitate because I’m really not into the whole giving-orders scene, he blows lightly, the stream of air tormenting my swollen clit.
“Do it.”
Or what? I dig my teeth into my lower lip, biting back the question. Luc will show me. I’ve got no doubt of that, or that I just might enjoy his sweet punishment. Too much. I’m not sure I’m ready to play those kinds of dark games with him tonight.
And so I press my hands into the couch beside my hips. Obedient but pissed off about it. And aroused. So very, very aroused.
“You trust me.” Fierce satisfaction fills his face as he makes his declaration. Or maybe the words are a promise. I like the thought of that. I need something more than touch—however good—to go on.
He comes back to me, circling his tongue around my clit. Licking the sides, tasting me. Teasing until the tiny tremors start to build inside me, the pulse between my legs threatening to drown out the banging of my heart. Luc.
He takes me with his mouth, and the whole time I keep my hands flat on the sofa, not touching him. I want to tell him to come here, to hurry up. To slow down and stretch the moment out for hours. By ordering me to keep my hands by my sides, he’s made this about my pleasure and not his. My thighs shake as my body tenses, fighting to come as he licks another wicked path around my clit. All Luc allows me to do is to feel—and hold on.
One finger dips into my pussy, slides deep inside me in a sure, liquid glide. He pulls out, switching fingers, and works the first against my tight rear hole. I tense, then relax into the bright pop of pleasure-pain as he breaches virgin territory. There are some things I’ve done with no one, and Luc is the kind of man who values firsts.
“Luc.” His name tumbles out before I can hold it back.
And then he stops. Lifts his head and looks me in the eye.
“Ask me for it.”
“I’m not asking you for anything.” I’ve spent my adult lifetime making sure I don’t ask for anything from anyone—and that includes him. No matter how good he makes me feel, I don’t have to have this.
“Then demand it from me,” he growls.
Oh, that works for me. My pussy dampens more, my body relaxing for him as I grab his beautiful, fierce face between my hands.
“Make me come.”
Ordering him I can do. Giving in is something else entirely.
He does something with his fingers, spearing my ass and my pussy, his fingertips rubbing and coaxing, and I come apart, my body taking a slow, melting tumble into orgasm. Arm pressed over my face, my mouth working against my own skin in a silent cry.
“Beautiful,” he growls, turning his face until his cheek rests against my thigh. Like he’s breathing me in and that’s enough for him.
I’m still trying to come to terms with my new boneless condition when something or someone in the garden sets off a silent alarm. I’d debated going the home security system route, not liking the idea of living in a fortress, but I’m a woman alone and shit happens. I bought the service.
“You’ve got company.” Luc motions to the phone vibrating on my coffee table.
I shrug away from his hold, putting myself back together as best I can. Pull up my panties and tug my skirt down. It’s likely wasted effort, because the look on his face says more clearly than words that he has every intention of undoing me again. Like he knows I wear self-control like armor and he plans to peel it all away.
Picking up the phone, I study the screen before flipping it around so he can see. “I’ve got a dog in my back garden.”
Yeah. He hears the question mark in my voice. He studies the image. The big black wolf has a chunk missing from its left ear. Golden eyes look up at the security camera as the wolf lets out a snarl.
“I’ll call animal control. Again.” I’m not sure what else I can do.
He shakes his head, his eyes on my face and not my backyard visitor. “There’s nothing they can do for you here.”
His tone makes it clear that I can dial and dial, but the problem in my backyard is way beyond what animal control could handle. At least to his mind.
“That’s a dog. A wolf. A fucking coyote. Whatever it is, it’s furry, has four legs, and no business being in my garden.”
“Oui.” His easy agreement about has me keeling over from the shock. When I start to dial, however, because I have to do something, he touches the back of my hand and stops me. “They can’t fix this for you, boo.”
“Give me a believable reason.” Because I need something other than the niggling recollection that animal control doesn’t work after hours. I could have a rampaging dinosaur in my backyard, but it would only be collected between the hours of nine and five.
“That’s not a wolf,” he says.
“Uh-huh.” And, hallelujah, we’ve set a new record. Luc has agreed with me twice in one evening.
“That’s a werewolf.”
I refrain from telling him that he’s crazy. Or that I’d like to believe he is, at any rate. Because… “Werewolves are a really fun literary fiction. There’s no such thing—and definitely not in my backyard.”
“Am I a figment of your imagination?” So he is going there.
“Are you telling me that you’re a werewolf?”
He stares at me levelly. “You know that I am. I shifted in front of you in Vegas ten years ago.”
Maybe. Just possibly. Or I could be the crazy one. Seeing things. Hearing things.
“I thought I’d imagined that. Werewolves in Las Vegas. You really expect me to believe that?”
His cool amusement isn’t funny at all. He’s bad news, offering raw sex and appealing to my inner bad girl. “I’m not trapped in the bayou, boo. So I’m sayin’ it one more time. That male out there—he’s not a dog. Animal control isn’t goin’ to be a solution here.”
“Uh-huh.” I shove off the couch, and he lets me go. “Is this where you tell me you’ve got a better plan?”
“Shit, shug. Do we have to play show-and-tell right now? What do you think happened to those wolves chasin’ you earlier tonight?”
LUC
I’m a werewolf.
I tore that last pack of bastards apart with my hands—and I’ll do this wolf with my teeth.
Oui. I don’t need an inner consult to know my mate wants to hear none of these things. For her, what happened in Vegas stayed there—until tonight. She’s my fated mate, my only and one shot at staying human. That makes her the center of my fucking universe, whether I like it or not. Equally clearly she doesn’t reciprocate the feeling. I’m more like a scribble in the margin on the page of her life. Or something. I don’t have words to describe what I feel, but… hurt might cover it. Shit.
Even after just our one night in Vegas, I knew things about her. That she’s driven, motivated, and smart. She’s pursuing a law career—and that hunt of hers consumes the better portion of her time. She’s modern, independent, and… the slightest bit fragile, although she’d kill rather than admit it. She’s been trying to move past her trailer park childhood, and she’s been succeeding.
I, on the other hand, am an atavistic wolf, more brutal predator than man, and after a few days in the city, I yearn for the solitude of the bayou. We’re not even opposites because we’re that far apart. How can I drag her back with me, force her to live with my pack?
Ten years apart hasn’t taught her how and when to back down, either. She advances on me, her words smacking into me like bul
lets, the not-a-wolf outside temporarily forgotten. Her proximity makes me want to growl. To touch. I just had my hands all over her, my mouth on her pussy, but now she’s pushing me away.
She leans down, slapping her hands on either side of me on the pretty cream sofa. “If you’ve got proof, show me. I’m not basing any decision on something I might—or might not—have seen ten years ago in Vegas. I’d been drinking. I was tired.”
Right. Proof. My mate prefers her i’s dotted and the t’s crossed. Since offering her proof is the one thing I can do, I stand up, and reach for the hem of my T-shirt. She backs the hell up, giving me space to work as my hands go to the buttons on my jeans. Piece by piece, I shed my clothes on her sofa and drop my boots on her floor. Her calm face doesn’t give away a thing as she watches me. The counselor’s in the room, not the woman.
“I didn’t realize your proof included a free show.”
Nothing in this life comes free, but I imagine she learned that lesson years ago. When I finally stand there naked, I shift. Bones crack as my body reforms, fur rolling over my skin. The wolf sees in black and white. The place smells faintly of lemon furniture polish and long-gone Lean Cuisine. Biolage shampoo and the sweet, musky scent of Gianna herself.
Her quick whiff of fear, however, is gone as fast as it arrives.
She sits back down on the couch abruptly. The wolf pads over, bumping its head against her leg. “Shoot. I was really, really hoping I was crazy.”
GIANNA
For ten years, I told myself that what I saw that one crazy night in Vegas was either pure hallucination or too much television. I’d imagined things, because men simply don’t turn into wolves.
Luc’s wolf calls bullshit on that belief, butting its head against my leg. The animal has to be well over two hundred pounds, and maybe I should be more worried. But… this is Luc. If he wants me hurt, he’d leave me alone with the other wolf pack rather than riding to my rescue. The other wolf pack. Before the night can get any crazier, I grab my phone and snap a picture. No one’s going to believe me, but I want the image for myself.