He backed me against the counter. A place I was growing very fond of. “What would that be, Ms. Dayne?”
“Do you remember licking my fingers in my dreams?”
He leaned back, the look of surprise on his handsome face undeniable. “That was you?”
“You mean, it really was you?” I stared in wonder. “You’re the finger licker?”
He started to step out of my embrace.
I tightened my hold until he gave in with a heavy sigh.
“I was a dog,” he said, embarrassed once again. “And you have delicious fingers. You can’t blame me.”
With a grin I constructed from sin and mischief, I revisited one of my favorite vacation destinations by nipping at his ear.
He inhaled sharply.
“I don’t blame you, Mr. Wildes.” I pressed my lips to his ear. “I worship you.”
A desperate groan wrenched from his chest. He tangled his fingers in my hair, pulled my head back, and covered my mouth with his.
I wasn’t a schoolgirl. I’d never been prone to fits of euphoria. I knew lust was simply a psychological force producing an intense desire for an object, circumstance, or person.
So when his tongue dove past my lips and explored my mouth with exquisite precision, the fact that raw, unadulterated lust fueled my reaction didn’t lessen the impact of the adrenaline spike. Didn’t slow the acceleration of my pulse. Didn’t stop the flood of warmth between my legs. Didn’t make his kiss any less overwhelming. Any less exhilarating.
He released my hair and sent both hands in search of my breasts. In a move Houdini would’ve been proud of, he had the dress unbuttoned and off my shoulders and my bra on the ground at our feet in a matter of seconds. My breasts spilled into his hands.
He sucked in cool air between our mouths. The prickle of desire when his palms cupped the weight of them, when his thumbs brushed across my nipples was instantaneous.
His mouth left mine to trail scalding kisses across my jaw and down my neck, each one rippling through my body in rising quakes.
And suddenly, I was on the counter. Like lifting me had been effortless. Either he had enhanced strength due to his werewolf status, or I’d lost a crap-ton of weight while out.
He moved his hands back to my breasts and watched as he kneaded each one.
“Shirt,” I said, wanting to do the same to him.
With a quickness born of desire, he lifted his shirt over his head and returned to the task at hand. And there was nothing—nothing on Earth, above or below—as sexy as a shirtless man covered in ink, wearing a leather kilt and gazing at me like I was a bottle of bourbon and he was a connoisseur.
The art on his body was nothing short of haunting. A giant skull spanned the entire length of his torso, its eyes penetrating and surreal. The work that blanketed the rest of him was a combination of symbols and sayings and the edges of a map of old Salem.
The full map took up his entire back along with one giant symbol. A spell actually. The spell I’d used to create the magic that transformed him into what he was today. Somehow, he’d remembered it and drew it for his incredibly talented artist.
He licked his lips and pulled the lower one in through his teeth as he studied me. But he didn’t reach for my breasts again, to their great disappointment. Instead, he went for my knees.
He spread them. Slowly. Giving me time to think about the gravity of the situation. The significance of what we were doing. The reality of what more he wanted to do.
Anticipation thickened the air around me.
His hands slid up my thighs, and I clutched his sinuous forearms, but he didn’t stop until he got to my hips. Taking a firm grip, he wrenched me closer, molding me around him until I could feel the evidence of exactly how interested he was through the thin leather of his kilt.
When he leaned in, I wrapped my arms around his wide shoulders. Pressed my breasts against his chest. Covered his mouth with mine.
Curiously, I heard drawers being pulled out on either side of me.
Just when I was about to break the kiss and demand he put his hands back where they belonged, he lifted my legs. Taking an ankle in each hand, he gently placed each of my feet inside a drawer.
One was filled with dishtowels and the other with utensils. I couldn’t have cared less, because his hands traded their place at my feet for the space between my legs. Pulling aside my panties, he slid two long fingers inside me in one smooth thrust.
Gasping, I broke off the kiss. Buried my face against his neck and my hands in his hair. I grabbed fistfuls of auburn locks and pulled. Wanting more. Willing to beg for it. How long had it been since I’d felt this way? Never. Honestly, before him. Never.
He put his mouth to my ear and said, “Spread your legs, Ms. Dayne.” Wetting his fingers, he pulled out to circle my clit, the process painfully slow and deliciously precise, sending out vibrations that rocked me to the core. He dipped his fingers again.
I bucked, my knees squeezing him in response.
“Wider,” he said more forcefully, sending an arrow of molten lava straight to my girl parts.
And I tried, but a pressure was building between my legs, like a dam about to burst in a storm.
His thumb brushed my clit, so softly it throbbed with need. I wanted his cock inside me. He leaned close again. “More,” he demanded in a husky voice.
“I can’t,” I said between pants.
“You can,” he insisted.
It took enlisting the help of the Gods, but I spread my knees, forcing them apart, tightening my fists in his hair.
“I’m going to kiss you here,” he said, massaging my clit, thrusting his fingers inside me. They were still deep inside when he knelt and found my clit with his tongue.
I whimpered.
Soft and hot and wet, his tongue feathered over me before he pressed his lips there and suckled, almost lifting me off the table in ecstasy as he milked me to climax.
I couldn’t hold back the floodtides any longer. I forced myself to relax, and the dam burst, the orgasm rocketing through me so fast, so unexpected, I cried out and screamed a few choice words as well.
I rocked forward, drawing his fingers deeper. Squeezing them. Kneading as the pulsing slowly ebbed into the sound of my heavy breaths. My soft sighs. My generous use of the F-bomb. Because nothing said, “Fuck yes,” like the words fuck and yes.
He kissed me there again, then stood and took my mouth, the taste of salt and sugar fresh on his tongue. “Fuck,” he mumbled against my lips and broke off the kiss.
“What?” I asked, more than a little dazed.
His face held utter disappointment. “Did I mention that I also have very good hearing?”
“What?” I asked again.
He had my dress over my shoulders a microsecond before my dads entered the kitchen, his face the picture of shock incarnate.
Nine
…if you get a link called ‘free porn’ don’t opin it.
It is a virus wich deactivates your spelcheck and fcuks up you riting. I also receibed it but lukily I don’t uatch porn so I dint opin it.
Plaese warm yu frends. Wanks.
-PSA
My feet, however, were still in the drawers. And Roane’s shirt was still on the floor, right next to my bra.
“What the hell?” Dad asked, his hands full of takeout. “Cariña! We prepare food on that counter.”
“Defiance!” Papi said, bringing up the rear, and pretending to be appalled. Not that he fooled anyone.
I scrambled off the counter, scooped up my bra, and rushed past them with a soft, “I’ll get changed.”
Before I got too far, however, I heard Dad say, “So, Roane . . .”
Crap. I had to hurry.
Annette stood on the landing above me, her mouth unhinged as she looked me over and said, “No. You did not.”
“Not now, Nette.”
“Yes now, you saucy minx. Where? In his pad?” She wriggled her brows.
I rolled my eyes in
humiliation. “The kitchen.”
The gasp that erupted out of her throat would become known the world over as the gasp that launched a thousand dust bunnies. I could’ve sworn dust filtered down from the ceiling and into my freshly washed hair.
I hurried past her. “The same kitchen my dads are in now. Please, go down there. I’ll be there in a jiff.”
When she wanted to, Annette could move with the speed and grace of a jaguar. This was not one of those times. She lost her footing more than once racing down the stairs and almost face-planted at the bottom, but she was still in the kitchen before I’d even gotten to my door.
Percy opened it for me. “Thanks, Percy,” I said, grateful for the help and the lack of judgment.
By the time I got changed and returned to the kitchen, the food was spread out on the island and my dads were busy eyeing Roane like they were counting the ways they could kill him in his sleep.
I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like I was in high school and the local bad boy had taken my virginity. Though thinking about it now, I wished he had. My first time had been the disaster of disasters. I’d never looked at a penis in the same way again. Not that I’d looked at any before that point. Maybe that had been was the problem. Maybe if I’d had Roane’s penis filling my—
“I see the gang’s all here,” The chief said as he walked in scanning the room, trying to cover up the fact that he was crestfallen when he didn’t see Ruthie. He also sensed the tension instantly with a quick perusal of the dinner guests.
Tiptoeing around Roane’s predatorial appraisal of me, the one that got me hot and bothered—mostly hot—I hugged the man. “Hey, Chief.”
He gave me a quick hug back. “Hey, daffodil. Feeling better?”
“Much.”
“I wonder why,” Dad said, and my face heated instantly.
“Probably the shower,” Papi said, joining in.
“Or the mani-pedi,” Annette offered.
Even at forty, the thought of my dads catching me in the act mortified.
“Oh, Chief,” Annette said, “We might have a problem with a Mr. James Vogel.”
“A lot of people have a problem with a Mr. James Vogel.” The chief filled a plate with pasta from Bela Verona. “What’s he done now?”
Annette and I exchanged hapless glances before she said, “Does being rude and obnoxious count?”
“Legally?”
“We aren’t really sure he’s done anything,” I said.
“But,” Annette added, “he wants Dephne to bring someone back from the dead.”
That got the handsome man’s attention. “Tell me everything.” He sat down and waited for us to bring our food to the table. “Tell me everything.”
Plates piled high, we explained what was going on with Mr. Vogel, whom I’d almost called Mr. Voorhees not once, not twice, but three times before throughout the conversation before it was all said and done.
Scraping the last of the pasta from his plate, the chief said, “I’ll look into it.”
“Thanks, Chief,” I said, avoiding yet another near miss with Roane’s burning gaze.
From there, the evening devolved into small talk, which included Annette’s version of what happened at the psychic’s and with the witch bottle. I ignored the pocket folder that had been moved onto the toaster oven and the fact that it glowed now. Not just the seams, but the entire folder, clearly calling to me. Insisting I pay attention.
“I just want to see him,” Annette said, talking about the curtain climber we’d apparently adopted.
The chief asked if I had my powers back, and Annette had to explained in great detail how, in her humble opinion, they were still there, buried deep inside me.
Rather like I wanted Roane to be.
Not that I said that out loud. But the hungry glances he kept casting my way were making me squirm in my chair. He was a talented, talented boy. Part of me wanted to know where he’d learned his powers of seduction and if I could send off for the correspondence course so I could pull a reversal on him.
While I got busy fanning myself, the boy Nette was so desperate to see tore through the kitchen searching for a certain battle-scared cat named Incognito. Ink wanted spaghetti. Samuel wanted Ink. Giggling, he laughed and chased the poor animal off the table before Roane could get him off.
I giggled as he dashed by. “That poor cat. Samuel’s going to kill him.”
Roane chuckled softly. “It’s good for Ink. He’s become entirely too complacent. Have you seen how many mice we have?”
“We have mice?” Annette asked, suddenly wary.
One thing I hadn’t considered during my little tête-à-tête with Roane was Samuel. Thank God he hadn’t wandered into the kitchen. He was a tad young for sex ed.
Dinner was lovely. My dads listened with rapt attention to all of Annette’s tales and even a couple of the chief’s. Ruthie definitely had some skeletons in her closet. And not just the actual ones, but metaphorical ones as well. The evening was nice. And soothing. And normal, if one didn’t count the werewolf at the table.
Right before everyone got up, I looked at the handsome men who’d raised me. My gratitude for them had no bounds. “I saw the video of the big day.”
Dad graced me with a look of pure, unconditional love. “Which day, cariña?”
“The day you guys came to get me.”
They exchanged surprised glances.
“You gave up so much for me. I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done. Everything you’ve given me.” The room fell silent. “Mostly your time and attention when you didn’t have to.”
Papi took my hand, and mimicked Dad’s soft accent when he said, “Always, cariña.”
Dad laughed softly. “It has been an honor, mi corazon.”
We stood, and they pulled me into a deep hug that lasted longer than it should have but shorter than I’d hoped.
“You saw the video?” Papi asked. “How was my hair?”
I laughed and gave him another hug.
“Your hair smells good,” he said, burying his face in the top of my head.
“Really?” I asked, far too desperately. “It doesn’t smell like lethargy? Or failure? Or six months of indolence?”
It was his turn to laugh when Dad walked up. “So . . .” he began. “. . . the wolf.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Please,” Papi said with a scoff. “It’s about time you found someone decent. We just want to make sure his intentions are honorable.”
My gaze darted to the subject at hand, who was at the sink, rinsing off dishes, his wide shoulders and lean waist so visually stunning it mesmerized me. But triangles had been my favorite shape since kindergarten, and now I knew why.
I wondered if he could hear us talking about him, figured he could, and decided I didn’t care when I said, “I don’t know about his intentions, but his tongue makes up for any discrepancies.”
“Cariña,” Dad said, fighting a grin tooth and nail while Papi high fived me.
But my question was answered when the wolf tossed a smile over his shoulder so wicked that I almost climaxed again. In my defense, it had been months.
We said our goodbye under the light of a bug zapper, then I went inside to help finish cleaning up.
The chief was just leaving.
He gave me a hug. “Can you tell her hey for me?”
“Absolutely.” I set a hand on his arm.
He headed out the front door.
I ran to stop him. “Chief, don’t give up on her.”
He nodded, his expression grave and anything but hopeful.
“You know her. You’ve known her far longer than I have. She’s not doing this for herself, although she is part mouse now, so who knows how her brain works.”
“Come again?”
“Either way, I promise you, she’s making this great sacrifice for you.” I spread my arms wide to emphasize the greatness of it all. She loved him. I knew she did. She knew she did. He knew she d
id. But for some reason, she felt she could no longer give him what he needed when all he needed was her.
He studied the wrapped plate of leftovers in his hand. “Then she’s doing it for the wrong reasons.”
“I know, but she needs to figure that out. Just . . . just don’t give up on her.”
“Never.” The impassioned gaze he gave speared me with told me everything I needed to know. “Never.”
“Thank you.” I walked him out.
By the time I got back to the kitchen, it was deserted minus a single slice of leftover pineapple upside-down cake arranged on a dessert plate with a single bite taken out of it. I hopped onto the counter of coitus and delighted in every last crumb.
I decided to take the stairs to my room when all I wanted to do was visit the wolf below. Surely, he’d had enough of me for one day. But he hadn’t gotten to experience the same pleasure as I did. Surely, he’d want an orgasm. Still, if he did, wouldn’t he have stuck around?
I almost locked the back door then realized Roane may have gone out to check on the wolves. I left it unlocked and started upstairs when the damned pocket folder piqued my curiosity.
After sliding an oven mitt over my right hand, I grabbed the bright folder. The whole thing glowed now. I figured it would burn when I touched it the just like the message had, thus the insulation. Precautions were definitely in order.
I opened the flap and scooped out the messages with a set of salad tongs, worried they’d would all be glowing now. Thankfully, the only two glowing like they’d been set on fire with some kind of supernatural eternal flame were the same ones from before. The little girl who’d lost her dog and the man wanting a remedy for male pattern baldness. But why those? Neither seemed particularly life-threatening, yet my magics seemed to think they were important enough to set them aflame.
I ran upstairs, grabbed my laptop, then hurried back down. The little girl had left no address and no phone number. The only clue I had to go on was her name and the fact that her dog was a bully. That could’ve meant anything from a French bulldog to a boxer to a pit bull or and any number of breeds in between.
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