by Anne Marsh
“What?” I ask. I’m not entirely sure where I want to put my hands. On his chest, his hips? I could pull him to me—or push him away. I bite my lower lip, and his eyes follow the small tell.
He leans closer. “You like bein’ told what to do in bed.”
“I—” I open my mouth to say something. To rebut like I’ve done a thousand times in court. I’m a successful career woman. I don’t need or want a man to run my life. But—he’s not suggesting that, is he?
He presses a finger against my lips, and I battle the urge to lick him. I’m not sure where the lawyer went, but she’s decamped.
“Nuh-uh. Not because you need me to tell you what to do and not because I’m better at it than you.”
Okay. So that does it. I nip his finger, hard, and he growls.
“You like takin’ orders in bed. Because it’s a game and it’s fun and you find it sexy as hell. There’s not a thing wrong with that, boo.”
Okay. Good to know. Not that I need him to tell me how I feel about sex or to validate my sexual choices. That’s all on me.
“You like it,” he repeats. He doesn’t even bother making his words a question. He knows. I know. When he presses his thigh up, I shift instinctively to deepen the pressure, and the sweet ache in my pussy says he’s wonderfully, horribly right.
“Maybe.” That’s as close as I’m coming to an admission.
His eyes hold mine. “When I come back, we’re turnin’ that maybe into a yes.”
My pussy gives a greedy, answering pulse. Because he’s so, so right. He has me pinned up against the wall, spread. Wet. Helpless. And oh God, I love it, because it’s a game we play and the rules are all about my pleasure.
“While I’m gone, you’re goin’ to do something for me.”
Why does he always want to talk? Unless he’s taking sensual orders—in which case I have a whole new kind of honey-do list for him—I’m so done with talking. More doing. That’s what I need right now. He cups my butt with his hand, a step in the right direction in my opinion because the move has me hanging on to his shoulders as if he’s my lifeline. His fingers are almost where I need him. Almost, but not quite.
I barely prevent a groan from slipping out. “Why?”
He nips my lower lip. He’s still in no rush, damn him. “The correct answer is what?”
His wicked fingers move over the curve of my butt, easing closer to the hot place between my legs. The thin fabric of my borrowed T-shirt is no obstacle. One sharp, upward tug and he has my ass pinned against the cool wall and the searing heat of his palm. He squeezes.
Liquid heat streaks through me.
“Say it for me.”
His fingertips stroke higher. Hello.
“What am I doing?” Rational conversation? So not happening. A gush of warmth pools between my legs. The moisture should be embarrassing, but his touch feels so good.
He winks at me. “You’re goin’ upstairs and getting’ in my bed.”
He skims his fingertip over the edge of my folds.
“Okay.” Bed sounds like an excellent compromise. I come. He comes. A perfect plan, in fact, and one I can definitely work with.
“And then you’re goin’ to pleasure yourself.”
Is he kidding? He walks out the door and goes off to play good cop—and I go upstairs, hop into bed, and masturbate at his command? For hours on end until he returns?
“I’m waitin’ for my answer, boo,” he says in that rough-sweet voice that gets me going. He may be a nice guy, but he’s also an Alpha. He’s entirely focused on the hand he moves lower until he’s barely touching me where I’m soaking wet. “See? You wan’ to say yes.”
Well, yeah. But… I want that yes to count for now and not when he comes home.
“Gianna.” He sounds stern. Certain. “I’m not askin’. I’m tellin’.”
He curls his fingers into me, and this time, the groan escapes me. When his mouth brushes my ear, I hitch in a breath.
“What are we doing?” I have ideas. All sorts of ideas. But Cruz also seems to have ideas—and a timeline—of his own.
“You wan’ to play games. I’m goin’ to play with you. Seven nights of me givin’ you pleasure. You takin’ it,” he says roughly. His fingers push deeper, separating me.
Yes. Please.
“You just got to tell me this one thing. That you’re goin’ to do what you’re told. There are rewards.”
Sex isn’t a loyalty program or a frequent-flier club. Although maybe it could be. I wouldn’t mind having Cruz every day for, say, the rest of my life.
His finger presses, finding a spot that sends pleasure streaking through me.
“And there are consequences.” He lands a small, stinging smack on my pussy, and I shriek his name. The tiny slap feels all wrong and seductively good at the same time. Heated awareness radiates out from where he’s touched me, and God, if he did it again I could see if it felt that impossibly good a second time.
“Last chance,” he whispers roughly.
Or what? I have no idea what we’re talking about anymore.
“Yes. Please.”
His chuckle is rueful. “I don’ know if you’re promisin’ to behave while I’m gone—or not. You’re trouble, boo.”
He doesn’t sound as if he minds. Funny. I’ve never been one to cause trouble. I’m really, really good at following the rules. And Cruz excels at laying down the law. We’d be some kind of match made in heaven if I didn’t have an issue with take-charge men.
“Give me the words.” He rubs his thumb over my clit, as if he has to prove his point that he’s in charge here. I could pull away, but the simple touch feels so good and he’s leaving anyhow.
“I’ll touch myself while you’re gone.” The words tumble out quickly, because otherwise I won’t get them out at all. “Now give me my reward.”
If we’re playing games, I intend to win.
He knows right where to touch, how deep, his thumb slicking over my clit and pulling a quick, hard orgasm from me that leaves me trembling and weak-kneed. I bite my lip, holding back the affectionate, possessive words that come out of nowhere and threaten to spill out between us. This is sex. This is good. But giving him an open window into my feelings would be a huge mistake.
He rests his forehead against mine, jaw tight, as he holds me. When I curl my fingers into his shirt, I can feel the tension in his body and the rapid thump of his heart. The staccato rhythm and the iron-hard ridge in his jeans are all the proof I need that he wants me.
God, it isn’t fair he’s so gorgeous. “You still have to go?”
He sighs. “You got to know that the last thing I wan’ to do right now is leave.”
“Good.” Being alone in this crazy need I have for Cruz would be a nightmare.
He gives me a tight smile, but he doesn’t move. “You’re a vindictive little thing.”
“Everything we do has consequences.” I let go of his shirt.
“Oui.” His smoky Cajun accent makes me think of bedrooms and all the decadent things we could be doing together, but he straightens, letting go of me. I feel a little pang at the loss of body contact. He’s gone and he hasn’t stepped foot out the door yet, but he’s already focused on his job. I’ve seen that look on his face in the courtroom, the one that says he’ll do whatever needs doing because it’s his job and his responsibility.
“Lock the door behind me,” he says gruffly. “You can’ be too careful.”
I walk him to the front door, all fifteen feet, enjoying the way my hip bumps against his. He brushes a kiss over my mouth.
“I’m goin’ to check when I come home, make sure you’ve done what you were told to do.”
Alpha male.
Time for him to learn a lesson too. Cupping him through his jeans, I glance up at him and smile. “Just so you know, there’s only one way to check that I’m going to be okay with.”
“Duly noted.” A grin and a wink and then he disappears down the porch and into the garden. I gla
nce around, but don’t spot my new guards. Doesn’t mean they’re not there, though—just that they’re out of sight.
Growing up, my life was grittier than any reality show. The trailer park wasn’t all that big, the single-wides mere yards apart in some cases. The trailers were nothing fancy—no cedar siding or the kind of shit featured in Sunset magazine—just flat roofs, vinyl siding, and too little insulation that meant that relationship ups and downs played out for the whole neighborhood to hear. Over the years, I’d heard plenty. People hollering their hearts out and demanding more—and people trying to put the brakes on what was happening in their bedrooms. Or their bathrooms, living rooms, or kitchen floors. Living and breathing for your lover’s touch is a recipe for disaster. There’s so much more to life than sex, but it consumes me right now. I have six more nights before I return to the law office and there’s no way I can fit two rough Alphas into that life. And yet…
I want to try. I can’t spend my life alternating weeks between my guys.
I lock the door and head up the stairs. The entire top floor of the guesthouse forms a single room with sloping ceilings and plenty of windows. The big iron bed frame waits beneath the window. I climb in and reach up, opening the window to let the early morning air in.
Someone planted a moon garden years ago, and the creamy white flowers release their scent into the not-quite-light garden. When I look out, I spot white-flowering tobacco, dahlias, and clematis. How long has Cruz’s family lived here? And do the residents of Port Leon know they have not one, but two, wolf packs living with them?
With its deep roots and sense of history, Cruz’s home is night-and-day different from Luc’s camp hidden deep in the bayou. It’s a stay-put, solid kind of place. Like the man himself.
Because I’m alone, I grab his pillow and inhale his scent. I’m going to play the game with him. I’ll whack off in his bed and tell him all about it later. Just to enjoy the way his eyes darken and his breathing gets rougher when he’s turned on. Just because I can, and our relationship installment plan only comes with seven nights, so every one of them needs to count.
GIANNA
Over the next couple of days, Cruz continues to work the MC case off and on. From what he shares when he comes home, his team is closer than ever to arresting the leaders of the Breed MC. My week with him has gone well. I keep telling myself that. Cruz takes me upstairs—and in the kitchen, on the floor, pretty much anywhere the two of us end up tangled together—and the sex is amazing. Some of the hottest I’ve ever had, truth be told, and Luc had already expanded my horizons plenty in our time together.
The more I get to know Cruz, the more I like him. More than like him. He intrigues me even as he kind of scares the fuck out of me. He won’t let me hide from the truth of what happened that night we almost took down the Breed MC.
And the truth is that he and Luc staked me out as bait for wolves. Sure, I let them do it. That option had the highest chance of succeeding. We needed to get the biker club on record committing various felonies that included kidnapping, assault, and weapons trafficking. I wanted them to pay—needed them to pay—and I’d gotten my wish.
Cruz’s guys had arrested a half dozen males, and the District Attorney had charged them with eighty-six felony counts. It should have been a recipe for happily ever after, except Luc had apparently planned on skipping the arrest portion of the night in favor of the punish agenda. Do not pass Go, do not collect one hundred dollars. Cruz’s way of solving our MC problem is the way I’d do things.
So we’d been skirting around our differences there, and then I’d gotten cold feet and put our relationship on ice until the court date and Cruz’s insistence on being the one to watch over me while I was in protective custody. For a month, I’d avoided Cruz—and I’d avoided Luc.
I miss the hell out of Luc.
I’ve spent way too much time imagining what he’s doing while I’m not there with him. It’s not that I think he’d find himself a replacement for me—after meeting his brothers and their girlfriends, I believe that he believes one hundred and ten percent in his family’s fated-mate-blue-moon-bride legend. But what if he’s sick and tired of my making him wait? It’s not as if he’s the kind of guy who takes orders anyhow—so why isn’t he chasing me? Why is he suddenly hands-off and willing to leave me in Cruz’s arms?
Not that I need his permission or that it’s a question of let. Shoot. Even in my head, I’m not entirely sure I mind his take-charge attitude, and that’s something I need to change ASAP.
So calling Luc is stupid. Plus it’s not as if he’s easy to reach. I know the man has a cell phone—I programmed my number in it myself—but he’s not so big on answering. To my surprise though, he picks up on the second ring.
“Shug,” he says, his voice low and rough.
And just like that I melt. Being here without him—that isn’t what I’d choose.
“I miss you.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can bite them back. I don’t know why voicing my feelings out loud makes me feel anxious and like crap, but it’s the truth. “Come out here.”
There’s a pause he doesn’t rush to fill up with words, and I have a good idea why. It’s not my place to invite him to Cruz’s home. I’m no werewolf expert, but some rules are entirely too clear. Cruz’s pack and Luc’s pack do not mix. Ever. They respect each other from a distance while carving up the parish into territories. On the other hand, I’ve seen wolves from both packs mingle at Dag Breaux and Riley Jones’s wedding. Fur didn’t fly that day, and no blood was spilled as far as I know.
“That’s not something I should do.” His whiskey-rough voice carries down the line. He’s not one for cell phones and phone calls, but he’s made an exception for me. “Port Leon is Cruz’s territory.”
Five words, but Luc might as well be speaking Greek.
“This is a free country,” I argue.
“For humans,” Luc agrees, and I can hear the smile in his voice. It pisses me off, his insistence that there are two sets of rules, one for humans and one for wolves.
“The U.S. Supreme Court disagrees with you there. Cruz can’t own Port Leon. He can’t stop you from setting foot in town.” Any more than you can reserve the bayou as your own private playground.
Luc’s shrug is practically audible. He has no intention of arguing with me about this. “Life’s not fair, shug. You got to know that by now.”
Fact-finding, I remind myself. Figure out what I’m working with here. After all, Luc drove out to Cruz’s place the day I arrived and the world didn’t come to an end. “Does Cruz have wolf traps on his property? Some kind of woowoo bayou magic?”
“I got a free pass—sort of—on accompanying you to Cruz’s before,” he says, and I wonder again if our connection has given some kind of secret mind-reading abilities. “Cruz wasn’t happy about it, but I didn’t stick around, didn’t push too hard, so it worked out okay. Wolves are territorial,” he continues, as if his werewolf lecture explains everything. Maybe it does in his world, but he’s the one who made the mistake of dating a human. I require actual words rather than masculine grunts. If he wants me to honor his rules, he needs to explain them first.
Another thought occurs to me. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not territory. I’m not a tree you need to pee on to stake your claim.” He snorts because, yeah, that’s a gross mental image, but I’ve got a point to make. “I’m my own woman, and if I want to see the two of you together, that’s what I’m going to do. You and Cruz said you wanted to try being together with me.”
“Uh-huh,” he says and then falls silent. That’s not the rousing reaffirmation I’m look for. I twist his ring on its chain, searching for the right opening.
“So do you have to get into a pissing match?”
“I’m bein’ honest with you,” he says.
I guess he thinks that helps, and it’s not as if I want him to lie to me. After all, lying’s not relationship material. But if we’re going to make this work, the three of us
need to spend time together. Otherwise, Luc and Cruz, they’re like two opposing baseball teams slugging it out—and I’m the ball. They won’t mean to hurt me, but they’ll be so focused on competing, on getting the ball where they need it to be, that they’ll forget. About me. About us.
“We can’t make this thing work,” I argue, “if you’re on one side of the bayou and Cruz is on the other. Relationships aren’t like timeshares or fractional ownership.”
“You really wan’ us to be roommates?” Luc doesn’t even bother to hide his skepticism.
Uh, yeah. If the three of us are going to be together in a relationship, we need to spend the time together, getting to know each other. Instead, I’m still part of a couple—it’s just that the guy holding me is tag-teaming another guy.
“Try,” I say and hang up on him.
LUC
Gianna’s words echo in my head, leaving me with two choices. I can rise to her bait and go to her in Port Leon—or I can play this smart and avoid the woman I love for the rest of the week. Gianna thinks I haven’t seen her since she chose to go with Cruz.
She’s wrong.
Fuck, but I can’t keep away from her, not even when it would be the smart thing to do. She’s the one who brought up Cruz, and the thought of the other wolf touching her makes me see red. I’ve spent way too much time already imagining his mouth on her skin, kissing and tasting her breasts, the soft curve of her belly, her sweet pussy. Any more thinking and I’ll just have to kill the guy and put him out of my misery.
He feels the same way about me.
Gianna doesn’t understand the first thing about wolves, mating, or the blue moon. She’s made that perfectly clear. What she does know is what she wants. Or what she thinks she wants. My paying an uninvited visit to the Jones’s enclave is either suicidal or homicidal, depending on who you ask. Sure, I could pull some of my brothers into this mess, ask them to accompany me so I’m not walking into a den of hostile werewolves with no one at my back, but this is personal. Gianna’s not pack business, not yet.
