by Anne Marsh
“Why?” She demanded.
His hands discovered her waist, the heat of his palms burning through her T-shirt as he traced the waistband of her jeans.
“Why what?” he asked roughly.
“Why would I need you?” She stared at him. Logic always worked. She’d run off countless would-be Romeos both in town and on the bayou. Dinner, dollars, a pair of strong arms—she’d been offered it all. Sex just wasn’t worth the effort. She was almost curious to hear what wolf boy here would suggest, because instinct told her sex with him would be different.
“Safety,” he bit out. “That’s one.”
He pulled her towards him. Since he didn’t care he was buck-ass naked, she wouldn’t let him see how much it bothered her. But God, there was no missing the mighty fine erection pressed against her stomach.
“Is that all?” She didn’t sound too breathless, she decided.
“Nuh-uh, boo.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. His eyes glowed in the early morning greys of the bayou. The wolf thing, she reminded herself. “I’ve got a real strong pair of arms. You and me, we both know what’s out there in the bayou. That vamp’s goin’ to be comin’ for you. You don’ wan’ to be alone when he catches up with you.”
She fought back a shiver. Yeah. There was no arguing Dag’s point. The vamp was bad news all round. He was a mean son-of-a-bitch with tricks up his sleeve she couldn’t begin to imagine, but she didn’t have to roll over and play dead. It meant she got herself a gun, pumped this Breaux for all he knew, and hunkered down.
“I’ll handle it,” she said, meaning every word too. “I don’t need—”
“My help,” he finished. “Yeah, I got the message. Guess that just leaves one thing then.”
“That being?”
“Sex,” he growled and nipped her lower lip.
###
“Dream on,” she snapped, jerking back. Her hips bucked as she fought his hold, so he gripped her tighter. Curled his fingers around those fragile bones and hung on because his wolf thought acting out their collective fantasies sounded like a damn fine plan. Only her T-shirt and jeans stood in his way. One minute. That’s how long it would take him to strip her down to her bare skin.
He rubbed his face against the side of her neck. Damn, she smelled good. Better yet, she smelled interesting. Beneath the bayou’s scent—earthy and raw—was a scent that was all Riley. Sage and citrus, bright and tart, a pop of color and lust that rocked him to his core. Something Riley. Pressing his face against the side of her neck, he inhaled, fighting the change. She wouldn’t want the wolf.
“You smell good,” he rasped against her skin.
“Hey,” she said, pulling harder and sounding almost alarmed. “Wolf boy. Back off.”
Forcing himself to keep this human shape was a bitch. The wolf prowled beneath his skin, demanding out. Demanding sex.
“Don’ think so.” He ran a tongue over the vulnerable arch of her throat.
“Now.” Feminine irritation filled her voice. “We’re going to be having words about your definition of rescue, Dag Breaux.”
“You didn’t wan’ to be rescued,” he pointed out calmly and she gave a little shriek of frustration.
“I don’t want sex either. So. Back. Off.”
Reluctantly, he gave her the space she wanted, while he considered the truth of her words. A deeper, muskier note had crept into her scent, the scent of lust and a sensual curiosity he yearned to indulge. The wolf wasn’t worried about niceties like yes. He could make her like his touch. Could convince her to accept him as her lover, even if the man dimly remembered he was supposed to coax and tease until he heard those words.
“I don’ care?” he asked and this time she erased the distance between them, her palms slapping against his chest.
“I do,” she bellowed. He liked the way she never stopped fighting. “This is absolutely not okay.”
Her scent said otherwise. Primitive satisfaction swept through him. Her body didn’t lie to him like her sweet mouth did.
The moon came out from behind the clouds, lighting up the bayou. His body tensed because this was it, his showdown with destiny. He waited, when every nerve in his body demanded he act. Move. Fight for this female challenging him on the deck of his houseboat. The light crept down the cypress trees and over the bank. Smaller creatures rustled, going about their night business, and a gator roared, low and hoarse, as the beast geared up to mate or to hunt.
But that moon, it was a revelation. It was all the proof he needed, because the rays were blue, through and through. The blue glow crept across the boat’s stern and then over Riley’s face—and stopped. The moon lit her up, and wouldn’t you know it? His Pack had been right. He’d come for Riley because Luc ordered him to do so and he always obeyed his Alpha. Disobeying would have meant breaking off from the Pack, so he’d followed orders and come to fetch her out of the bayou.
And she was his. Every sweet inch of her.
He realized he hadn’t fully believed it before, even though he’d hoped.
“Look,” he said hoarsely, letting her step back some more. He didn’t let go of her hips, though. He was never letting go now and the sooner she got used to him, the better. She was stuck with him.
She must have seen something on his face, because she tipped her head back and looked. That unconscious gesture of obedience and vulnerability heated him right up. Showing your throat was gesture of submission in the pack. She might not know it, but she was speaking his language now. He dragged his thumb up the vulnerable curve, massaging the tense muscles.
“The moon is blue.” He heard the unmistakable wonder in her voice. “I thought that was just a figure of speech. That I’d misremembered what I’d seen.”
The blue light danced over her face, down her arms. No more dark, lonely nights for either of them, he thought fiercely, embracing what the blue light meant in some secret, hidden part of his soul he’d believed long dead. She belonged with him—and he with her. Arousal uncurled fiercely. This wasn’t just sex, he realized. Damned if he knew what it was, but it was something more.
“I’ll be a good mate,” he said roughly, wanting to share his revelation. “The vamp, he don’ get near you. I’ll be your right hand, boo. Whatever you need, I’ll be providin’. I got more than enough to keep you and I’ll give you cubs.”
“Whoa.” She jerked her gaze away from the moon and stared at him. “How’d we go from sex and safety to making babies?”
His erection jerked, reaching for her as he reached for words and came up empty. He didn’t do feelings and he hadn’t missed them much over the centuries. Now he regretted that. He should have saved up some thoughts for her. He hadn’t expected to need to convince her. She was his blue moon bride. She was supposed to want him as much as he wanted her.
“You’re my mate.” He pulled her towards him. “The blue moon, she finds mates for my kind.”
He’d thought mates appreciated hearing the truth—Rafer had certainly made it clear he didn’t keep secrets from his Lark—but Riley stiffened up.
She shook her head, sending her hair dancing all over. “I didn’t sign up for any cosmic dating service,” she said. “So I’m opting out of this happily-ever-after fantasy you’re concocting. No sex. No cubs. I’m no Mrs. Breaux for you.”
He’d tried talking. Now he’d do what he did best. Act.
He licked her ear. “Too late.”
###
Stubborn, arrogant, naked son of a bitch. Riley wasn’t the prize in the Cracker Jack box. Hell, she was no kind of prize at all, but that wasn’t the point. No, the point was she made her own choices. Found her own man if she wanted one—which she didn’t. Not one bit.
She slammed her foot down hard on his, prying at his fingers. It was like trying to shift a wall. She got nowhere.
“You’re violent.” Yeah, he had a pleased glint in his eyes. What the hell was wrong with him? And what would it take to get him to hear the word no? He let her go
, though, which counted for something. Still, she had a feeling the new space between them was nowhere near enough. She needed an entire boat length. A parish. The fucking state of Louisiana.
“And you’re not normal,” she countered. “Don’t you dare stay on my boat, Breaux.”
He considered her words for a moment, before slowly shook his head. “Now that’s a problem, boo, seein’ as how this is my boat.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are we here by some lucky coincidence, or was this your plan all along?”
He looked at her and she didn’t need his curt nod to know she’d been had. He’d guided her through the bayou like a sheep—or prey. He’d hunted her and she’d fallen for it. That made her mad, because her escape suddenly seemed far less about her and way more about him. He’d wanted her to do something and she had.
She reached down, snagged a stick from the deck, and hurled it at his head. The slim piece of wood didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of hurting him but that wasn’t the point and they both knew it. She was pissed and making sure he got the message.
So message clearly received.
He moved so fast, she didn’t have time to avoid him. In a heartbeat, he had her pinned against the wall. “That’s not nice,” he growled.
Yeah, well, she didn’t care. Two hundred pounds weighed down on her, his legs pinning hers, his hands capturing hers and drawing them over her head. Heat flared low in her belly. She didn’t want to want this man, but her body clearly had other ideas, because it was melting for him. His erection pressed hard against her pussy and, damn, he was thick. One hand wouldn’t be enough to hold Dag.
He stared down at her. Damn it, she hated the way his face gave away nothing. “You goin’ to act nicer?” he asked.
“Like hell,” she spat and tugged, because she couldn’t give in to the heat. “Let go. I got my bondage fix last week, so this really isn’t working for me.” He left her no room to move. Almost no room to breathe.
“Okay,” he said slowly, like he was actually trying to give her what she’d asked for. His hands slid away from her body. “But I was thinkin’ we could go inside. Clean you up some and take a look at those hurts of yours.”
Wolf boy wanted to give her a bandaid.
The idea was strangely reassuring.
She looked down at her hands and arms. Clean up was definitely called for.
“Just a pit stop?” She had to ask, because the warm light in his eyes wasn’t purely platonic.
He nodded reluctantly. “If that’s what you’re really wantin’.”
“And then we’ll head back to town.” She wanted their plan spelled out.
“Got it.” He nodded again—and then picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder, his shoulder biting into her stomach as they moved swiftly across the deck. His back and his ass were as hard as the rest of him and she had a spectacular view of his bare cheeks flexing with each step he took. The traitorous warmth came back. He was no door-opening, flower-toting male.
And yet he was looking out for her.
The deck blurred before her eyes as he moved, then he stopped, yanked open a door and stepped inside.
Chapter Four
He’d brought her to a goddamned bedroom. If Riley had come in here, she’d have known the houseboat wasn’t abandoned. The furniture was as worn as the boat’s outsides, but comfortable. A pair of cane-backed chairs flanked an iron bedstead heaped with a mismatched pile of wash worn patchwork quilts and creamy sheets. Gauzy mosquito netting spilled around the bed and a stack of well-thumbed paperbacks crowned by a kerosene lantern. Hell, the man even had himself a genuine armoire, although she had no idea how anyone had dragged such a heavy piece of furniture this far into the heart of the bayou. Dag’s interior decorating was tidy and clean, each item positioned with methodical precision, and she wanted to scream. The room was romantic as hell, but bed also had unobstructed line of sight of door. The nearby window afforded an alternate escape route she’d bet wasn’t accidental.
Dag Breaux was definitely more wolf than man and this was his den.
He cradled her to his chest. Was that tenderness from Dag Breaux? No, she decided a moment later as her ass bounced on the mattress and promptly hit an old spring. Not at all. He turned to the armoire, rummaging inside, and she lurched to her knees, not sure what was happening next.
But all he did was drop an old T-shirt in her lap. She wasn’t going to argue. She pulled the tent-like shirt over her head, inhaling Dag’s musky scent with each breath. Stripping off her dirty clothes beneath the shrouding folds required channeling her inner contortionist, but no way she sat here naked either. Predictably, the shirt was too large, the neck falling down one shoulder. She hated being small.
But he didn’t do anything else. Not that she was going to let him. She didn’t really want him to touch her. Not after the caveman stunt he’d pulled and certainly not after he’d tied her up. She didn’t play games. But God, looking at him, she wondered if maybe she would if he asked. Nicely. With his hands and his tongue.
She was in so much trouble here.
His eyes examined her. “You’re still muddy. We should do somethin’ about that.”
“And you’re still naked,” she pointed out.
He nodded. “I can fix that too.” Stepping away, he pulled on the rattiest pair of military cargo pants she’d ever laid eyes on. Watching him drag the pants up his legs and over his lean hips, she wondered if he’d dressed just for her. Maybe there was an ounce of civilization in him after all. That had to explain why she felt safe with him. Oh, not her virtue—she nearly snorted at that thought—but Dag Breaux wouldn’t intentionally hurt. Accidentally, sure. She had a feeling he trampled feelings like no one’s business, but he wouldn’t raise a hand to her or try to cut her down. He was part wolf, but he was no monster.
He zipped and buttoned, the sounds overly loud in the small room. God. He definitely filled up all the available space. The view was great but despite the wicked temptation of ogling his body, exhaustion beat at her. The mattress, despite its sprung state, felt damned good. She wanted to curl up and drift off. Just for a few minutes. Just because she could and because it had been a hell of a week.
She closed her eyes. She was so tired of fighting. Later she’d worry about her crazy-ass werewolf companion. She’d got away from the vamp, so she’d deal with Dag too if she had to. Just—not now. Right now, all she wanted was to curl up on her side, tug one of those blankets over her head, and sleep for a month of Sundays.
Sounds reached her through the sudden fog of exhaustion. Water pouring, followed by cloth on cloth and footsteps as Dag came back towards the bed where she waited. She had to wonder if he’d deliberately let her hear him coming. The man moved silent as a ghost when he wanted to. Was he actually worried he’d frighten her?
He sat and the mattress sank beneath his weight, rolling her towards him. Sleep banished for the moment, she opened her eyes. He had a towel tossed over his shoulder and, as she watched, he hooked a cane-backed chair with his foot and put a bowl of water on it. Then he reached for her feet, his intentions clear.
God. To be clean again.
“I can do it.” She reached for the cloth.
He didn’t let go. “I’d like to do it,” he said roughly. And then, “Please?”
Wolf boy had asked for her permission. She was bone tired… so why not? “Okay,” she said.
The cool roughness of the cloth woke new nerve endings as he worked the fabric against her feet and legs. The sheer pleasure of dirt and blood washing off her skin almost had her eyes rolling back in her head.
“I need to get home,” she admitted. This thing he was doing for her, taking care of her, wasn’t something she’d normally allow. She always stood on her own two feet. Always. And yet here he was, cleaning her up, and she was allowing it and not just because she’d kill to be clean again. But because his careful touch felt good.
Better than good because, if she was being honest wit
h herself, it was erotic as hell. She didn’t want honesty right now, though. No, she’d prefer to pretend life as she knew it hadn’t changed. She absolutely wasn’t alone in the bayou with a morose, closed-off, uncommunicative werewolf who could probably eat her up in one bite.
Not to mention the vamp that definitely bit.
Dag dipped the cloth into water and then wrung it out. “That’s a powerful old vamp out there, boo. You’re safer here with me.”
Oh, she didn’t think so. When she said as much, he nodded matter-of-factly.
“Yeah. You seen me shift. You mind my goin’ wolf?”
She had secrets of her own—secrets she had no intention of sharing with this man—so being scared of what he could do was pure hypocritical on her part. She’d seen plenty in the bayou and, while his big ass wolf was no cuddly kitten, he hadn’t hurt her.
“I’m good with it,” she said finally, and something flickered in his eyes.
“That so?”
Did he want her to run screaming into the night?
“Yeah,” she repeated. “I’ve seen worse.”
“True.” For a long moment, there was nothing but near silence, punctuated by the drip of water and the rough whisper of the cloth over her bare skin. She was acutely aware of her nudity. Between the two of them, they had only his pants and her borrowed T-shirt. A quick zip and a shove and they could be skin to skin, his dick sinking deep inside her. She should have been afraid—and yet she wasn’t.
He wasn’t the problem here.
“The vamp—did he hurt you?”
She froze. Dag didn’t meant external hurts, wasn’t asking about anything he could see on her body. After all, he had a ringside view of the scratches and tears the vamp had left on her body. No, he meant something far more intimate. She didn’t want to talk about what had happened, and certainly not while she was almost naked.