by Anne Marsh
The night’s gorgeous in a wild, rough way. Rain still dampens the farthest edges of the verandah, but the storm has almost played itself out, the rain and wind nowhere near as ferocious as it was earlier. I’m barefoot since wearing wet boots didn’t appeal, so there’s no harm, no foul when I pad over to the edge of the porch where the rainwater puddles and look up. The clouds are blowing away now, glimpses of the stars peeking through. And the moon. God, the moon’s gorgeous tonight. Full and bright, it lights up a path through what appears to be a… garden?
Okay. A delicious, chaotic jumble of plants. The garden lights up beneath the moon, all silvery whites and blues. I’m off the verandah and down the path before I can overthink it, wet gravel biting at my bare feet. I’ll make this a quick walk. Just to check out what’s the most beautiful collection of hydrangeas I’ve ever seen. One plant leads to another, and I wander deeper and deeper, imagining who started this garden and what he or she imagined would happen to it. Jasmine fills the air with its heady scent, and moonflowers unfurl big white saucers toward the moonlight. It’s so otherworldly.
Something moves behind me in the shadows.
Something big.
Otherworldly comes crashing back to reality. Funny how one small garden suddenly seems about a million miles away from the house and Gator. The shadow shifts again and an animal whuffs. Does he own dogs? Because that doesn’t sound like a friendly greeting, and he definitely didn’t mention that going outside could kill me. I’m particular about details like that. I back up, trying to figure out if there’s an unseen path back to the house, a handy garden shed, or a tree with a conveniently placed ladder for me to climb.
Nada.
I’m completely, entirely shit out of luck. And isn’t that how my life has gone recently? I back up slowly, trying to convince myself that I’m just overreacting. It’s probably an opossum because this place would be ideal for that cute little omnivore. Worst case, it’s a skunk and all I have to do is hold still. The odds of my nocturnal companion being a toothy, people-eating animal are slim.
Nil, really.
Unless it’s an alligator.
I swore I’d never run again. That I’d stand my ground and push back when life shoved me. I’m so tired of not liking myself because I’m too busy trying to be who the man in my life wants me to be. I don’t know why I spent the last couple of years being a color-by-numbers for Nathan, but I did. And so far, that’s exactly what I’ve done for Gator. He said stay, and I did. Fine. So right now I’ll do something for me.
I run.
Gator
Poppy takes off running.
Best. Fucking. Game. EVER.
My wolf’s hot on her heels, chasing her down, close enough to nip at her cute, disobedient ass. She runs as all-out as she does everything else, legs pumping, arms moving, and for a moment I run with her, instincts dominating the man’s need to be a gentleman and back the fuck off.
I know what she sees when she turns her head because I let her see it. See me. I’m two hundred pounds of muscled, brindle-colored lupine, and I’m closing on her fast. My eyes glow in the moonlight, and there’s no mistaking me for anything but the predator I am. I throw back my head and howl, letting all the joy, rage, and fuckery hang in the air.
She’s downwind, and I flood my senses with her with each breath I take. She’s nervous. I can smell the fear scent, but there’s something else, too. A wild, bright curiosity. She wants to know me. Even as she runs, part of her is thinking about stopping. About coming back.
My paws chew up the ground, closing the distance between us. Even in wolf form, I know who I am. I’m Gator. I’m the wolf. I’m both. Grass blurs beneath my feet, the pounding rhythm echoing the beat in my blood. In other places. I want to drive into Poppy, push inside her fast and hard. Make her scream my name as she comes.
But I’m a beast. A legend. I’m the bad guy in the stories people tell about wolves and humans. And even though I haven’t ripped anyone apart, I fucking hate it. I want to be something, someone, more. Instead, I drive her back toward the house. And as soon as her feet hit the porch, her hands reaching for the door, I step sideways into the plant cover and shift back. A handful of seconds later, I’ve grabbed my jeans from the porch where I shucked them, and I’m storming after her.
Poppy
I slam the door shut behind me, fingers searching frantically for the lock. Not that I think a lock is going to do me much good—Gator’s house is full of windows. Lots and lots of super fragile, freaking windows. If that… creature chasing me wants in, all it has to do is throw itself against the glass. It’ll be in here in a heartbeat.
Which totally explains why I promptly drop to the floor and shove my face against the small glass panels to the left of the doorframe and look out. The moon is lighting up the garden, painting everything white and silver. It’s a fairyland out there, each flower, each leaf, outlined in otherworldly detail.
As is the wolf.
I knew there were wolves in the bayou. This one is gorgeous. He’s a big boy, larger than any male I’ve seen before. His fur is a blend of brown, gold, and white, with a thick ruff that my fingers itch to sink into. He stops on the path, and I swear his gaze holds mine. And then he disappears, sliding into the bushes and out of sight. Maybe I’ve dreamed it?
I stand up and wander through the rooms at the front of the house, peering out the window for more wolf sightings. Or for proof that I’m not completely insane and engaged in wishful thinking. Because if there were wolves on Gator’s private island, he’d know, right?
I’m lost in thought, which has to be why I don’t hear him coming up behind me. Strong arms come down on either side of me, caging me in place. He seems to have lost most of his clothes because his arms are bare, and his chest feels like a furnace. I’m sure I’m not supposed to lean back against him.
“You went outside,” he snarls into my ear.
“Um, yeah?” I try to duck underneath his arm, but he moves with me, keeping me pinned. I’m not sure I like this game.
“I told you not to run.”
“To be fair, you just negotiated for me staying here for a week,” I point out. “You didn’t mention that I’d lost outside privileges.”
Shit.
Needling him probably isn’t smart, is it?
“No running,” he whispers—and then he goddamned nips my ear.
“Hey—” I jerk away from him as far as the glass in front of me allows, which isn’t far at all.
He grunts and swings me up into his arms. And then he’s taking the stairs two at a time, hauling me with him as effortlessly as if I weighed nothing. For a stunned second, I let him hold me. He’s a big guy, and it’s nice to know that all those doughnuts I mainlined while working on my grant proposal aren’t acting like an anchor weighing Gator down, but he just can’t manhandle me.
Okay. He totally can.
I plant my hands against his chest and shove. As protests go, it’s not an effective one.
“Put me down?” Crap. It comes out as a question, too.
Gator grunts and moves faster. We clear the stairs despite my wriggling, head down the hall, and end up back in the bedroom I was in earlier today. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be anywhere near a bed with this guy.
Almost sure.
He kicks the mattress over toward the window and the old-fashioned radiator. And then he proves that he’s no southern gentleman because he tips me out of his arms. I bounce, and when I come up, he’s got my wrist in one hand and in the other…
He has handcuffs.
Who the fuck owns honest-to-God handcuffs? Not that he seems like the kind of guy who’d have a pair of purple-fur-lined play cuffs, but you never know.
“No,” I snap.
“Oui,” he snarls right back.
“This was not part of our deal.” The metal clicks into place, and he promptly fastens the other end around the radiator beneath the window.
“This way you won’t run off.”
>
My jaw drops. “I didn’t say you could tie me up!”
“You agreed to stay.” He folds muscled arms over an equally muscled chest and glares at me. And while I’m not disputing the general facts of the case, he’s overlooked an important detail.
“On the island,” I emphasize. “Nothing was negotiated about my staying in your bedroom—or feeding your need for kink.” I rattle the handcuffs, but all he does is grunt.
“Off,” I demand.
All he does is turn around and head out the door.
Leaving me handcuffed to the radiator and sprawled out on his bed. I’m not sure what to think. Or do. How did I end up like this?
Gator
You don’t have to tell me that my people skills need work. I figured I’d feed Poppy and maybe she’d settle in some.
Bad idea.
I probably should give more of a shit that I just ran her down earlier tonight like she was prey and handcuffed her to my bed, but it’s been a long day. Sure, I like chasing things. I’m a fucking wolf—it’s what we do. But I’d sort of bought into the whole illusion that Poppy was staying with me voluntarily. Or at least that I wasn’t forcing her—she wanted access to my land and her wolves, and in exchange, I got her company for a handful of days.
Kidnapper.
That’s a new low, even for me. I try the label out while icy water pounds over my shoulders and down my back, shriveling my balls into obedience. Or at least that’s the plan. Normally, hitting an ice-cold shower does the trick, but tonight I can’t stop thinking about the woman waiting on me in the next room. Poppy’s got to be the most beautiful female I’ve ever laid eyes on, but it’s not just the exterior paint job that has me jonesing for her. I fucking like her—the way she thinks and gives me crap about the most ridiculous stuff. The way she won’t quit and just goes after what she wants with everything she’s got. She was spectacular when she came flying out of nowhere and rammed her boat into mine. I didn’t give a fuck right then about the job I had to do or what my Alpha had ordered.
I’ve been thinking about her ever since.
This whole ultimatum I gave her is bullshit, and my dick’s sitting up straight, begging for her touch, even though the water’s colder than an ice bath in Antarctica. Nothing’s gonna make me less hot for Poppy, and when I get out, I’m still hard as fuck.
So screw it.
This is my house, right? She’s the trespasser. I fist my dick. She doesn’t belong here.
I tell myself that when I get out of the shower and pull on my jeans. The words don’t stick. I don’t bother doing up my jeans—just drag my hand down my dick, slapping my fingers around the shaft and cupping my balls. Take a nice, slow pull up. Fuck, that feels good. Not as good as it would if Poppy were touching me, though. She’d need both hands to handle me. Despite the cold water treatment, there’s nothing small about me.
Sex for me is usually quick and rough. Not like I’m worried about anyone walking in on me, but it’s been a means to an end. A way to get rid of my blue balls and then get on with my shit. I’m the king of the two-minute speed jerk, hitting the gas in the fast lane and then going for gold. I don’t wait to blow my load.
Tonight my plans are different. I grab the lotion I stole from Poppy earlier. Don’t judge. I squirt that shit on my palm and then curl my fingers around my dick, sliding down and twisting. Not as good as having Poppy touch me, but this will do.
She’s the strangest mix of strong and delicate, but maybe it’s because I made the mistake of underestimating her and now she’s constantly surprising me. So what if she likes pink? And if she’s both shy and awkward—and wonderfully, aggressively blunt? She doesn’t have to be just one thing. She can be whoever she wants when she’s with me, and I suspect I’ll love it.
I drag my palm up, squeezing the head hard. I’m a fucking greedy bastard because I want more. I want to lotion up her tits and slide my dick between them fast and hard, until the tip’s hitting her chin and I blow all over her chest. Or flip her over and use that lotion to ease my way deep inside her ass. Not picky, really. I’ll take whatever she’ll give me.
She’s on the other side of the door.
Feet away from me.
All I have to do is reach out and turn the knob.
I know it’s a bad idea, but I do it anyhow. I warned you that I don’t play nicely with others. I promised Poppy that I hadn’t brought her here to have sex with her, and now I’m about to stride out there with my dick hanging out? Yeah. I should punch me in the nuts, too. Maybe she senses what I’m up to, or some kind of secret female radar lets her know I’m yanking my chain to thoughts of her because she throws something at the closed door standing between us.
“Hey,” she hollers. She’s found her backbone again.
“Little busy,” I growl. She can hear me just fine. I know it. I reach down and give my dick another long, hard stroke. I can feel my shit getting tense, the orgasm starting deep in my balls.
“You don’t get to tie me up and walk away.”
I try to imagine what her problem is with that scenario. Is it the bondage bit—or the fact I left? Don’t fucking know, don’t fucking care. She should be thanking me on her knees that I did go, except then I’d be getting other, dirtier ideas about how she could thank me. Gratitude that involves her mouth, my dick, and me hitting the back of that sweet throat. Open real fucking wide.
“Hey,” she bellows again when all I give her is a groan.
Somebody needs a spanking and it’s not me.
“You don’t want me to come in there, babe.”
“Why not?” I don’t have to see her face to imagine the belligerence painted over each pretty inch.
Show and tell time. The door opens outward when I slam my palm against it, bouncing off the wall. The lights are off because I’ve got excellent night vision courtesy of my lupine side. And since she’s been sitting here in the dark, I’m betting she can see me—and my dick—just fine. Hard to miss something that big.
I hear her suck in a breath as she gets an eyeful of what I’m doing in the bathroom.
I stand there in the doorway, jeans undone, feet braced, legs apart. She asked me what I was doing, and now I’m showing her. It’s as simple as that. And while I’d like to go over there and join her on the bed, I’m just not that much of a dick. Not tonight, anyway. Her gaze roams here, there, and everywhere, like she’s not sure where to look, and oui, she’s eying my dick like it’s a giant anaconda. Can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing, but she’s definitely paying attention.
My dick decides he’s downright happy with the attention, the stupid fuck. And then I reach down and wrap my fingers around the hot, hard skin. Might as well go for gold and finish the job right.
Poppy’s fingers flex on the bed. Is she imagining what would happen if she touched me? She has small delicate fingers—she’d never be able to wrap her hand all the way around my dick. I’m big even for a wolf.
I take a step toward her. And then another.
She doesn’t tell me no, doesn’t tell me to stop.
Tomorrow, I’ll think about how that’s not a yes, but for tonight… Tonight I run my hand down my dick, letting my fingers do the walking. Down, then up, my palm gripping the wet head and twisting as I fuck my own palm while she watches.
I meet her greedy, wide-eyed gaze. “Tell me to leave.”
She doesn’t, so I work my dick harder. I’m so fucking close to blowing my load. I’m also so close to the bed that I can almost feel the breath she takes, and then the next one after that.
“Imagine something for me.”
“What?” Her voice is hoarse, sweet. I don’t know if it’s because I woke her up banging around in the bathroom, or because she wants what’s happening between us. Because she’s imagining what might come next if we both gave into this.
“Imagine me fucking your tits.” And I’ll imagine that she’s leaning forward, that she likes the fantasy I’m feeding her. I wait for her to retreat,
to remember who and what I am. I’m the biker who’s locked her up on his island. I’m the beast to her beauty.
She leans forward.
She actually fucking leans forward.
“Imagine this.” She crosses her arms over the sheet. “Each time you shove your dick between my boobs, I’m licking the head.”
Christ. She wins this round. “You do that and you’ll be wearing my jizz on your throat and your tits.”
Only fair to warn her because my balls are tightening just thinking about how her tongue would feel, how soft and wet and downright fucking perfect. I’m gonna blow in seconds, and she’s straight in my line of fire.
“Do it,” she whispers. She drops the sheet and yanks the tank top down. Her tits pop free. For a moment, all I do is stare. For a woman with not a whole lot of height, there’s so much of her. It’s like fucking Christmas, and I can’t wait to dive into my present. Her tits are gorgeous, enough to fill up my hands and then some. She cups herself, her fingers stroking over paler skin that hasn’t seen the bayou sun, and then she squeezes her nipples. Fuck. Me.
And just like that I’m not the one in control, not any more. I come hard, painting her sweet, creamy skin.
She watches me the whole goddamned time.
I don’t know what the fuck she sees, but I let everything go because I can’t think. She’s wrung me out, given as good as she got, and I respect that. Not sure how or why she turned the tables on me (okay I totally fucking know how), but I stretch the moment out as long as I can. I’m not lovable, not a hero, not the goddamned mate of her dreams. This is all I get. I don’t get to fuck her or her tits, and fucking with her isn’t part of my plans. Not any longer.
I jerk backward.
“Gator?”
Her voice sounds soft, almost sultry. Still a little scared, too. I shove my misbehaving dick back into my jeans and button up. Knees apart, she makes for one hell of a sight there on my bed. Her hair’s all tangled up, my jizz marks her skin, and if her eyes go any wider, she’s gonna pop. Hurt, surprise, arousal—I’ve got no clue what’s happening inside her, which just figures. How am I supposed to look away when her body’s one sweet curve after another, mapping out a path my hands and my mouth itch to taste?
