Tall, Dark and Paranormal: 10 Thrilling Tales of Sexy Alpha Bad Boys

by Opal Carew

  “Wait,” Cassandra called. “You need a weapon.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any silver bullets handy.”

  “No, but—” She hurried into the shop, murmuring to Lazarus when he hissed. As I stepped through the beads hanging in the doorway, she slapped her knife into my palm. “Silver, through and through.”

  The idea of shoving a knife into Adam—

  “I can’t”

  “Believe me, Diana, if he grows fangs and a tail, you can.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” I glanced at the window. “It’s daytime.”

  “Touch him with the thing. See if he smokes.”

  “He’s going to think I’m insane.”

  “Good. If this is insane, then he isn’t the loup-garou.”

  And we had a whole new set of problems. Because if Adam wasn’t, who was?

  Cassandra bit her lip. “Maybe I should go, too.”

  “So he can kill both of us?”

  “He isn’t going to kill you.”

  “No?”

  “If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.”

  “Great.”

  “You could take Detective Sullivan along. He wants to talk to Ruelle anyway.”

  I considered the notion, then put it away. “Adam isn’t going to tell me the truth if I bring a cop. He hasn’t hurt me. He might hurt Sullivan.”

  “You have to let me know you’re all right. Tell me what happened, what he said.”

  “Okay.”

  “By—” She glanced at her watch. “Seven o’clock.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Tonight!”

  “No. Morning.”

  If I was wrong about Adam, I might have to make it up to him. Considering the accusation, that could take a while.

  Chapter 25

  Deciding to confront Adam Ruelle and actually finding him were two different things. He wasn’t conveniently waiting for me in the living room of my rented abode. Of course, as previously noted, it was daytime.

  I headed into the swamp, reversing the map he’d once drawn to lead me from shack to mansion. He wasn’t there, either. Where did he go when the sun shone?

  I was tempted to use his shower. Never had gotten to check out Cassandra’s. But the idea of Adam arriving while I was naked and streaming wet stopped me, despite the grimy-grainy feeling of my skin and hair. How could I confront him with any sort of bravado fresh from a shower?

  I couldn’t. So I wandered around his three-room shack, knife in hand, as I searched for clues. They weren’t any more available than he was.

  Food, soap, clothes—the essentials—but there wasn’t a single scrap of the paraphernalia of daily life. No books. No papers. No bills, no checks, no MasterCard. If he lived here, where was his stuff?

  The more I looked around, the more annoyed I became. There had to be something that would mark this as Adam Ruelle’s place.

  Though I knew it was wrong, I went through everything. Every drawer, every shelf, every closet, even the medicine cabinet. I found nothing out of the ordinary. Not even a stray doggie biscuit or a bill from the local veterinarian.

  I lost track of time, or maybe the sun faded more quickly in the swamp, because when I pulled my head from under the sink, dusk had descended. Outside, a long, low howl began in the distance. Just one. But one was enough to make me want to run all the way home.

  To Boston.

  “Wuss,” I muttered. “You promised Simon you’d prove him right but the first time you actually have a chance to discover something out of this world, you want to run home to Mommy.”

  As if Katherine O’ Malley would ever answer to such a crass moniker as Mommy. I’d been instructed to call her Kate the instant I’d grown a half an inch taller than her. Being me, I’d continued to refer to her as Ma whenever the opportunity arose.

  I crept to the front window and peered at the steadily falling night. The cypress trees blotted out the last of the sun. The sky was both bright blue and blood red—stunning and scary in one. Just like Adam.

  My fingers curled around the knife. Staring at it, I frowned. I couldn’t kill him. I needed him alive. Which might be tough.

  “Maybe I should—”

  “What?”

  My head went up. He was already inside the room. Fully clothed in loose dark pants, boots, and a black T-shirt, so at least I didn’t have to deal with the mind- numbing sight of too much bare, bronzed skin.

  What I’d been going to say was wait for the cage and the tranquilizer gun. Glad I hadn’t mentioned those out loud.

  “Go,” I finished on a whisper.

  His lips turned up just a little. “Stay instead, cher.”

  He was so damn gorgeous, he couldn’t be human.

  I slid the hand that held the knife behind my thigh as he crossed the room. I let him get close, put his arm around my waist, press that great body and beautiful mouth against mine. We even did the tongue tango for several seconds. If I had to kill him, I should at least make sure he died happy.

  I yanked off his shirt. Then, while he was nuzzling my neck and stroking my breasts, growing hard against my stomach, making me almost forget one little problem, I brought the knife up fast.

  I couldn’t stab him. I didn’t have it in me. Instead, I pressed the silver against his skin.

  He shoved me away with a hiss, and my heart seemed to stop. I stared at his arm, expecting smoke, finding none. Hell, I was going to have to try again.

  I tightened my grip, and he kicked my hand. I didn’t even see it coming. The knife flew. He grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind my back.

  “What the hell?” he growled. “You crazy?”

  “Are you the loup-garou?”

  He released me so fast, I fell to my knees, peering at him through the tangle of my hair. He stared back with no expression whatsoever. “I am not.”

  “I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

  “You asked. I answered.”

  “The knife was silver. You flinched.”

  “It was a knife, Diana. You think I’d let you stick me and see if I exploded?”

  My eyes narrowed. “How did you know silver makes a werewolf explode?”

  He swore in French, then stalked to where the knife had fallen, picked it up, and pressed the blade against his bare chest.

  Nothing happened.

  He flipped the thing into the air, caught the sharp end, and offered me the handle. Climbing to my feet I took the weapon but set it on a table.

  “Everyone knows silver and werewolves do not mix,” he said.

  “Everyone?”

  “Everyone around here.”

  I fidgeted, uncertain what to do or say next.

  “You have more questions. Ask.”

  “Is your family cursed?”

  He shrugged. “Some say we are.”

  “Was your ancestor cursed to run as a wolf under the crescent moon?”

  Adam’s blue eyes, the eyes of the wolf in my dream, my premonition, my harsh parting from reality, met mine. “No.”

  I tried to determine if he was telling me the truth, but I couldn’t. I might have shared more with this man than I’d shared with any other except my husband, but I didn’t know him. I couldn’t trust him.

  “Ruelle means famous wolf.”

  “Just like Diana means moon goddess.” He tilted his head, and his hair slid across one eye. “Maybe I should wonder about you and the silver, hmm?”

  He picked up the knife, and a flicker of fear raced through me. Why in hell had I put the thing down?

  “Come here.” He beckoned with the blade.

  I shook my head and backed away.

  “Never run, cher. Wolves like to chase.”

  “This isn’t funny, Adam.”

  He wasn’t laughing. Neither was I. But we were both breathing pretty hard. A lot of eye contact.

  Stalk. Retreat.

  My shoulders hit the wall. His lips lifted just a little. I wasn’t sure if I was sca
red spitless or aroused beyond redemption. Maybe both.

  He stepped in close, crowding me with his body, bumping me with his erection. I couldn’t move. Did I want to?

  For an instant I struggled, but that only made us fit together even better. I was more rubbing than fighting against him. When I stilled, so did he.

  “Don’t,” I whispered.

  His gaze on my breasts, which strained against the tank top I’d worn to offset the heat, he lifted his eyes to mine as he lowered the knife to the neck of the shirt. With a deft movement he split the material. The cotton fell away, hanging uselessly from my shoulders as damp air trickled across my chest. My nipples puckered inside my plain white bra.

  “Don’t what?” he murmured, pressing the cool silver blade to my heated skin.

  “Stop.”

  “Is it don’t?” He lifted the knife, careful not to nick me, and caught the tip in the wisp of material holding the two A cups together. “Or is it stop?”

  He was very good with the weapon. He’d no doubt had secret commando training, though I doubted he’d ever used a knife in quite this way. Then again, maybe he had. Maybe he did this all the time, with all the girls.

  I gave a mental wince at the thought of other women, which was foolish. This was about sex, not love, and that was how we both wanted it.

  I stared into his face, and I saw nothing but a man who desired me as much as I desired him. My suspicions proved groundless, my accusations now seemed foolish.

  “Don’t stop,” I said.

  He flicked the knife and my bra snapped open. If I’d had any breasts to speak of, they’d have whapped him in the chest. As it was, they slid along his bare skin, the sensation better than an ice-cream cone in the middle of July. Both relief and desire, sweetness and sin.

  I wrapped my fingers in his hair tight enough to make him grunt as I tugged his mouth to mine.

  And the knife clattered to the floor.

  Chapter 26

  I expected the usual slam bam without even a “thank you, ma’am,” sex that bordered on rough, a rocketing orgasm. Instead he slowed things down, and I was lost.

  “Come.” He took my hand and pulled me across the floor.

  I followed obediently, drunk on the taste of his mouth, the scent of his skin. I figured we were headed for the couch and that was fine with me, yet when I hesitated halfway across the room, he turned, shaking his head. “Not tonight. Tonight we do this right.”

  We hadn’t been doing it right? Could have fooled me.

  His bed was made, which gave me a start. He didn’t seem the kind of guy who bothered. Then again, from the military corners and the tight white sheets, maybe he couldn’t help himself.

  Just like I couldn’t help myself. Certainly I’d proved he wasn’t an evil soulless beast or the walking undead. But even if he had been, could I have resisted him? I wasn’t sure.

  He climbed onto the bed, never letting go of my hand. Did he think I’d run if he released me? I wouldn’t get far. Even as a man, he could catch me. Especially since I’d let him.

  The line of his pants accented the ripple of muscle across his abdomen. Not a centimeter of excess flesh lapped over the waistband. Reaching out, I traced my thumb along a ridge, and his skin fluttered beneath my touch.

  I wanted to taste him, feel life against my lips, push aside the button, the zipper, and lay claim to what was beneath. I wanted to make amends for doubting him, if not for the knife. What guy wouldn’t appreciate a blow job apology?

  His slacks were worn soft from years of use. The single button popped free with very little encouragement. He watched me through slitted, lazy eyes, though the hardened length of his body revealed a coiled tension, the tangle of his hair hinted at a certain wildness.

  The rumble of his zipper as I tugged it down seemed to fill the room, electrify the air. He continued to watch me without word or movement, except to lift his hips just enough so I could slide the pants down. No underwear lay beneath, only skin. I wanted to learn every line and every curve. Since he didn’t appear to be going anywhere, I indulged myself.

  A light dusting of hair covered his legs, just enough to make them manly, not enough to nudge them toward beast. I trailed my fingernails through the curls, up the inside of his thighs, and he quivered. How far could I go before he lost control?

  My hands roved higher, thumbs skating over the curve where his leg became his hip. He arched, begging me to touch him. I couldn’t deny a need I felt so deeply myself.

  I lowered my head, and my hair spilled over his chest, hiding me from view as I hovered, my breath brushing his pelvis, making him think, Yes, maybe, now, before I pressed my mouth to his belly, let my tongue circle his navel, then trace a moist path downward.

  My breasts cradled his erection. His pulse beat in time with mine. He slid through my cleavage, such that it was, simulating the intimate act. I lowered my head and licked him just once. His body leaped in response.

  Eyes closed, he moved against me, and I lost myself watching his face. The man enjoyed sex. With him, I enjoyed it, too. Not that I hadn’t before, but when love is involved the act is more about mind than body, heart than hands, lips, and tongue. There was something to be said about sex for the sake of sex.

  My nipples tightened, hardening as they brushed his upper thighs. The rhythmic strokes sent a bolt of heat through me. I wanted to lift my body over his, take him deep within. I wanted to ride him until we were both mindless and begging.

  But not yet.

  I inched downward and he let me go, hands sliding over my shoulders, up my neck, across my face. His fingers tangled in my hair as I took him in my mouth. He caressed my scalp with languid strokes, guiding, encouraging, urging me on.

  He lasted a good long while. His control was downright impressive. It became a battle of wills; who would surrender first, him or me? I didn’t plan to lose. I wouldn’t.

  My tongue did things I’d only imagined. I used my teeth where I’d never used them before. Still he didn’t come, didn’t speak, didn’t move anything but his fingers through my hair.

  I grasped him at the hilt, ran my thumb down his length, followed with my tongue, scraped him with my teeth, and his hand finally tightened.

  His face was set, his eyes brighter, lighter than I remembered. As I held his gaze, I licked him, once, twice, three times, swirling softly, then taking him all and suckling hard. He swelled and grew, so close to erupting. I rode him with my mouth, drawing him to the back of my throat, then nearly setting him free.

  “No,” he murmured, the rumble of his voice making my lips tingle, my ears buzz. “Please.”

  I lifted my head and he groaned. I blew on the chilly dampness left by my tongue, and his eyes fluttered closed.

  “Please what?”

  I closed my teeth over his tip, scored the skin just a little. His eyes shot open. I expected something gruff, perhaps crude. But had anything ever been as I expected with him?

  “Take me inside, cher. I want to feel your body all around me.”

  I frowned at the request, too personal, too revealing. I was tempted to finish him off despite any protest. He was too close; a few more strokes, and he’d be able to do nothing but come.

  Though oral sex could be more intimate than anything else, right now it wasn’t. There was a distance between us, a distance I wanted to keep. Why was he trying to breach it?

  His hand still tangled in my hair, his thumb stroked my cheek. My eyes burned, and my chest ached. This was so not a good idea.

  In spite of that, I was captured by his gaze, compelled by his voice, murmuring words in French that I didn’t understand. I did as he wanted, because I wanted it, too, surrounding him, taking him in.

  We moved together as if we’d done this a thousand times. The advance, the retreat, so new and yet so familiar, first filling me up, then nearly leaving me alone. The latter made me clutch him tight, hold him close, grasp him in the depths of myself, and consider never letting him go.

&n
bsp; “Look at me,” he ordered.

  I didn’t want to. If I didn’t see his face, he wasn’t a man, or a beast, he was a ride, albeit a damn good one.

  Disgusted with my thoughts, I again did as he asked, meeting his gaze, seeing myself. Who was that woman? Could she be me?

  “You don’t think of him when I’m inside you.”

  I said nothing, not even when he arched his back and touched me more deeply than ever before.

  “Say it,” he insisted. “Say it, or I won’t make you come.”

  Even if I could have spoken, I didn’t know what he wanted. He stopped moving—a little too late.

  The release began so small, so far away and yet so large, so near, I wasn’t sure if the spasms were him at first or me. Didn’t matter, because both of us were rocking together, coming apart.

  I collapsed on his chest; he ran his hand up my back. The world returned, and he was still inside me. I was draped all over him. Uncertain, almost childlike, he began to play with the fleur-de-lis chain at my waist.

  “What did you want me to say?” I asked.

  “My name.”

  I lifted my head, shifted my body, but kept our legs tangled together. “Why?”

  “You said ‘Simon’ the last time you were in my bed.”

  I flinched at the sound of my husband’s name while my body still tingled from another man. I didn’t want to talk about Simon. Not now, not ever, and definitely not here and not with him.

  “I was asleep. It isn’t as if I called you Simon while you were doing me.”

  This time he flinched, and I got worried. Was he expecting more than I could ever give? He didn’t seem the type. Then again, what type was he?

  “I’m sorry, Adam.” I rolled onto my back so we were no longer touching. “I wouldn’t like it if you said another woman’s name, either. Even though... “ I paused, uncertain what to say.

  “Even though there’s nothing between us but this?”

  I turned my head; our noses nearly brushed. “Yes.”

  For just an instant I wondered if it could be more. If I could love another man the way I’d loved Simon. If I could love this man.