by Elsa Jade
Dag had touched her there too, but Rafer had taken her virgin ass instead, one wicked, forbidden finger exploring hidden depths. Remembered heat burned through her.
“I’m goin’ to have you here, too.” His finger traced the channel between her rear cheeks, dipping deeper, teasing her senses with that delicious burn as his finger stretched her a second time.
“Rafer—” She froze.
“You liked that.”
She had. She did. When his finger slid free, she wanted more.
“This is my turn.” His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place. “I’m goin’ to take good care of you tonight, Lark.” Sensual promise filled his voice as he stared at her, all shadows and darkness, a large shape covering over her.
“I don’t need taking care of,” she protested weakly. Fantasies ran riot through her head. She didn’t need this—the question was, did she want it?
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Yes, you do, chère. You fantasized about this.”
“The dreams—” Had those dreams been something more than merely fantasies? A harbinger of future pleasures?
“We’ve been dreamin’ of you, too,” he vowed. “That moon up there tonight? That’s our once-in-a-blue-moon chance. My kind, we can only hunt for our mates when that blue moon rises. Then she leads us right to you. And so you’re not worryin’ too much, chère, that moon makes sure you’re doin’ plenty of your own dreamin’.”
As he slid down her body, anticipation had her stilling.
“Mmmm.” He laughed. “You smell delicious. I’ve wanted to do this ever since I scented you running.” He turned his mouth against the soft skin of her belly. “When you run from a predator, chère, we give chase.”
“What happens when you catch up?” she teased.
His tongue followed his mouth, tracing a wickedly damp path along the curve of her stomach. She wriggled before she could stop herself, and his husky chuckle filled her ears. He wasn’t a man who laughed a lot. She knew that instinctively.
“You get what you have comin’ to you,” he promised roughly.
Her lashes drifted shut. This world was sensuously dark and private. Just the cabin and the man and the bayou night, where all her late-night fantasies came to life. All too soon, she’d wake up and this would all be over.
“No,” he growled. “Don’ leave me, chère. You think about this.”
He parted her legs apart in one bold, uncompromising move. His shoulders pinned her thighs wide, opening her up for him. Preventing her from shutting him out again. “You liked it when my brother licked your sweet pussy, didn’t you?” He growled the words against the top of her mound, and she wanted to whimper.
God. She had let him do that. What had been even sexier, though, was knowing Rafer was holding her. Watching. An anchor in that storm of unexpected pleasure.
His fingers parted her. Brazen and bold, he wouldn’t let her hide from the raw sensations he coaxed from her body.
“Let’s see if you like this as much.” His tongue dragged through the saturated folds of her sex, and at that shocking touch, a raw, keening cry left her lips.
She’d always been quiet in bed. Now she didn’t recognize the sounds she was making. Primitive and animalistic, her cries almost drowned out the man’s savage growl of enjoyment as his mouth closed over her folds. Licking and tasting. Taking. Her hands slid into his hair, holding on.
His teeth nipped delicately at the swollen flesh, and bright sensation streaked through her. She was coming apart. Surely it wasn’t possible to be this aroused.
“Do you?”
“Do I what?” she gasped. Oh, God, she needed him to touch her. To do something to ease the ache burning her up from the inside out.
“Do you like this?” That wicked tongue found her clit. Stroked until she arched up into the gentle pull of his mouth.
Her fingers curled into the sheet. When he finally stopped, she groaned at the loss.
“You have to tell me, chère. You give me the words now,” he demanded.
She was on fire, unable to hold back the orgasm rolling over her, consuming her. The soft brush of his fingers against her clit sent her over the edge. “Yes,” she bit out. “Damn you, yes. Do it more.”
Dark satisfaction filled his voice. “You like bein’ naughty, chère.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “With you.”
*
He’d make this good for her. She’d chosen him as her mate, and everything Rafer had learned from centuries of fucking and watching—all that skill—was for her now. His Lark. The greedy arch of her body, the breathy whimpers she couldn’t hold back, those were music to his ears. She wanted this. She wanted him, trusted him to give her only the pleasure and never the pain. Somehow, he’d lost himself in her body, lost himself in her.
She tasted impossibly good, each lick of her drenched pussy a sugary treat. Lust roared through him as he parted the soaked folds. His. He rubbed his tongue against her, marking her so the entire Pack would know the truth, finding and circling a spot that had her gasping. She spread her thighs wider, and even that soft brush of her bare skin against his was an erotic thrill. His mate was open and wet. She’d come for him, had let the waves take her and ride her.
Now, he wanted to ride her.
She came apart beneath him with a keening cry. Her orgasm ripped through her, tiny spasms milking her pussy. Flipping her over, he pulled her up and onto her hands and knees, swatting her ass when she protested sleepily. Savored her gasp as the heat of that erotic pain bit at her. There was so much more he could show her.
He tucked the head of his cock against her wet opening. He needed to be inside her, so inch by slow inch he pushed carefully deeper. He was too large, and his new mate was so very, very small. Petting her, he coaxed her to open for him and let him in.
When he finally sheathed himself completely, a low, keening wail broke from her throat. He froze, but she pushed back against him, muttering demands. Thank God. Her body was a sweet, slick vise wrapped around his cock. He reached beneath her, finding her clit. In. Out. Discovering her rhythm. The rhythm that would send her over the edge.
“I can’t.”
“You will, chère.” He wasn’t leaving her behind.
When the first shivers of her orgasm started, he bit her shoulder, marking her. Branding her as his as the scent of her marked him too. He’d know her anywhere now. Be able to track her wherever she went. As the orgasm pounded through him, he emptied himself in her. She flooded his senses.
His Lark.
Chapter Seven
‡
An angry raptor screamed and pinwheeled overhead as the bayou waters slapped the houseboat’s sides. Beneath Lark’s fingertips, the cotton sheets were still cool. Hell. Heat flooded her, teasing the pleasant ache between her thighs. She felt wet. Stretched. Filled. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she hadn’t woken up aching and unsatisfied. The Breaux brothers were every bit as decadent as their reputation.
She’d had her one taste of the fantasy, but now everyday life was knocking, and she needed to get back to her farm. Rafer Breaux was a sweet treat, and she was a woman on a diet. Unfortunately, though, she had no definite idea of where she was, other than deep in the bayou. The Breauxs obviously didn’t welcome visitors—not unless those visitors came with a boat of their own. If there was cellphone reception out here, she could call the farm and have someone come out with a boat. Wherever here was. The sultry warmth made it hard to think clearly.
Her foot brushed a strong, firmly muscled leg with a rough dusting of hair. Cracking her eyes, she came face-to-face with Rafer.
His heat surrounded her, his masculine scent a seductive lure. In the soft morning light, his too-familiar face was hard and watchful. As if he knew every instinct she possessed was clamoring for her to run. No. She didn’t mistake his cool observation for anything other than what it was. He was watching her. Waiting for her to wake up.
Fantasies spilled through he
r head before she could cut them off. Images of the places where he’d put his hands, his tongue. He’d seen parts of her she’d never shown anyone else. Because last night was supposed to be a fantasy. An erotic game she was in control of. One look warned her loud and clear, however: she wasn’t in charge here and never had been. He’d played with her, and now the only question was why?
She sat up, and to her surprise he let her go. His arms fell away from her, and she told herself she didn’t miss that heat. He was gloriously, fabulously naked. And he was beautiful in a primitive, masculine way, the slabs of muscles on his tight abdomen and the long-healed scar on his side promising strength and protection. A safe harbor. Whatever battles he’d fought in his life, he’d won. His cock thickened, and she looked away, cheeks burning, until she spotted the tidy pile of her clothes.
“I need to get home.” She couldn’t keep the accusation out of her voice as she lunged for her clothes. The familiar things couldn’t ease her awkward embarrassment, but she pulled her pants and her shirt on like the clothes were a lifeline. Her underwear had vanished, but her sneakers and socks were still there, carefully folded. Sitting down heavily on the edge of his bed, she put herself back together.
If only she could put her life back together as easily.
“You are home,” Rafer disagreed. She shouldn’t have found his voice such a turn on. Gravelly and hoarse, he gave her the feeling he didn’t talk much. And yet here he was, talking to her. With her. As if everything he had, everything he was, was focused on her. “Last night happened, chère. That changes things.”
He watched her, and the rest of her memories came flooding back. Last night hadn’t been just about sex. The wolves. Hunting her, those same wolves had shifted, becoming men. Dark, hard-eyed men who’d touched her wickedly. Seductively.
“No. Sex doesn’t change things. Feel good? Yeah. But it’s no game changer.” She said the words calmly, reasonably, but there was nothing calm about how she felt inside. Shape shifters were on the pages of a book—a really, really good book—not beside her on the bed in broad daylight.
“I warned you.” Despite his stillness, there was no missing the tension in that big body. If she ran, he’d be on her. Fast. “You didn’t wan’ to listen to me, either at your farm or last night. We’re shifters. We run as a Pack. And now you’re part of my Pack.”
Now it was her time to do some denying. “No.” She shook her head, feeling the tangles of her hair cling to her jaw. “I’m no part of this pack of yours. We had sex last night—” she ignored the slow, masculine smile splitting his face, “—but that’s all it was. Hot sex.” Other women did this all the time, right? So she could, too. This was just sex. Really, really hot, really good sex.
“You’ve been dreaming,” he reminded her, and she couldn’t contain a start of awareness. “Remember, Lark? Hot, sensual dreams about lovers and a blue moon. Dreams that have you waking up in the morning with your panties soaked and your pussy clenching. You wan’ to know why you had those dreams?” His grey eyes flashed gold. Wolf eyes. Oh, God. She should have run screaming, but instead she sat here, sharing a bed with someone who wasn’t human. Although, clearly, that hadn’t bothered her last night.
When she didn’t answer—because what could she say?—he continued. “The Packs have existed for hundreds of years.”
“Wait,” she interrupted. “There are more of you?”
“Yes. But we’re a dyin’ breed. We lost wolves from another Pack last week.” Sorrow flashed in his eyes, and she knew the loss meant something to him. That their deaths were fiercely personal. Regretted. “The only way for us to mate, chère, is durin’ the blue moon. Think about what you saw last night.”
When he reached out a hand, she flinched. She couldn’t do this. If he touched her, this would all be too real. She’d come apart in his arms the same way her life was unraveling right in front of her. Morphing into something else.
He wasn’t human.
“We hunt for mates durin’ the blue moon because that moon leads us to certain women. Women who can be scented, tracked, found only on a night with a blue moon.” He sat up, leaning forward. He filled up the space she’d tried so hard to put between them, large and hot and demanding. “Those women,” he continued ruthlessly, “are the Pack’s predestined mates and the only ones capable of matin’ and breedin’ with our wolves.”
He captured her hand. She didn’t want to make a scene, not yet, so she let his large, warm hand envelop her smaller one. Last night had been the best sex of her life. What they’d done together, what she’d encouraged him to do to her, had been raw and intimate—and now he was a stranger. God, he was too real. He was supposed to be a figment of her imagination.
“So you don’t do this very often?” For some reason, his answer mattered to her. She wanted to hear that he didn’t spend every night hunting for women. Touching other women the way he’d touched her. She shouldn’t have felt possessive about a man she’d known for one night, but she did.
A wry grin twisted his lips. “You’ve heard the saying, ‘Once in a blue moon.’ No, chère, blue moons aren’t common. There are very few mates and even fewer blue moons. And you’re one of ours.”
“No.” She had to say it again. No way she was mated to a wolf who could become a man. Or maybe, she thought, choking back a hysterical giggle, he was a man who could become a wolf. “I have a perfectly normal life, Rafer. A farm. Friends. A mortgage.”
His voice was strangely soft, almost regretful. “Not anymore. Our brides can’t go back to their former lives. How would you explain to your friends and neighbors about us? Would you tell them that you were fuckin’ a shifter? We’re a secret the rest of the world isn’t ready for, chère.”
“You’re saying I up and vanish?”
To his credit, he didn’t hesitate, just gave her the hard, brutal truth. “You come with us, start over here in the bayou.”
“No.” He expected her to live happily ever after—and that made last night a nightmare. “I’m going back to my farm. That’s how this is going to work. Whatever feudal world you come from, it’s not my world. It never will be. I’m not going to be some itch you need to scratch.”
“You wan’ to run?” His voice was a husky growl. “You think you’ll find pleasure like this somewhere else?”
“There’s more to life than sex.” She could feel the blush heating up her face as he watched her. No way would he let her forget how much she had enjoyed last night. Too much, and he knew it. His eyes warned her he was all darkly sensual predator—and she didn’t have any difficulty imagining him as a wolf.
His next words had her heating right back up.
Again.
“I’ll take you every way possible,” he promised. His fingers traced the pink blush coloring her cheeks. “Last night, chère, was just the beginnin’.”
*
Rafer lightly shackled Lark’s wrists with his fingers. The fragility of her bones amazed him. She wasn’t a shifter. She wouldn’t heal if he broke her. Bruised her. That vulnerability terrified him. He’d never hurt a female in his long life, but what if he lost control? He rubbed his thumb against the pulse leaping at her wrist, following the pale trace of veins beneath the soft skin.
He’d scared her.
The loup garou were long-lived, easily enjoying hundreds of years if the skin hunters didn’t take them down first. Even so, once mated, mated pairs didn’t outlive each other by more than a handful of weeks. A mated wolf would take no lover other than his mate—but she was free to sleep with both him and any unmated wolves in their Pack. Skin touches were an important part of Pack life, and it was the responsibility of the female wolves to make sure the unmated wolves had what they needed.
Lust pounded through him. What he wanted was to drive himself into her, bury his cock in the sleek, wet heat he’d discovered last night. Would she still want him, however, now that she knew the truth?
He’d had her, but that had been the mating frenzy. Each
time, he’d gotten a little closer emotionally. She’d let him draw nearer, whether she knew it or not, when she trusted him with her fantasies. The bond between them was so very clear to him. He could sense every frantic beat of her heart, the heated pulse of her blood through her veins. Last night had imprinted her scent on him. Wherever she went, he’d find her.
Unfortunately for him, that connection appeared to be a one-way street. She’d seen his wolf and didn’t like it. Or him.
She twisted, her wrists moving determinedly in his grasp. “No,” she said, her breath a hoarse gasp. “No, Rafer. Let me go. I’m going back to my farm. Alone.”
Now her scent was pure fear.
He let go. “This isn’t somethin’ you can think over. You can’t deny the bond between us, chère. That bond is there now.”
He kept the word forever to himself. She knew. Hell, they both knew. But putting words to what she was feeling made everything too real. He’d been as careful as he could be not to hurt her, but her panic now tore him apart. The wolf was afraid to let her go, but the man knew he had to.
He could follow. Would follow.
He’d coax her back into his arms, show her that he could be trusted.
Then she’d bond with him.
Then maybe she’d love him.
Chapter Eight
‡
When Rafer should have been wrapped around his new mate, skin to skin, he was cooling his heels on her porch. That porch was picture-book pretty, all white picket and wicker furniture. Hell, he had flowered cushions on which to park his sorry ass.
Dre had taken her back to her farm, and Rafer had followed, shifting to keep pace with her easily. Even more so than on his first visit, Lark’s farm struck him as a feminine lair, filled with warmth and good smells—and he wouldn’t admit how much he wanted her to let him in. He’d been cold for so long. Now his heart beat with hers. He would not be shut out. He’d claimed her. He fought the urge to shift, to run her land and learn it like he’d learned her body last night. In too many ways, it was easier to mark her farm than to mark her.
