Lone Wolf (A Breed MC Book Book 4)

by Anne Marsh

  I swing onto my bike and slap a hand on the seat in back of me. “Come on.”

  Fang’s eyes fucking dance with laughter. “You want me to ride double with you, princess? I’m honored.”

  I flip him the bird and hold out a hand to Poppy, who puffs out her cheeks and stares at the six inches of leather I’ve left for her.

  “I’ve never ridden a bike before,” she says.

  She’s dressed for it okay. Her black yoga pants and sneakers will be fine, although the T-shirt she’s got on might not be thick enough.

  “Jacket,” I bark to Fang, holding out my hand.

  “I don’t strip on the first date for just anyone.” He winks at Poppy as he shrugs out of his leather jacket and tosses it over. I try to ignore the way Poppy giggles. My brother’s full of shit, but maybe she likes that. Not like I’m the king of laughter. If she wants jokes, she needs a different man.

  I hold the jacket out to her. “Put this on.”

  She peeps at my face, stops laughing, and slides the jacket on. I reach forward and zip her up, and then I drop a helmet onto her head. Not gonna get better than that. Naturally, Fang decides that he should come with us. When I tell him he’s not invited, he ignores me. Fuck. Me. He claims he has extremely important Mr. Moo updates to share with Poppy. Seriously? My brother’s found responsibility now?

  I give her a ride to her place and you can give me a gold medal because I don’t fucking kiss her when she slides off the back of my bike, but I totally want to. Might have something to do with the way her knees, her arms, and her hot little pussy rubbed against me the whole way here. My dick’s on fire, and it’s got nefarious plans for her.

  But the thought of leaving her here all alone doesn’t sit right. She could need something. There might be a monsoon. Fucking nuclear apocalypse. I wanted to keep her safe, to steal a little piece of her, and now that it’s time to let her go… Yeah. Doesn’t matter what I want because this is about what she needs.

  I straddle my bike, boots planted on the road.

  “Phone.” I hold out my hand.

  She stares at it like she’s never seen my palm before, when we both know I’ve had my palm, my fingers, my teeth, my whole fucking face planted in her sweet pussy, going to town. Never gonna forget the taste of her, and that’s the truth. Might be worth repeating that little lesson, just to make my point. Whatever the fuck that might be.

  Fortunately, she slaps her phone into my hand before I can do anything stupid. The case is pink and sparkly—somebody in China’s bedazzled the shit out of it with sequined butterflies and little wolf puppies never yet seen in nature. It’s cheerful. I’ll give her that.

  “Don’t judge.” Her fist knocks my shoulder playfully.

  “Putting my number in here,” I tell her, suiting actions to words.

  “You need my passcode.” She tries to take the phone back, but I wave her off.

  I know her passcode. She never tried to hide it from me the dozen or so times she typed it in while I kept her on my island. Not to mention that she’s predictable. She’s used 9999. I think about giving myself some kind of nickname, but I don’t do cute shit. Plus, her phone might explode from the overload.

  I hand back the phone. “You need something, you call.”

  “Like what?” She sounds doubtful, and I don’t like the way that makes me feel. Like I’ve got something to prove to her and not in a good way. Sure she doesn’t need a grumpy-ass biker all up in her day-to-day, but I’ve got to be good for something.

  “Anything,” I promise her. Fuck it. Why not go all in? Fang cackles behind us, and I mentally add him to my kill list. “Say you get a plumbing issue. Need some late night ice cream. Spider in the tub.”

  “Oh.” She takes her phone back and her fingers stab at her contacts. A few seconds later and she’s adding a psychedelic green crocodile to my number. Looks like something from a Lucky Charms box but I can’t complain.

  “Promise me one thing, though.” I hook a finger in the neck of her T-shirt and tug her toward me. “If the asshole ex shows up, call me.”

  “Why?” It’s so fucking cute how she doesn’t see the wolf inside me.

  “Because I’ll kill him for you,” I growl.

  “Ha ha,” she teases but I’m not joking.

  “He bothers you again, he’s a dead man.”

  Poppy

  I sort of thought Gator might ask me out. For coffee. For a drink. I’m no dating expert, having a grand total of one (failed) relationship under my belt, but Cosmo assures me that’s the next step. I don’t care about dating, I remind myself. It’s okay that I completely suck at interpersonal relationships, and if Gator goes away cranky, it’s not my fault and not something I have to fix. But I can’t stop myself from imagining how a man like him might ask a girl out. I may or may not have browsed entire Pinterest boards devoted to this, covering options ranging from writing romantic propositions in the sand to balloons to flower-coded messages. It’s so ridiculous that I snort.

  Instead of planning a date, I think we’re plotting murder.

  Not that Nathan doesn’t deserve it just a little, but I can’t actually justify killing him. He’s a world class asshole, but that’s not a capital crime in this or any country. He’s free to live another day and continue spreading his assholery free and wide. Being with him sucked, and our break up was even worse. But somehow saying goodbye to Gator eclipses all those painful months. I don’t do one-night stands or weekend quickies. Nathan and I were a long-term relationship, and we’d talked about getting married. About picking out our white picket fence and maybe having a few babies, or at least a dog or three. We’d had grown up, forever plans. Because that’s what you do when you meet that someone special. You make plans and build ties. You don’t just drop her off and say see ya.

  But maybe he’s waiting for me to reach out?

  “Can I—”

  “Oui?”

  “My research. I’d like to still have access to your land. So I can look for my wolves.” I stumble over my words because Ms. Suave I’m not. How had I missed the signs that Gator was done with this strange arrangement we have? Had. Had, I remind myself. Because clearly we’re over. I hadn’t even realized that some small part of me thought we were some kind of item. Couple. Thing?

  Nope. I have no clue.

  I just know that now that it’s gone, I’m missing something I didn’t know we had.

  Darn it.

  I suck at good relationships. Frankly, all of my practice has been with the bad kind. I should have tried Tinder or even a few blind dates before whatever this was with Gator.

  “That it?” Gator asks shortly.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve offended him, even though I’m the one who should be upset since I’m getting the bum-rush to the curb. He made me stay, and now he’s making me go.

  “What else is there?” I ask him. Because honestly? I don’t know, even though I’m starting to think I’d really like to find out. With him.

  Gator stares at me, a small smile playing over the corners of his mouth. This is where, in my fantasies, he fishes a penny out of the pocket of his jeans and presses it into my palm. Maybe traces the sensitive skin there with his thumb as he rumbles, “Penny for your thoughts?” And then I tell him about all these semi-dirty thoughts tumbling through my head, and he suggests we do something about them. Starting with a drink. And so we go inside, and I’ve got this fabulous bottle of Veuve Clicquot that just happens to be chilling in the fridge, and one thing leads to another and we’re licking champagne off each other’s skin…

  Gator makes a rougher sound.

  Right. I’m totally ignoring him, staring off into space. I’m probably wearing the looniest grin on my face.

  “Do you—” He gets his hands on me, his hands cupping my face, and I forget what I want to say.

  He doesn’t even get off his bike—just leans down, pulls me into him, and kisses me. His face is cold, his eyes empty, but his kiss is surprisingly gentle as he br
ushes his mouth against mine. His lips whisper over mine, and I fight the urge to close my eyes. To let him take this moment, too.

  “Last time,” he whispers.

  “Until next time,” I say, the words escaping on a stupid, stupid sigh. This man does things to me, and not just the panty-wetting kind of sexual thing.

  He shakes his head, but he kisses me again. One of his hands threads through my hair, fisting the loose strands. And then his mouth comes down over mine, covering me, eating me up and erasing the space between us. His tongue parts my lips, demanding entrance.

  I open.

  I let him come in.

  I kiss him back despite our audience. Fang’s not the kind of man who looks away, and I have neighbors. It feels like the whole world is watching us kiss.

  It still feels right.

  He kisses me thoroughly, carefully, his tongue taking my mouth deep and hard, conquering every inch and leaving no part of me hidden. You don’t hold back with Gator; he won’t let you. I lean up into him, trying to get closer, squeezing my breasts against his chest, drinking in the sensations. He makes me feel right.

  His fist tightens in my hair, pulling me back.

  Reestablishing the distance between us.

  “Stay safe,” he growls, and then he leaves.

  Poppy

  Mondays always suck. Maybe it’s the letdown from running around free and loose on the weekends, or maybe it’s one of those unspoken laws of the universe things, but nothing good happens on a Monday. If I’d been smart, I would have stayed in bed. At least then I could have pulled a pillow over my head, made a blanket fortress, and pretended none of this was happening.

  Instead, six days after Gator drops me off at my house, I’m sitting in my loaner lab space at the university wearing uncomfortable dry clean only clothes that include pants with buttons while I re-read the email that just hit my inbox. People should only get fired on Fridays. Or possibly Wednesdays because then maybe you can pretend your weekend’s just come early. But Mondays? That’s cruel.

  Dear Dr. Burkhart-Jones. After careful consideration, we regret to inform you…

  Yes, it’s all downhill from there.

  I didn’t even get the two weeks they promised me.

  My research is a bust, not delivering on early promise. Well fuck them very much, right? Probably there’s a coffee bar in need of a barista, and I can learn how to operate the space-age machinery that pumps out endless variations of coffee drinks. Probably. Or I can look into housecleaning or office work or getting my teaching credential so I can teach high school students about the joys of biology.

  I try to think happy, positive, upbeat thoughts while I pack up my stuff and do the walk of shame out of the lab. Everyone knows. It’s no secret that I suck, that the funding plug has been pulled, and now the only sound is the glug, glug, glug of my career spiraling down the drain.

  Monday does not improve once I’ve left the lab behind me, either. The dishwasher explodes all over my place, and my bank account reminds me that it’s only one step from starving because I haven’t paid my bills yet. Before I can stop myself or overthink it, I text Gator. I tell him about my shitty day.

  Today sucked.

  As soon as I hit send, I want to take the words back. When he put his number in my phone, he sort of implied it was for dire emergencies. Not sure this qualifies. Sure, my job’s gone and the prospects for reestablishing my academic career look dim, but I’m not dead. Or dying. Or even stranded by the roadside with the mother of all flat tires and a gang of desperate criminals advancing on me. And he hasn’t texted me once since he dropped me off. Or called or done any other kind of reach-out-and-touch-someone shit. He’s clearly done, and I should be, too.

  I’m a grown-up.

  I can handle my own life, rescue my own shit.

  Nathan came galloping to my rescue (in a BMW rather than on a white horse, but details), and that didn’t work out well in the end. And Nathan and I had had sex. Gator and I may have fooled around, and he may have given me a downright unforgettable orgasm (hello, treasured memory), but he’s the kind of guy who works and lives alone. His place in the middle of nowhere is a clue I shouldn’t ignore. Gator’s all lone wolf, and sometimes I like a little people contact.

  I set my phone down on the bed (tossing it would be way more satisfying, but I officially can’t afford to replace it). Flopping back, I contemplate my ceiling. Really, I should enjoy the view, since my next bedroom may be the backseat of my car or a cardboard box. Yes, I’m having a pity party for one. Tomorrow, I’ll pick myself up and figure out a path forward. I can’t even blame this one on Nathan because it’s squarely on me. I let myself get distracted by Gator, and I took my eye off the prize.

  On the other hand, he did help me comb the bayou for signs of wolves. He definitely made an awesome research assistant. When my phone buzzes, I grab it, grateful for the distraction.

  Come over. I’ll make you feel better.

  That’s not even an invitation, is it? It’s more of a royal command, and there are so many logistical issues that I don’t know where to start. For one thing, I’m not currently in possession of a boat, and swimming to his place isn’t happening. And secondly, I’m busy feeling sorry for myself and my shit day. The last thing I want is to haul my butt off this bed and go traipsing through the dark and the wet to Gator’s. And since no one’s gotten around to inventing teleporters and I’m light in the private helicopter department, I’m out of luck. Again.

  Just to set a good example, I pop open a new browser tab and hit up the Evite site. Unfortunately pity party autocorrects to pet party, which leaves me looking at puppy dogs in party hats and a weiner wearing an inner tube. It’s like the happy staffers there have never had a bad day or something. Or maybe upper management frowns on it? Shortsighted in my opinion. I improvise and settle for creating my own invite. A few stock images of Ben and Jerry’s, teardrops, and a bad stick drawing of my own middle finger later, I’m in business.

  I hit send. Take that, Mr. Lone-Wolf-You-Come-To-Me. Mohammed’s gonna have to come to this mountain or spend the night alone.

  Step one in this super wonderful plan of mine is stripping off anything that requires dry cleaning, buttons, or a diet. And as soon as I’m pantless and my bra hits the floor, I drag on an old T-shirt and my favorite panties. Sexyville I’m not. My panties are bright green like the Emerald City and all stretchy from going through the wash a million times. But they’re super soft and cover my pooch, which puts them firmly in my keeper column. Nathan hated these panties and banished them.

  Or so he thought.

  Heh.

  I make a quick trip to my kitchen to load up on all things carb and sugar, and then I crawl into bed. I might just stay here for the rest of the week. Or all the days that end in “y.”

  Gator

  Poppy’s place is still the same. Not sure why I thought it might have changed since I dropped her off. It’s as cheerful and rundown as it was six days ago, and the shops and bars beneath hum with noise. I’d feel better if she lived somewhere a little quieter. Maybe one of those gated communities or condo complexes where visitors have to check in with a fucking security guard. Anyone could walk up the stairs and bang on her door. I make a note to check out her security system. See if I can make any improvements.

  Music spills out of a bar on the corner advertising drinks specials. I look down at the bag I’m carrying. Yeah. Got room for improvement there. They’ve got these frozen mudslide cocktails and something else with watermelon and fruit. Bet Poppy would really like that. Probably counts as a serving of fruit, too, which makes me a genius and has to have health benefits.

  There are way too many humans in the bar. Fucking makes my skin itch. You ever see those schools of fish on the nature channel? The ones where each fish looks like the next and they’re all swimming around together because they figure being one big cluster fuck of fins and scales will make it harder for a predator to snack on their asses? Fucking describ
es the scene in the bar. But people get out of my way fast. Don’t have to ask twice.

  Bartender thinks about giving me shit when I order a drink to go, but a twenty and a glare takes care of that particular problem. Watermelon thing looks like a hot pink slushie. Give me a cold beer any day. I take Poppy’s stairs two at a time, set the drink down by my feet, and bang on the door.

  Of course she doesn’t answer. I check my evite but there are no obvious statutes of limitation. Just when I’m thinking I need to put my shoulder to her door or duck out into the alley and go in through a window, she opens the door and does a double take like she’s actually surprised to see me.

  “You look out that peephole first?”

  Fuck. I probably shouldn’t growl at her. Not first thing, anyway.

  “Gator?” The look of surprise on her face would be cute if it wasn’t so insulting. She had a bad day. She wanted me here.

  “Here.” Bending down, I swipe the drink off the ground. This has the advantage of putting me on eye-level with her bare legs. As far as I can tell, she’s wearing a T-shirt and not much else. Got her nails painted cheery red with little white polka dots. Gives me ideas, I’ve got to admit. Lick her from the bottom up.

  I hand my loot to her. Her gaze dips to the frosty pink surface, then shoots straight back to my face. She’s not as impressed as I’d hoped. Whatever. I’ve got back up plans, too.

  “Can I come in?” I ask, shoving my bag under my arm.

  “Okay,” she says. “Since you’re here.”

  “You asked,” I point out. “I RSVPed and shit. You cancel the pity party when I was already on my way?”