Lone Wolf (A Breed MC Book Book 4)

by Anne Marsh

  “I scare you?” He reaches around me to set the book back on the table. Thank God I didn’t ruin it. He sets a hand down on top of the cover, leaning on it like it’s not an antique and the most detailed collection of maps of this area of the bayou that I’ve ever seen. The man treats it like a coaster. Probably sets his beer on it too.

  “Not at all,” I lie. “That was just my seventh inning stretch. A little warm up so I don’t get all kinked up from bending over the table.”

  “Kink, huh?” His other arm comes down around me, pinning me in place. I’m pretty sure this isn’t good. When I try to back up, it’s impossible. My butt’s jammed against the edge of the table, and my front… well let’s just say that my front is up against something even harder and less forgiving. A different kind of wood, if you will. Apparently, Gator really, really gets off on scaring me. When I exhale, my glasses steam up.

  I’d like to pretend it didn’t happen, but now Gator’s surrounded by a ghostly white mist that doesn’t quite hide the smirk on his face. He totally knows.

  Gator reaches down and eases them off my nose. “You don’t need these.”

  “I’m working.”

  His mouth pulls tight as if he’s really not happy with my answer. But since he’s not the one under deadline here, I slap my hand on his chest and shove. Not too hard—but just enough to make my point. He’s in my space. He needs to move.

  Unfortunately for me, Gator does what Gator wants.

  “Take a break.” He wraps an arm around my waist and lifts me onto the table.

  “No.” Getting into a pissing contest with Gator is stupid. I studied wolves one summer in Montana, and sometimes he reminds me of the pack alpha I followed once.

  “Oui.” The man knows how to make his point, though. Somehow his hands end up on my inner thighs, and he simply makes room for himself, parting my legs and opening me wide. Then he steps up against me. I’m wearing my oldest flannel pajama bottoms. They’re super-soft and have the cutest little bow right above my crotch. There’s absolutely nothing sexy about them or the matching pink T-shirt. Hell, I’m even wearing a perfectly respectable yoga bra underneath the top because I’m not going to run around someone else’s house half-dressed. I’m more kid sister than Victoria’s Secret Angel, but Gator stares at me like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. His world.

  One hand cups my butt and yanks me forward until I’m straddling the present he’s got in his pants for me. This is… wrong. So wrong. So good. His other hand cups my face, traces my cheek, slides into my hair, and pulls my head back until we’re staring at each other, eye to eye.

  “You got something to say to me now?”

  “Move.” I shove harder on his chest.

  He growls something, but he doesn’t sound mad. He sounds… amused. His hand tilts my head back, working my ponytail like it’s a leash or the line connecting us.

  “I don’t think so, baby girl.” He runs his hand down my neck and over my T-shirt. My nipples perk up, damn them. They’re totally ready for this kind of break. “These want me to stay right where I am.”

  He leans in, his mouth finding my neck. Swear to God, he inhales me, his nose and lips rubbing over my skin, tasting the spot where my pulse goes mad. For him. His finger traces a nipple, teasing me, and I whimper.

  “Don’t play with me.”

  “Never.” That one word undoes me, or maybe it’s the way he says it in a rough, low voice as if he’s truly all in and he means it so very much. “You want to say no, say no. But don’t tell me what I’m doing here, you feel me?”

  One big finger dips lower, tracing that stupid pink bow.

  “You worry too much.”

  “And you’re the Fix-It King?”

  A smile lights up his mouth, easing the harsh lines. “I’ll make you feel better—promise you that, babe. Lean back.”

  I hesitate. It’s one thing to fantasize about him taking charge and issuing sexy orders—and another altogether to actually do it. It makes me kind of anxious, if I’m being honest. I can’t be anything like the kind of women he’s used to.

  “You want me to help you?”

  His eyes are smiling now. Maybe I am enough. Or maybe his sexual experience isn’t quite as dirty as I imagine. Except I have a great imagination, and I’ve seen the girls who hang around the motorcycle club. They’re not vanilla—at all. They’re long legs, come-fuck-me-heels, and zero inhibitions.

  “Please.” Such a cop out, but I’m not—I won’t ask. Not this time. Not ever. Nathan played games like that and I didn’t like them. Of course, at the end I didn’t like him.

  “Don’t think about him,” Gator growls. He pushes me down onto the table, but one hand cups the back of my head so that my landing’s gentle. I like that.

  I can do this.

  He runs his fingers over the inside of my thighs, pushing me wider. And I must be distracted because somehow he’s touching me and we’re kissing and then I’m completely bare from the waist down. My panties have vanished like the man is magic.

  This is…

  This…

  He doesn’t kiss my mouth again. He doesn’t touch my breasts. He just sinks to his knees on the floor, grabs my butt, and drags me to his mouth. I’m wide open and way too bare. He growls my name, and I don’t have enough breath left to be ashamed or to worry about what he might be seeing or if I’m pretty enough down there. I’ve never looked; perhaps I should have. Perhaps…

  If he’s right about my worrying too much, perhaps he’s right about other things. Like the dirty, wicked, teasing promises he’s been making. I let go, shoving the map book away and letting him pull my legs over his shoulders. He makes me feel so many things.

  He brushes his mouth over my pussy, and I hear him suck in a long breath with a groan.

  “I’m gonna taste you, babe.”

  He doesn’t ask; he just does.

  He circles my clit with his finger.

  “Right now,” he says.

  “Okay,” I breathe.

  And then he does it.

  He drags his tongue down my wet slit, and I arch up. Warm, strong hands anchor me, keeping me still for the next wicked pass. He’s the one calling the shots here, and all I can do is let go. He’s nothing like Nathan. He’s taking charge, but he’s not looking to hurt me or control me. He just wants to make me come, and since that’s what I need to do, this can work.

  His next pass is even better, his tongue driving me from real-happy territory to the about-to-come-and-see-stars zone. His big hands never let go, cradling me, keeping me safe and pinned down so I can’t fly off and never come back. He licks and sucks, and heat explodes through me. It’s incredible and I don’t want him to ever stop.

  Ever.

  “Tell me you want this.”

  As if he can’t tell? The man is a tease, and I totally mean to tell him so. Except instead I just go with the truth.

  “I do.” I give him the words without thinking, and worse, I mean them. My face sets itself on fire because what if he thinks I meant something else? A wedding-y, let’s-have-strings something else?

  “Me too,” he says, and he doesn’t pull away.

  Instead, he gets closer.

  He kisses me as if he has all night and all day, as if however long it takes for me to come is more than fine by him. He takes me whole, his mouth working my folds. He licks my center, his tongue circling my clit and then lower until he’s fucking me with his mouth, his tongue driving in and out of me. It’s too good. Almost frightening. He controls my body effortlessly, and I’m not sure I’m down for that. He licks me until I’m coming, his name on my lips, my heels digging into his shoulders hard.

  This isn’t about me or even about him. Not anymore.

  This is about us.

  “Tell me to stay.”

  He growls his demand and I—panic. He’s certainly made it clear that he wants something from me and since I’m still running filter-free, I ask him what, exactly, that is.


  “You.” That’s it. A one-word response that shouldn’t make me wet, shouldn’t make me shiver—or dream. Gator is my No Way Man. He’s everything that’s bad for me. He’s too aggressive, too take-charge, too alpha. He’s like the Bad Boy 2.0 model and he comes with a White Knight Rescue mode. Although Bad Boy seems to trump White Knight… as his follow up words prove.

  “I want to fuck you,” he says.

  I shouldn’t find that so sexy. It’s definitely not romantic. A few things become clear. One? I’ve still got a thing for take-charge men. Two? Gator isn’t looking for a relationship. He scares me and attracts me and I just can’t stop thinking about him. He’s so perfectly dominant. Take-charge. With him, I wouldn’t have to think or worry about what comes next. All I’d have to do is feel. And what Gator makes me feel? Is wickedly good. But that aura of danger that hangs around him… he’s far more lethal than my ex-professor.

  I launch myself off the table, scattering books and papers as I go. My girl parts throb in outraged denial, but they’re SOL tonight. I can’t do this.

  I can’t do him.

  Gator

  “You got to let that girl go.” Jace doesn’t shout. He doesn’t have to. My Alpha probably knows exactly what went down in my library last night. Didn’t get to come in my girl, but I marked her good, and my wolf knows this only ends one way if she stays. With her in my bed, getting it hard and rough from me because fuck me if I know any other way.

  She deserves better.

  When I don’t say anything, Jace takes another shot. “Fucking don’t need a felony right now, you feel me?”

  I clench my fist, needing to hit something. I feel him. Sucks that he’s right, too. Not that I would hurt her, but everyone else? Hell, yeah. “You got a problem with her being here?”

  His sigh echoes down the line. “Two of you want to set up house together, I’m not gonna tell you no. Better yet, you make it all legal, and I’ll take my ass down to Crate and Barrel and buy you a toaster. Get you the matching mixer, too. You got something you want to tell me about?”

  “Not planning on popping the question.”

  This time Jace’s pained sigh echoes down the line. Man’s been hanging around his mate too much—he’s emotional as fuck. “Figured as much.”

  There’s a pause I don’t rush to fill, then Jace curses. “Here’s the way this shit’s going down. You’re gonna have to ask your girl how she really feels about staying, you feel me? And if you want to make it last longer, you get yourself a ring and you practice getting down on your knees.”

  “You telling me to stay the hell away from her?”

  “I’m telling you to take this shit seriously,” he snarls. “She’s not some easy lay from the clubhouse. She deserves better than that. You want her, you make it count. You can’t be laying down ultimatums about how she has to stay with you.”

  “You’re spending too much time with Keelie Sue,” I tell him. “Starting to see a crap ton of wedding bells everywhere.”

  “On your knees,” he repeats, as if I hadn’t just made my position clear.

  “Only one thing I do on my knees,” I growl. We both know he’s not talking about eating pussy, either. I don’t go down for anyone. I’ve sworn my allegiance to him, bared my throat, played nice—but he doesn’t own me. Not even a fight can put me down like that.

  “Not so bad,” he says quietly. “Giving a little for a good woman.”

  Look, I like Keelie Sue. She’s loyal, and she makes my Alpha happy. I don’t fucking care how she does it—if she’s sucking his dick, riding him hard, or singing him Disney songs. He put a ring on her finger, and they’re making plans to get married later this year. She’s got some vision of the two of them swapping vows in front of a big ass Christmas tree, and let’s just say that whatever Keelie Sue wants, Jace delivers. Only time I’ve seen him draw a line is when it was a safety concern.

  “Somebody complain about Poppy?”

  “Got a few questions,” he says quietly. “She’s pretty new to town, and it’s not like anybody’s called in a missing person’s report, but the neighbors are wondering about Fang.”

  “They think a biker can’t feed a cat?”

  He snorts. “We’re talking about Fang here. You think he looks like the kind of fine upstanding citizen you’d give a key to your house to?”

  That brother makes a fucking spectacle out of popping a beer or buying toilet paper. I’d have tapped someone else or hired one of those services, but he claimed he wanted to do it. Read him the riot act, too, about how screwing up wasn’t an option. Think he got it. Thing is, my brother’s got a sweet spot for Poppy.

  “Tell me true,” Jace says. “You do anything to force that girl out to your place?”

  At least he’d asked.

  “You mean other than sink her fucking boat?” I ask, fighting the urge to toss my phone straight into the water. “You think I’ve got her tied up in chains? Maybe you’ve got a bondage fetish, but I like my sex straight up.”

  Jace grunts something less than fucking complimentary.

  “One of those neighbors did a little speed dialing. Called the university where she’s been using lab space. No one there’s seen her in almost a week. She’s not answering emails or picking up on any of her calls. They’re talking about a wellness check.”

  Thing about my place out in the bayou is that it’s isolated. I like it like that. Think I’ve made that perfectly clear. And so while I don’t get Grade A, kick-ass internet, I also don’t get a whole lot of callers. No neighbors banging on my door and asking to borrow a cup of fucking sugar, no Jehovah’s Witnesses trying to save my sorry soul from eternal damnation. God’s gonna have one hell of a barbecue when I get where I’m going, and I won’t complain. I’ve earned my fiery reception.

  It figures, though, that Poppy has the world’s nicest neighbors. Pick a different person, and that someone else could be lying two weeks dead inside their apartment, and no one would notice. Poppy makes you want to be nice. She belongs with them, and that’s the truth. She deserves to be with the people who care about her.

  “She chose to stay,” I say finally. “I think you need to hear that. There wasn’t any arm-twisting involved, although I may have offered a few incentives. But I should have dumped her ass on her doorstep days ago.”

  I end the call and jam the phone into my back pocket. Tossing the thing into the bayou appeals, as does slamming my fist into the nearest wall or door. But that won’t fix this problem I’ve created. Instead I go back inside and hunt down Poppy.

  Naturally, she’s in my library, sifting through yet another stack of musty old books. I’d swear she’s had every volume off the shelf at least once, but she keeps coming up with new ones. Finding her is ridiculously easy, despite the paper fortress she’s erected around herself. She’s humming fucking Christmas carols even though it’s still summer. Got about three months before the Christmas tree lots will be doing any kind of business. Three months before Jace and Keelie Sue tie the knot and make their shit official. I can’t do that. I can’t be that kind of man, the one who goes down on bended knee, a black velvet box front and center in his palm.

  She leans over the table, just like she did the other night. Got a new favorite memory out of that night, so that’s something. The table’s some kind of antique, or so the old woman who sold it to me claimed. She had a mountain of crap at one of those outdoor antique fairs. Think she might have just been desperate to unload something because the clock had been pushing closing time, but I’d liked it. The surface is pitted and scarred. There’s nothing you can do to that table that will hurt it. Poppy’s got her papers and her laptop spread out all over; a couple of water bottles and a cup of tea sit way too close to her elbow.

  “Hey.” She starts but then works up a nervous smile for me. Of course, the last time we met at this table, I had my head between her legs and was eating her like a hungry man. “What’s up?”

  “Time to go,” I tell her. It’s gonna be strange
, not having her here. Not like she’s been living with me long, but Poppy leaves a mark.

  “Where to?” She flashes me that mega-watt smile again, gathering up her stuff. Papers fly everywhere, a small explosion of white.

  I lean against the wall and fold my arms over my chest. If I get too close to her, I might do something stupid like pull her into my arms. Can’t afford to send mixed messages. “Gotta get you home. Pack your shit up.”

  I mean, it has to be where she wants to be, right? No reason she’d choose to stay here with me.

  “Home?” Her gaze bounces between me and Book Mountain. Not sure which she finds more attractive at the moment, but I’m not betting on it being me.

  “Parole, babe.”

  She surprises me by not bum-rushing the door. I don’t like the possibility that she’s thrilled to be leaving. She’s got nice manners, which figures because Poppy is a nice girl. She doesn’t belong here, stuck on an island with only me for company. She takes a step toward me, her forehead crinkling up. I’m not in the mood for an onslaught of questions, so I beat feet for the door seeing as how my message is now delivered.

  “Twenty minutes,” I tell her.

  Twenty-three minutes later, I’m carrying her stuff down to the boat, and ten minutes after that, we’re cutting through the bayou. Poppy’s quiet and I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Usually she’d be firing off questions like rounds from a machine gun, but maybe she’s just enjoying the sunshine and the fresh fucking air. Usually I don’t mind silence, but today I don’t like it. I want her to say something about our time together or how she’s secretly enjoyed being my pseudo-prisoner. And that’s so pathetic that I open the throttle up and get us to Baton Rouge in half the time it should take.

  When I bring us in to the dock fast and easy, Fang’s waiting for us. He straddles his bike, booted feet planted on the asphalt and a shit-eating grin painted on his face. He’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut, though, when he saunters down the dock to lend a hand with Poppy’s stuff. She makes small talk with him as we walk back to the bikes, and to my surprise he answers her back like she’s asking about the goddamned Geneva Convention or world peace.