Wolf Prey (Wolf Cove Book 3)

by Nina West

  “You have a pool up here?” I stare in astonishment at the rectangular swimming pool just outside the patio doors of his bedroom, the crystal-blue waters looking so inviting in this hot, sticky air, even at this hour.

  “You can go in if you want.”

  “I didn’t bring my suit.”

  That deep, throaty chuckle of his vibrates right down to my very core. “Do you honestly think I’d let you wear a suit?”

  I glance around at the buildings surrounding us. There are plenty of them at near eye level in the distance. Would they be able to see me naked up here?

  Henry’s phone rings then. While he answers, I walk over and, slipping off my sandals, I dip my toes in. It’s even warmer than I expected. I’m definitely going swimming later, after dark.

  “Abbi, come.” He stands at the patio door, waiting for me. It’s not in a “come here because we’re going to have sex right now” way.

  “What are we doing?”

  He starts unbuttoning his shirt. “We’re meeting Margo and her boyfriend at nine for dinner. We don’t have a lot of time to get ready.”

  Margo Lauren? “Where?”

  “Some French place. It’s supposed to be the best in the city. And then out after, I’m sure. I don’t know where. I let her make the plans. She’s into the nightlife.”

  I look down at my dress. “I didn’t really come prepared for clubbing.” Not that I’d have anything to choose from.

  “Her people are on their way. They’ll get you ready.” He peels his t-shirt off and tosses it to the bed next to his dress shirt and then moves to his buckle, all while I just stand there and stare at his golden body, thinking about two nights ago when it was straining and coated with a sheen of sweat.

  That’s mine.

  And just the sight of it makes my blood race through my veins.

  I find myself moving for him as his pants come down. He’s not even aware of what he’s doing to me, his mind on the nine o’clock deadline. He doesn’t like to be late, especially if it’s for a business meeting.

  “Abbi, they’re going to be—” His protest cuts off with a soft groan as I slip my hand into his boxer briefs to take hold of his dick. He instantly begins to grow within my grasp.

  I smile, sitting down on the bed’s edge in front of him. I push his underwear off his hips and let them tumble to the hardwood. And then I lean forward and run the flat of my tongue all the way up his length.

  “I’m going to make you finish,” he warns.

  I wrap my lips around the end of his cock and slide down, taking him all in. I’ve been dreaming of doing this for weeks.

  There’s a wicked smirk on his lips. “Okay.... You asked for it.” He adjusts his legs apart and then, gripping the back of my head, he starts gently thrusting in and out of my mouth, holding my hair off my face so he can see his length disappearing into me, hitting the back of my throat.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice echoes through the vast space.

  I make to pull away but Henry’s hand tightens around the back of my head.

  “Set up in the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. She’ll be there in a minute!” Henry calls out, his eyes still on me, that wicked gleam in his eyes. In a softer voice, he adds, “Keep sucking my dick, Abbi. The sooner I finish, the less likely it is that we’ll get caught.”

  The door’s wide open and, while Henry’s room is far enough down the hall that no one coming up the stairs or standing in the first bedroom will see this, if they should happen to wander down to ask a question, or for anything else, they’re going to walk in on this. As it is, I’m afraid they’ll hear it soon enough.

  Henry doesn’t seem at all concerned. In fact, he’s swelling inside my mouth. “It’s this or I bend you over the bed and finish off that way. Which one do you want?”

  Would that be preferable to this?

  No, I don’t think so.

  He sighs, grazing my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Come on, baby. I have to come now.”

  I want him to come and not by himself in the shower. So I try to ignore the sound of more than one set of feet climbing the steps up to the second floor. They seem to have found the right bedroom at least.

  “What size is she again?” a woman calls out.

  “Size four. Shoes are a six. Breasts are 36D,” Henry answers for me, a waver in his voice now as he begins plunging into my mouth. How he knows all this, I can’t say.

  “And Margo said you wanted a black dress?”

  Henry’s lips part, his eyes dark with lust as he stares down at me. “Yes,” he manages to get out, and then his hand is gripping the back of my head tightly. A grimace takes over his handsome face but not a sound comes out of him as warm, salty fluid explodes into my mouth and I feel his length pulsing. This is the fastest he’s ever come. It’s like the risk of getting caught turned him on even more.

  I suck hard as I slide off him, earning a low growl of discomfort—he’s sensitive—and then swallow what’s remaining of him in my mouth.

  He brushes across my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, a glaze of adoration in his eyes as he peers down at me, his chest heaving in and out. “You are....” His words fade.

  I’m what?

  Taking my hand, he pulls me up. Planting a kiss on my temple, he slaps my ass to usher me from the door. “Hurry. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I take my time descending the steps a half hour later, the heels that Bonnie and Morgan dressed me in higher than anything I have ever worn. Not treacherously high, but still, I foresee being sprawled out face-first on a floor in my future if I’m not careful.

  The team of twentysomething-year-olds worked on me fast, Bonnie on makeup, Morgan on hair, both on dressing me. They work in the modeling industry, dressing models for runway shows, so they’re apparently used to tight timelines and seeing lots of flesh. That’s why they didn’t think anything of peeling my dress down and unfastening my bra so they could tape my breasts in place. I felt like a Barbie doll being dressed, their cool fingers touching me where only men have before. But I sucked it up and just stood there, allowing them to do what they needed to do, knowing the end result would be worth it.

  Henry’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, his back to me, talking to someone on his phone. He looks striking in head-to-toe black, his tailored dress pants hugging his ass so deliciously.

  My heels click against the travertine, pulling his head my way.

  I do a twirl for him, showing off the sexy black strapless dress they put me in. It’s loose enough not to cling to my flesh, and it’s short. I thought my legs looked long earlier, but with these heels on, I feel like I’m five foot ten.

  Combined with the smoky eye makeup and the loose curls in my hair, I actually feel like I might belong on Henry’s arm tonight. Or at least look the part.

  “Yeah, okay. Gotta go. We’ll talk more on the way tomorrow.” He sets his empty glass down on the counter, his gaze roaming my entire body. “Are they gone?”

  “Yeah, a couple minutes ago. Do I look okay?”

  Stalking forward to close the distance in seconds, his hands go straight for the hem of my dress. He lifts my dress up to my waist. He holds the material there, and simply stares at my lower half for a long moment, clad in black panties that came in the girls’ suitcase of things. My thighs squeeze together in anticipation of everything he’s going to do to me down there.

  Finally, with a heavy sigh, he lets go and steps back. My dress falls back in place. “We need to go right now or we won’t be going anywhere tonight.”

  He locks eyes with me and I can see that he’s not joking.

  Not even a little.

  Chapter Nine

  Our driver weaves around traffic, jolting to avoid the countless cabs cutting him off. It’s a sea of honking horns and red lights here. I don’t know how anyone drives in this city.

  “So, what’s she like?”

  “Who, Margo? She’s nice.” His gaze
drifts out the window.

  “And this boyfriend of hers?”

  “Never met him.”

  “How long have you known her for?”

  “What’s with all the questions?” He turns to look at me. “Are you still worried that there’s something going on?”

  “No.” Maybe.

  He gives me a flat look, like he can read my mind. But his hand settles in the crack between my legs, his thumb grazing over my smooth skin. “You have nothing to worry about, I promise. This is strictly business.”

  “Going out to clubs is for business?”

  “Sometimes it is. Tonight it’s for fun. We have become friends, too.”

  It’s odd to hear Henry discuss friends. One might think he has none. But apparently he does. Gorgeous French supermodel friends.

  “Relax. You’ll like her.” His lip twitches in the hint of a smile. “And I think she’ll like you.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Abigail! It is nice to meet you, finally,” she croons, the greeting so pleasant on her French tongue. She rounds the dining table, her willowy, delicate body swaying seductively with each step, her cream-colored dress flowing with her movements. It’s such a contrast to her poker-straight hair, the color of ravens’ wings and somehow glossy even in the dim candlelit restaurant. It frames her angular face in a shoulder-length bob so beautifully.

  I thought my legs looked long but I was only fooling myself. She stands a good five inches taller than me and all I see are legs and perky breasts.

  She grasps my shoulders and leans in to air kiss my left cheek, before swinging her head to the other side to do the same with the right. Her hair smells delicious. She steps back, her sharp green eyes studying my face closely.

  The warm, friendly greeting is so unexpected, I find myself at a loss for words.

  She makes it sounds like she’s been waiting to meet me.

  When did Henry tell her about me?

  Finally, I manage a “hello.” Because I’m smooth like that.

  “Henry. Two nights in a row. This is a treat.” She does the air kiss with him too, though he matches it with the grace of a sophisticated man who knows how to deal with the French.

  He steps away and she smiles adoringly up at him.

  Like she wants him.

  Stop it, Abbi. Don’t be jealous.

  It’s hard not to be, even more so now that I’m standing in front of her. I don’t know much about her, except for what I read in that hour between me seeing the picture and Henry responding to my text message. She’s twenty-five years old and comes from what might be considered French royalty; her father’s ancestors were kings and queens. She began modeling at fourteen and walked every major catwalk the world has, several times over. Now she graces Times Square billboards and bus shelters, storefronts and magazine covers.

  She’s perfect, and exotic, and glamorous.

  She would fit well on Henry’s arm, much more so than me.

  Stop it, Abbi. Henry is with you.

  “This is Joel. Joel, Henry and Abigail.”

  The way she says Henry’s name, dropping the H altogether, is so charming. And I don’t even care that she’s using my full name; it sounds glamorous rolling off her tongue.

  Her boyfriend, Joel, a tall, handsome, blond man with dimples and a mischievous glint in his eyes, stands to first shake Henry’s hand and then plant a soft kiss on my cheek, his spicy cologne tickling my nostrils, his equally appealing French accent caressing my eardrums. I’d put him in his late twenties, likely.

  “Have you eaten here before, Abigail?” she asks, ushering me to the stately wing chair directly beside her. Everything about this restaurant is elaborate—from the candelabras hanging above, to the damask wallpaper, to the waiters serving champagne in tuxedos. I’m not sure I even want to see what the plates cost.

  “I’ve never been to New York City,” I admit.

  “What?” Her beautiful eyes widen in exaggerated shock as she suddenly rambles off a string of French words. “Joel, help me convince Henry to make sure his Abigail sees everything there is to see here. I don’t think he appreciates this city as he should.”

  His Abigail.

  Henry was wrong, I don’t like her.

  I freaking love Margo Lauren.

  ~ ~ ~

  Margo makes a cute, playful sound as she pats her perfectly flat belly through her dress. “Well, it is official. I have eaten and drank too much here, as usual. I need to go and work it off.”

  I glance at my phone. It’s midnight. We’ve been eating food I can’t pronounce and drinking red wine that I adore for three hours. The time passed quickly, with Margo telling funny stories about runway catastrophes, and Joel, a photographer with pieces now hanging in art museums all over the world, sharing horror stories of the horrendous models he’s had to deal with in his career.

  Henry glances back to grab the waiter’s attention. He comes running and Henry hands him his card.

  “No, Henry! You picked up last night as well,” Margo admonishes, reaching across the table to place her hand over his. It’s such an intimate move and directly in front of me. I glance to Joel. He must have noticed, but he doesn’t seem in the least bit fazed by it.

  I really need to calm down. She’s done nothing overt to make me suspect that she’s after him.

  Henry rambles something in French—because, yes, I just found out that Henry is fluent in French from his years in boarding school, along with German and Spanish—and she squeezes his hand tight before pulling away.

  “Fine. But when you come to my chateau for a visit, it will be my treat.” She turns to me. “You will come too, Abigail. Oui?”

  “Uh… oui?” I steal a glance Henry’s way to see him studying Margo carefully.

  He spouts off something else to her in French. I can’t read his tone, but it doesn’t sound all that relaxed.

  Margo merely shrugs, and then winks at me.

  What was that about?

  I need to learn French.

  Joel taps the table with his hands. “We are ready?”

  Margo eases out of her chair with the grace of a feline. I wonder if all models move like that, or just Margo. It’s impossible not to appreciate her as she and Joel walk ahead of us, leading us out of the restaurant, her back naked, her slender but curvy hips swaying with each step, the material hugging her round ass just snugly enough that I find myself picturing what it looks like bare. Something I don’t think I’ve ever done before. She has this appeal to her that I can’t quite figure out.

  “You’re attracted to her.”

  I startle at Henry’s words, low and against my ear. “No, I’m not!”

  He chuckles. “Don’t be embarrassed by it. She has a draw to her that very few can ignore, even entirely straight women. Which, by the way, are few and far between.”

  “So you are attracted to her?”

  His hand settles on my lower back, his fingers hot against my bare skin as they push under the material of my dress, his pinky toying with the very top of my ass crack. “I want you.”

  I stretch to my tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on his jaw. But I can’t completely shake the conversation. “Has she hit on you?”

  He hesitates, as if to choose his words carefully. “Margo is an intensely sexual person. She’s hitting on you, even when she’s not.”

  I frown, trying to understand what he means by that. I’m still trying to figure it out as we climb into a waiting black SUV.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What’s this place called?” I yell over the music. My eyes struggle to adjust to the lighting. It’s dimmer than the restaurant we just left, but the darkness is broken up by strobes and other flashing spotlights over the dance floor.

  Henry doesn’t answer—or maybe he does and I can’t hear him. His arm hangs loose but protectively around my back as we make our way deeper into the club, past the throng of dancers, the heavy bass music pounding in my chest and in my throat.

  Margo flashes a smile at
the bouncer guarding the staircase and he lifts the rope, allowing us up the stairs and to the second floor, where a woman in a black leather bra and the shortest black shorts I’ve ever seen greets Margo with the two-cheek-kiss thing and tells her that her room is ready. She leads us down a hallway to a small private room overlooking the dance floor through a floor-to-ceiling window. The room is just large enough for a round table and the four leather chairs surrounding it.

  Margo sighs. “There. That’s much better. I can hear myself think!”

  The music is still booming, vibrating through my body, but it’s muffled now. We don’t have to yell to talk.

  I wander over to the window to watch the crowd of people gyrate to the music. It’s a mess of scantily clad women and tangled limbs and swaying hips, some dancing in their own worlds, others in groups of three to four, pressed tight against each other, their drinks sloshing this way and that as they laugh and grind. I’m assuming a lot of them are drunk.

  I sense someone sidling up behind me a second before hands deftly slip under the sides of my dress to fill with my bare breasts.

  “Henry!” My face burns as I grab his hands and yank them away. I look up to find him grinning.

  “It’s a one-way.”

  “What?”

  “The window,” Henry says, tapping on the glass. “We can see them, but they can’t see us.”

  I allow myself a chance to breathe, though my heart’s still racing. “That’s not funny! You should have warned me. And besides....” I give him a knowing glare, then nod toward Margo and Joel, busy pouring drinks behind us.

  “Trust me, they don’t care.” He leans down to treat my mouth to those full lips of his, his finger covertly dipping into my top to skate across my nipple. “I’m sorry, don’t be mad.”

  I roll my eyes, but smile. Like I could ever be mad at him for touching me.

  “Vodka or tequila!” Margo calls out. “Abigail, you choose.” Behind us, she’s lining up four shot glasses.

  I’ve never had either. The only thing I drank that night I first met Henry was Jim Beam, and I swore I’d never touch that stuff again. I look to Henry.