by Marsh, Anne
“I’m a Viking. I take what I want.” His eyes narrowed. “Right now, that would be you.”
“You sailed here just to make that point?”
“I have plenty of points to make,” he growled. “I warned you what would happen if you lied to me again.”
He’d promised to heat her backside. Desire uncurled in her belly.
“You came here to fight with me?”
“Fight with you?” His slow smile. “Yes, that too.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I wanted to. Because I want you.”
How she wanted those words to be true. “Maybe I’m done wanting you. Move along, Viking.”
He just smiled, damn him. “You do.”
She pushed, because she knew precisely what he meant. “Prove it.”
“Come here.”
She went. It was stupid and foolish and yet felt so good. She wanted this man, this berserker. She should have kept a deck’s length and then some. Instead, she walked right up to him.
“Good girl.” He wrapped his fingers around hers, his hand swallowing up hers. God, the heat of him. The rough calluses on his palms were an erotic friction against her softer skin.
“You left before I could ask you to stay,” he said simply.
“You don’t do ask.” That man was all tell, tell, tell. They both knew that. That arrogance made him good in bed and devilishly charming. None of which explained why she’d let him pull her up against his chest.
“Like you don’t do tell?” He slanted her one of those looks. “You should have told me that you were a Valkyrie. You definitely should have mentioned your bargain with Odin. And then you let me take your virginity, knowing that meant you’d no longer be immortal.”
His voice rose on that last sentence. Interesting. “I didn’t want to be immortal anymore.” She shrugged. “Living forever had a price tag I didn’t want to pay. I wanted to be free.”
“I swore to keep you safe. Instead, I ruined your best shield.”
“Sleeping with you was my choice.” Her berserker was more handsome than ever before. He glared at her now, clearly not liking her words. He wanted to keep her safe, and that was a delicious first. “I’m hardly ruined.”
“Not for long.” His arms whipped out, pulling her back against his chest. His mouth brushed her ear.
###
His Pure was gods-damned beautiful thumbing her nose at him on the deck of her ship. Her white-blonde hair poured around her face and shoulders, unconfined. As free as she was now. Her eyes glared at him, daring him to do something.
He’d do something all right.
She’d challenged the wrong Viking.
She spoke the word ruin like it was something dirty. Yes, he’d enjoyed ruining her. Taking her virginity and being the first to taste her sweet pleasure. Perhaps that made him a bastard, but truth was truth.
“I’m not ruined,” she repeated stubbornly.
“No?” If she was pleased about their lovemaking, he had a chance. A chance to win her. To keep her.
“Absolutely not.” She tugged at his arm where it lay over her breast. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not alone.
“This Viking life of ours isn’t easy.” He slanted her a glance. “Truth is, I’ll always be a berserker. That’s who I am. What I am. But that doesn’t have to be all.”
“What else do you want to be?”
“What did you want when you struck your bargain with Odin?”
“To be free. To live. To go after my sister, Eira.”
“And when I struck my bargain with him, I wanted you.”
“You said no emotions,” she reminded him.
He pressed her body between his and the mast. “I did say that.”
“Are you recanting?” Her question was a breathy moan.
“I am.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he silenced her with a hard kiss. “I’ve come back for everything, Pure. I want all of you. Body, heart and soul.”
“I want to go after my sister,” she said. “I need to find Eira.”
“Whatever I can do,” he vowed. “You have my word. I’ll do it.”
“It may not be safe,” she said. “My sister fell into a dragon’s lair. Fire and brimstone, smoke and one hell of a mouthful of teeth—good times.”
“Anywhere,” he promised and kissed her again. “You come with me now, and I’ll go with you then. We’ll find her if she’s anywhere to be found. You’ll have your sister back.”
Var released the crew member he’d been hammering on and looked over. “I’ll go,” he offered.
She stared at him. “Why? This is not your fight. Not your sister.”
“I like fighting.” A feral grin split Var’s face. “And if your sister is at all like you, I’ll enjoy myself.”
An answering smile tugged at her lips as she canted her hips into Vikar’s. “You drive a hard bargain, Viking.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was easy.”
“Here’s a secret,” she whispered, tugging his head towards hers. “I’d have come with you without any promises at all.”
She dragged his head down into a fierce, raw kiss. Lips pressed to his, she stroked her tongue along the closed seam of his mouth before pushing ruthlessly in.
She drew back. “I want you.”
“Good.” He asked his question before he lost his courage. “Come a-Viking with me, baby?”
She thought for a moment. “I did choose you.”
“True.” Valkyries hand-picked warriors for Odin’s hall. The way he saw it, she’d chosen him for herself. “And I just won our sword fight.” He didn’t bother concealing the satisfaction filling his voice.
“You did not.”
“Did too,” he said amicably. “But we’ll argue that later.”
“Pirate,” she accused.
“Yes,” he agreed cheerfully. “Pirate. Brute. Barbarian. Take your pick. I’ve got treasure, baby.” His lips plundered her throat, her ear.
“Good,” she gasped. “But you’re the greatest treasure of them all.”
“Then I’ll be doing a little more taking here,” he growled. Moving quickly, he tossed her over his shoulder, still a Viking at heart. “Because I’m taking you with me, Pure.”
Twisting in his hold, she brought her face up and kissed him fiercely. “And I’m taking you for my own.”
“You,” he said, carrying her swiftly to his dragonship, “can try, baby. Try all you like.”
Keep reading for an excerpt from Tempted by the Pack, the first book in the Blue Moon Brides series.
Once in a blue moon…
For Rafer Breaux, life in the Louisiana Bayou is harsh, violent—and deeply sensual. The Cajun werewolf lives for his Pack and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep his brothers safe. The longer a wolf lives without a mate, the harder it becomes for that wolf to shift back. To remember that he is a man—and not a monster. And those mates can only be found during a blue moon. When a blue moon finally rises, Rafer will need every weapon in his sensual arsenal to tempt one special woman into his arms and the heart of the Pack.
The Pack hunts for mates
Fighting to keep her family farm, Lark Andrews isn’t looking for love. Even if the very sexy Breaux brothers make her dream of hot bayou nights spent in their arms. When the blue moon leads Rafer to her door, however, Rafer has her rethinking her position on all work and no play. Now, the bayou nights are heating up as Rafer fights to convince her, one sensual touch at a time, to give love and passion a chance. But Rafer isn’t a one wolf deal. Is there room in Lark’s heart—and bed—for Rafer and his Pack?
Tempted by the Pack – Excerpt
The man tying up at Lark’s dock was gorgeous. Broad-shouldered, Cajun and dark, he was a giant of a man. God, that was a Breaux for you. There was no missing the impressive erection he sported, either. Apparently she had the same effect on him he had on her. Wet heat blossomed between her legs. His eyes were fierce, an ice gr
ey that melted as he examined her face. For a fleeting moment, he’d looked like a cold-blooded killer and a predator. Now he just looked hungry.
For her.
He wore a pair of faded jeans, but otherwise he was barefoot and bare-chested. He made absolutely no pretense at being civilized, and yet she couldn’t help herself. She breathed in the clean, male scent of him and wanted him on sight. He stood motionless at the end of her dock, where he had tied up his boat, frozen in an almost predatory stillness. As if he wouldn't move until she gave some unspoken signal.
As if he believed she might be afraid of him.
The only thing she feared for right now was her virtue.
His bare chest had her heating right up, and when she dropped her gaze to the denim-covered thighs, she almost went up in flames. Dear God. They grew them hot in the bayou. The sweet flush of arousal sweeping through her was better than any date she’d had with her vibrator.
A slow, masculine smile tugged at his lips, and he strolled towards her, six-plus feet of rugged Cajun man. Her mind promptly took a detour into fantasy land.
And yet he seemed more familiar than her few long-distance glimpses of his family warranted. “Have we met?” she asked.
“Not yet.” That honeyed accent made listening to him pure pleasure.
“Lark Andrew,” she said, holding out a hand. He wrapped her fingers in his, turning her palm up and stroking the lines there with his thumb.
“Rafer Breaux.” His fingers tightened briefly on hers.
“You come in from the bayou?” Sidetracked by her libido, her brain produced an inanity to help the conversation along. He didn’t look like he minded much, though.
“Sure did.” His caramel drawl was sinful. “Do a little fishin’. A little huntin’.” He watched her, clearly waiting for her to say something.
“What can I do for you today?” She took a step backward. Heat blasted off him. She turned and headed back up the dock, knowing instinctively that he’d follow. Sure enough, he was close on her heels.
“I wan’—” His voice was hoarse, deep. Sexy as hell. Like he didn’t speak often and made it count when he did. “Flowers,” he finished, and for a moment she wondered if he’d intended to substitute another word. Another desire.
And damned if that didn’t make her wetter.
The walk to the greenhouse was too short. Her thighs clenched with need, her pussy drenched because he was right behind her. She had the strangest sensation of being stalked by a wild animal, but she didn’t feel threatened. The warm flush of desire was so unlike her. She wanted to wrestle him to the ground, mark him and claim him as hers.
He didn’t speak again until they reached the first greenhouse. “You alone here?”
She waved a hand at the other people working in the yard and fields. “Does it look like I’m alone?”
“Family.” His hand shot out over her head, pushing open the door for her. She had to duck under that hard arm. “I’d heard Miss Dixie passed on.”
The pain was still there, a softer stab now rather than a bright, hard hurt. She missed her grandmother. “You really don’t get out of the bayou much, do you?”
He followed her down the greenhouse’s narrow aisle, and she should have been nervous, but wasn’t. He was large and too close, a predator on her heels. And that was ridiculous. He was just a man. An almost-neighbor who simply lived deeper inside the bayou than she did.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’ leave the bayou much anymore.”
And yet he’d come to her for flowers. She stopped by a wooden table loaded with fragrant sweet pea. “What’s the occasion?”
He looked at her but didn’t answer. Maybe it was one of those bayou things. She probably didn’t need to know, but, damn it, he intrigued her. She wanted to learn more about her bayou man.
“What do you need the flowers for?” she asked again, finding the dark flush of color on his face strangely endearing. “An evening out?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he agreed.
He struck her as a man who knew precisely what he wanted, but maybe flowers weren’t his thing. Choosing for him wouldn’t be a problem. She reached for the scissors.
“You’re going to get grower’s choice.”
That slow smile was back in his eyes. “You can always choose for me, chère.” He propped a hip against her worktable and watched her cut, his eyes following her hands.
She cut slowly, selecting her favorites. “This one has a pretty scent,” she suggested, handing him a slim spray of flowers. He took the stem from her, his fingers touching hers. Deliberately. The soft-rough brush of his calloused skin against hers kicked the heat in her belly—and lower—up a notch. She’d have to change her panties after he left. His eyes flared as if he knew. Which was impossible.
“This one’s sweet,” he agreed, leaning forward and tucking the stem into the bouquet she was building. The sexy look of concentration on his face as he maneuvered the flower into place, big fingers stroking down the petals, almost overruled her sensible side. She didn’t know him. If Rafer Breaux rarely left the bayou, well, she never went in the bayou.
He pulled his hands away, but not before she got a good look at the nicks and scars carving up his fingers. Knives, fishing lines… She didn’t know what would mark a man so deeply, but his hands were strong and capable, a road map of doing what had to be done. Some primitive part of her responded to the way he wore his scars like a badge of honor. He was strong.
She reached for a sheet of lacy paper, rolling the flowers up into a neat cone. They were almost done here. He’d leave, get back in his boat and return to the bayou. And yet, for some reason, she wanted to prolong the moment. Keep him with her.
He turned away, examining another table loaded with lilies. The stargazers filled the greenhouse with their lush, exotic scent.
“These,” he said, reaching out.
“Don’t touch.”
Too late. He jerked back, head swinging around to hers, frozen with his fingers brushing the stamen. Like he’d done something far worse than touch a flower.
“No touching.” His deep voice was more growl than anything. “You got it, chère.”
“They stain,” she explained awkwardly. Grabbing a damp cloth from the table, she took his hand in hers before she could think too much, swiping carefully at the pollen. His hand was warm and firm, deliberately relaxed in hers. Despite her best efforts, the stamen left a dark orange-red streak on the masculine hand cradled in hers. Curious, she ran a finger over his palm. Blinked. She'd thought she’d seen something. A strange shimmer and a hint of fur.
“I need to tell you something.” He paused, his gaze pinning hers. She let go of his hand and retreated backwards a step. “I need you to listen to me, chère.”
“Okay.” She cut stargazers, giving the pollen-heavy stamens a hit of hairspray to hold the pollen in before adding the fragrant buds to Rafer’s bouquet. When his hand on her arm gently turned her to face him, the greenhouse felt too small. She felt too feminine. And yet she could see the farm's other workers through the glass walls, so everything had to be okay. She didn’t feel threatened. He was big and dominant, but he was being deliberately careful. “You changed your mind about the flowers?” she asked lightly.
“No.” An indecipherable look flashed over his face. “Your nannan ever talk to you about the families living out in the bayou?”
She’d lived almost a lifetime here on the bayou. The Breaux brothers weren’t entirely unfamiliar, although she’d never had more than a passing glimpse of one brother or another before they’d been gone. Spotting them had been like spotting a wild animal. A quick flash that had her doubting her eyes and then nothing, the men blending seamlessly into their bayou surroundings and disappearing. She didn’t even know how old they were. They were fine-looking men, and at least one of them had to be her age, but she’d met none of them in school. Some of those old bayou families didn’t bother with a formal education, so she’d thought not
hing about it. She hadn’t met them in town or at the market either. The Breaux brothers were a mystery. Six feet of tall, dark mystery.
“Sure she talked.” She stared at the lacy scrap of ribbon she’d tied around the paper-wrapped bouquet. That stab of pain was back. Her grandmother wouldn’t be telling any more stories.
“She tell you about my brothers and me?”
“She mentioned you Breauxs.” A smile spread across her face. “Once or twice.”
He nodded. “She warned you about us. That’s a good thing there.”
She shrugged, testing the string. She didn’t want his flowers to blow apart on that boat of his. God knew how far into the swamp he lived. “Not really. Just said you and your brothers were trouble, and I should run like crazy if you ever came knocking on my door.”
“Run.” He shook his head. “That’s the last thing you should do, chère. Don’ run unless you mean it.”
He stepped forward, trapping her between him and the worktable.
“Are you planning on hunting me down?” she said the words lightly, but the sensual tension in the room ratcheted up. He suddenly seemed larger. More feral.
“Of course,” he said. She looked for the laughter in his eyes, but there was none. She could almost swear he was serious. “We like to hunt, and we do everythin’ together.”
A zing of heat hit her at his words. He couldn’t possibly mean everything.
“You know about the blue moon?” he asked.
“I’ve heard of it.” She’d heard stories, warnings. Her mother didn’t want her anywhere near the bayou. Those stories couldn’t be true—and yet nothing seemed impossible anymore. The bayou was a place for dark magic. She fingered the gris-gris Mama Jolie had given her.
“Wolves go out huntin’ during the blue moon.” He watched her intently, his face turned towards hers.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with me.” She wondered if he could smell the lie. His big body didn’t move.
“If you say so, chère.” He reached down beside her, picking up the paper cone of flowers. “What do I owe you?”
