A quick look around showed a stack of fluffy white wash-cloths sitting on a shelf beside the shower. Flicking on the hot water, Brody let it run in one of the sinks, while he grabbed a washcloth, watching her from the corner of his eye. She sat silent and still, returning his heavy gaze, her expression calm…but in no way serene. No, there was a flush on the delicate crest of her cheekbones, a heaviness in her eyes, a glittering fire burning within that deep cerulean blue that revealed her own emotional struggle.
She watched him hold the cloth under the hot water, steam rising in a slow, sensual swirl from the porcelain sink, adding to the breathless sense of intimacy wrapping around them. He wanted her to tell him to get lost, scram, that she could take care of herself, offering him the perfect avenue of escape. But when he wrung out the cloth and lifted it to the corner of her mouth where her lip had broken open, her fair skin smeared with blood, she grabbed his wrist, saying, “It’s okay, Brody, I can do it,” he shook his head, wordlessly demanding her submission. Her breath hitched and she sighed, letting go, and he dabbed at the crimson streaks of blood as gently as possible, hating that she’d been hurt—that the bastard had touched her.
“You’re shaking again,” she whispered huskily, staring at his chest, and he realized it was true. His muscles were rigid with tension, body tremoring with the effort of keeping himself from taking the thing he wanted most, the only steady part of his body the hand that held the cloth, afraid that he’d hurt her.
“Tell me to leave,” he groaned, his voice nothing more than a low, tortured snarl of emotion. “Tell me to leave you the hell alone, Doucet.”
She shook her head no and big blue eyes as rich and clear as a summer sky flicked up to his face, captured by the blistering heat of his stare. Brody watched, the roaring in his ears growing louder, thicker, as she pulled her lower lip through her white teeth, that peaches-and-cream scent growing stronger, heavier, richer, pulsing off her body in dizzying, head spinning waves, until he felt drunk on the lust pouring thickly through his system.
“I don’t want you to leave.” Reaching up, she cupped the feverish heat of his cheek in her cool palm, stroking one of the scarred ridges that slashed his face with the baby-soft pad of her thumb. “Thank you, Brody.”
“For what?” he grunted, undone by the touch of her hand against his skin.
A shy smile played across her beautiful, battered mouth. “For being here, for taking care of me.”
The cloth slipped from his grasp, falling to the floor with a wet slap of sound, and he curled his hands over her shoulders, the soft cotton of her dress cool beneath the heat of his hands as he fought to keep his grip from crushing her. His chest heaved, but he couldn’t calm his erratic breathing. In that moment, it became frighteningly clear that controlling the violent burn of carnal hunger in his gut was even harder than mastering the fury of his beast.
“Christ,” he growled, the word nothing more than a graveled scrape of sound, ripped out of his throat. He was painfully aware that his muscles were shaking with the savage need to touch her, everywhere. To press his mouth to her skin, in the damp, intimate places where that heady scent would be the strongest. To get inside her, and claim her for his own. But he had to fight it, fight himself, terrified of admitting the truth his heart kept screaming at him. “Don’t do this, Doucet.”
“Don’t do what?” she asked, her mouth trembling with emotion as she stared up at him through her lashes.
“Tell me to leave. Now. Trust me, you don’t want to go where this is going to lead.”
“Brody,” she whispered, her hand slipping from his cheek, trailing down the column of his throat, until she placed her palm against the raging beat of his heart.
“Damn it, this can’t happen,” he groaned, even as his hands slipped down her arms, wrapping around her biceps; at the same time, he stepped closer. Her knees spread in supplication, welcoming him into her personal, private space, like a siren opening her body to her lover.
Staring into his eyes, she held him trapped with the sheer force of her will, the quiet intensity of her need. “It can,” she said huskily, blinking as a luminous wash of tears clung to her long, thick lashes. “It can if we both want it to. Is that what you want, Brody? Don’t you want to touch me?”
Chapter 7
Michaela was stunned by her own boldness, but she refused to take back the shocking words. Brody’s eyes burned with anger, lust and something that was seething just beneath the surface. Something she couldn’t see, could only feel, the way you could watch the surface of a calm sea and know that something violent lurked just beneath the serene, glasslike plane of water. But it didn’t scare her. Instead, she wanted to reach out for it, grab it and rip it to the surface, take the wildness of it into her hands and hold it, throw her arms around it and cover herself with it.
She wanted him to lose control, to give her everything. All of him.
“Don’t I want to touch you?” he snarled in a low, guttural rasp, so close that she could feel the heat of his breath, see the tiny flecks of gold that glittered in the deep green of his eyes. “If you had any idea of what I want from you, woman, you’d run screaming, while you were still able to, and get as far away from me as you could.”
“I don’t want to run away from you. I should,” she admitted, the throaty words almost solemn. “You have the power to break me, Brody. A part of me that’s more fragile than my body or my pride, and even though that terrifies me, I still want you. I want to get closer to you than I’ve ever been to anyone. I want to pull you inside of me. I want to wrap your body around me. Keep you. Feel you. Taste you.”
“Christ, you evil little witch,” he growled, his control snapping so sharply she could have sworn she could hear the sibilant hiss as it shattered, and then he was there, crowding into her, the touch of his warm mouth electric against the coolness of her own, and it took her breath, stealing it straight from her panting lungs. He kissed like something that was feral and wild—as if he could taste every part of her through her mouth, pulling every breathtaking sensation up from the depths of her soul until he could feast on them with his lips and tongue and teeth.
“Your mouth,” he rasped. “Am I hurting your lip?”
“No. God no,” she moaned, unable to get enough of him.
He growled low in his throat and kissed her harder then. And he was touching her, too, those big, beautiful, scarred hands clutching at the shivery sides of her throat, thumbs pressed just beneath her quivering chin, his mouth slanting across hers, taking instant possession, demanding her submission. She gave it freely, knowing that she’d goaded him into this. A part of her stood back in fascinated amazement at her boldness; it was so unlike her. So not her. But this hunger, this maddening craving for him, had driven her to this place, and she had no intention of balking now. No, she was going to enjoy every sweet, deliciously intense detail. She was going to wallow in them, steep herself in the erotic textures and flavors of him, so rugged and male and perfect. Salty and dark, his scent and taste overwhelmed her, everything inside going hot and soft, melting for him. She ached, from deep inside all the way to the surface of her skin, her desire making her crazed for his touch, his taste.
“Brody,” she gasped, tunneling her fingers into the warm, silken strands of his auburn hair and clutching him to her. Lifting her legs, Michaela wrapped them around his hips, tilting her pelvis forward until she could feel the thick, heavy ridge inside his jeans pressing against that needy, empty part of her. “God, Brody, touch me more,” she pleaded. “Everywhere. Please.”
* * *
As if commanded by her breathless plea, his hands lowered, slipping across her collarbone, over her chest, until the lush weight of her breasts was filling his hands, her nipples like hardened berries beneath his thumbs as he stroked them. They both gasped, breaths soughing together, and Brody slid one hand under the neckline of her dress, wrenching until the fabric tore with a sharp slice of sound. His fingers ruthlessly burrowed beneath the del
icate lace of her bra, and he cupped her naked breast in the rough heat of his palm, rubbing, molding, massaging her, while the other hand ran down her back, curving around that sweet ass. He jerked her forward, to the very edge of the counter, fitting his jeans-covered cock into that sweet, warm notch between her legs.
“Pull your dress out of the way,” he growled, his voice savage and dark, full of predatory demand.
She clutched handfuls of the fabric and wrenched it to the side, her mouth moving under his while he pressed forward, only his jeans and the delicate lace of her panties separating him from that soft, wet flesh, its succulent scent filling his nose, his head, hunger like a stabbing pain inside him, raw and insistent.
Now that he had her in his arms, under his hands, Brody couldn’t get enough. She tasted like something he needed to live, now that he’d found it. Tasted like warm sunshine, hot and honeyed and sweetly addictive. He could taste the blood from her lip, its sumptuous flavor only adding to the perfection of her mouth, providing a deeper, headier, intoxicating layer of spice. The details crashed down on him, through him, obliterating the reason of the man, until there was nothing but this burning need to consume her. The pansy softness of her inner lip, the sleek well of warmth within, her kittenish tongue that played with his, as if she were as greedy for the taste of his mouth as he was for hers. The berrylike tip of her nipple stabbing into his palm, so full and tempting, the warm heat of her sex melting against the fly of his jeans.
He’d never had a woman give him back so much. Normally, he could always sense a part of them that they held in reserve, in fear, ready to retreat should he lose control. But not Michaela. There was no hesitation, no questioning. She kissed him back with an avidity that stole his breath; slender, feminine hands clutching at him as if she could draw him into her body. Low, provocative little sounds broke from her mouth into his, making his blood roar, his wolf maddened with the need to mount and claim. Their mouths moved against one another, first from one angle, then another, deep, gasping breaths stolen before they came together in another clutching, groaning need for more. His hands roamed wildly, down the line of her spine, her shoulders, ribs, the lush side swells of her breasts, shaking from the need to rip her clothes from her body and bare her to his gaze, to his touch. He wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees and press his face into that moist, precious, intimate part of her, taking her with his tongue, lashing and thrusting until she gave him everything he wanted, tasting every part of her.
The only thing that held him back was fear. Terror, actually. Because he knew what would happen when he finally lost that last tenuous hold on his control.
But she wouldn’t let him retreat, goddamn it. She just kept pushing him with the hungry kiss of her mouth, the provocative touch of her hands on his back, lower, stroking herself against the granite-hard ridge of his cock, until he could feel the slickness of her flesh sliding against the rough denim of his jeans.
“More,” she moaned, breathless, biting at his lower lip with her small, white teeth, and he lost it. His restraint broke, and he knew he was going to have her. How could he fight it? The truth was blatantly clear, stunning him with the force of a blow, refusing to be denied. Chanting a low, coarse stream of swearwords into her mouth, he pressed his hand between her legs and ripped out the damp gusset of her panties, the tender, delicate feel of her sex beneath his fingertips so good that he wanted to howl. She was hot, wet, the softest, sweetest thing he’d ever felt, and he immediately buried two thick fingers deep inside of her, his thumb brushing against the swollen heat of her clit.
She cried out, and he pressed deeper, sinking all the way up to his knuckles. Her sex was small, delicate and tight, and his fingers were big. Brody knew the penetration had been too much, too soon, but she didn’t push him away. Her hands clutched at him as eagerly as her body, those strong inner muscles pulsing around his fingers, bathing him in liquid fire. Her heartbeat surrounded him, and as he stroked her with his thumb, he curled his fingers forward, stroking her deep inside, as well. She stiffened in his arms for a tight, breathless moment, then melted against him, shivering…whimpering with pleasure against his mouth as the sensations inside her swelled. He swallowed every sound, their breaths tangled, gasping and rough, as if they were in pain. But it was a good kind of agony, the kind that held that breathtaking promise of a shattering, engulfing ecstasy at the end that would swallow them whole, leaving them different…changed…renewed when the crashing wave of sensation slowly receded back inside of them.
He wanted more. All of her. Everything he could take.
“Doucet,” he groaned, rubbing her name into her lips, and she arched against him, pulsing hard and deep around his fingers, killing him with her passion. “I want you to come in my hand, baby. All hot and slick and wet. I want it right now.”
* * *
“Brody,” Michaela said thickly, crazed with the need to feel his body, hot and hard beneath her hands. Somehow, she managed to claw his shirt up over his head without breaking their kiss for more than a moment, and tossed it to the floor. Then she moaned deep in her throat, running her hands over the bounty of masculine power she’d uncovered. His broad, beautiful chest, with its ruggedly defined muscles and small brown nipples nestled within dark hair, fascinated her, as did the veins wrapping the muscles in his powerful arms. She ran her fingers over the fever-hot skin of his strong shoulders, trailing them down the sleek muscles running the length of his spine, her breath hitching as she felt the ridged scars she knew were from the punishment he’d received for trying to save his mother. They were deeper, thicker than the ones on his face, and her heart broke for all that he’d suffered when so little, while his hunger as a man blew her mind.
The touch of his hands on her skin, the taste of his mouth, were unlike anything she’d ever known before. Dark, intense, primitive and rough. He didn’t touch her because he wanted to seduce her—he touched her, tasted her, as if he had to. As if he craved her. Was starved for her. Sensations built like the sensual strains of a symphony, growing layer upon layer, until they roared through her head, through her system. She was lost in them as her need rose higher, hotter, heavier, her senses screaming for more intimate contact. She was crazed, wanting to touch him, have him, everywhere at once. All of him. The velvety dark heat of his mouth, salty and sweet, flavored with hot coffee and hungry male. The silken skin stretched taut over mouthwatering muscles, so hard and lean and powerful, honed to battle perfection, like a weapon.
And those wicked, wonderful fingers that were quickly unraveling her into a shivering, sobbing mess as he gently pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger of one hand, the other buried possessively between her thighs. She could feel it building, the sensations inside of her too overwhelming to contain, to hold on to, even though she wanted to clutch at them and savor them, never wanting to let them go. But he was ruthless in his insistence, demanding her pleasure, knowing just where to touch her, how deep to stroke…to thrust, and how fast, devastating her with his knowledge of her body, as if he knew just how to make her burn. And he did. She felt blinded by the intensity and shocking rush of swelling ecstasy that he ripped up from the buried depths of her soul, hidden so deep she hadn’t even known they were there. But she was eating her way into his mouth, clawing at his shoulders, anything to get closer, to have more of him, and then it slammed into her, knocking her breath from her lungs in a loud, keening cry. Michaela flung her head back, the dark, decadent waves of pleasure pumping through her, pulsing in her sex, her earlobes, her fingers and toes, eyelids and throat. She felt his mouth press against the rapid flutter of her jugular, felt the erotic slide of his fangs as he stroked them across her vulnerable flesh, and in that moment, she knew he was going to do it.
He was going to bite her.
The knowledge cranked up the stunning force of her orgasm, and she cried out, fisting her hands in his hair, pressing his face to her throat, wanting it, willing to beg for it if she could find enough air in h
er lungs for speech. Star-studded crystals of infinite night stuttered against her eyelids, her skin tingly and hot and damp…muscles shaking, strained, and then she went under.
She was distantly aware of Brody cursing, tensing against her body, ripping his hands from her flesh, his mouth from her throat, as he tried to pull away from her, but she held on, unable to release him. She was falling…into his mind, into him. Scared, she struggled against it, but she just kept sinking, her power flung wide, her body in a total weightless free fall, until she found a part of her landing in the midst of a midnight forest, while the other half remained trapped in the present, sitting on her bathroom counter.
In a foglike trance, she could see both scenes, the present and the past, as if watching two movie screens layered on top of one another. Michaela knew she should have been terrified, but her reserves of fear and terror were drained by the distant scene of horror playing out before her eyes.
In the present, her arms closed around him, hands trailing over the scars crisscrossing his strong back, while in her mind, she could see the blood spilling down his young body as she watched him on his hands and knees, surrounded by the savage sight of bloodthirsty werewolves, their deadly claws dripping with the blood they’d already drawn from his slim back. A full moon hung low in the sky, his choked sobs filling her head as he buried his face in his small arms, until a dark gray wolf reached down and jerked him to his feet by his hair. Her screams blended with the outraged shouts of a Lycan male she could only assume was Brody’s father. Crying out in terror, Michaela watched the gray wolf deliver the final blow that came to the child’s face, nearly taking out his eye. Then he’d been thrown onto the ground, unconscious, left there as the pack stalked into the surrounding forest, and it’d taken four of them to drag Brody’s father away from his son. His memories whispered their secrets to her, and she knew that Brody had stayed there on the bloody forest floor until his grandmother had been allowed to come to collect him, but by then it had been morning. He’d been so cold through the night, so alone…so in pain.
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