by Anne Marsh
Clearly, she saw him looking, because she set the shoes on a chair. “They’re Manolo Blahniks,” she said, like that explained everything.
Color him clueless, because he and his brothers didn’t name their shoes. “Call them whatever you want.”
She made a face. “That’s a brand.”
More proof she was too good for him. He was outdoor camping with an outhouse while she was Four Seasons material.
While she babied her shoes and turned on a light, he prowled around her place. The living room was an explosion of white, pink and gold, with honest-to-God floor-to-ceiling windows and a fancy sofa parked in front of a fireplace decorated with curlicues and white vases. Definitely the kind of place magazines liked to photograph. Apparently, people did live in them. Not everything was perfect, however, because she had stacks of books and magazines bristling with Post-It notes on every table surface. Her lair. Her scent touched every piece in the house.
He inhaled. Gianna’s place smelled like lemon furniture polish, artificial apples and cinnamon. Nice enough, but nothing like the gritty scents of the bayou. His camp there was no Macy’s perfume counter.
Shit. Say something civilized. “You have a nice place.”
Understatement. Before he’d come to the bayou, he’d wasted decades navigating the French court. He’d visited palatial country palaces and spent quality time in the decadent homes of Paris. He’d never thought about those things, but Gianna’s home reminded him of those long-vanished palaces. She was classy. Gorgeous.
Oui. He was definitely out of his league with her. He’d never been on board with the whole blue moon fated mate gig, although clearly fate had been more than kind to his brothers. Their mates were fine women and females of worth, and he’d be proud to lay down his life for each and every one of them. Looking at Gianna, remembering what she’d tasted like, felt like, coming apart beneath his touch, he had a sneaking suspicion that he’d go even further for her.
“I like nice things.” She shrugged like it was no big deal, and wandered over to the window to stare at the slice of garden outside. Small spotlights lit up a collection of those formal topiary things surrounded by a boatload of roses and white flowers. He’d never understood why people settled for a night garden and never being home during the daylight hours. She pushed the window open and the scent of night-blooming jasmine flooded the room.
She’d worn a perfume that smelled like jasmine ten years ago. He got hard just breathing in those flowers in her garden, which was ridiculous. Sure, mating with her had been the finest sexual experience of his life. He could admit that much—and it had to be the only reason why he wanted another taste now, right?
As she turned to look at him, he wondered if she felt the same at all.
“We’re not married,” she said, sounding relieved.
Nope. She was on a completely different page from him when it came to their relationship. In fact, she was done with the book and ready to put it back on the shelf, while he was just ready to get started…reading.
Mine. No way he’d let go of her now. He’d hung on to the possibility she represented when he’d let her leave him in Vegas. Dropping regular deposits into her checking account had been one more way of satisfying the wolf’s need to provide and the man’s desire to hang on it. He’d known she’d been looking for him—the private investigators she’d set on his trail were proof enough—and he’d evaded. Marital chase me, catch me. Or pure stubbornness on his part.
He didn’t want to let her go. Worse, he wanted her to want to hang onto him and the chances of that happening were about one in a million.
“Your offer isn’t still good?” Stall for time. Find out what she really wanted. “You propose to me and then chase me for years to tell me to fuck off?”
She took a step back, putting critical distance between them, and faced him down like he was a hostile witness in her goddamned courtroom. Two could play at that game. He deliberately dropped onto her fancy white sofa, enjoying the irritated flicker of her eyes that betrayed her dislike of his move. Nope, because she wanted him gone. Gone from her house. Gone from her life. Instead, here he was, ass parked on her furniture and staying put.
She pursed her lips. “That’s one way to put it.”
“You got another?” He crossed one booted foot over another. He drew the line at using her fancy little table as a footrest. He didn’t want to mark it up none—just make sure she understood who was in charge here.
“It’s time for me to move on with my life. Date. Get married.”
His wolf growled, not liking the thought of his female hooking up with another male. His more human side, however, was stupidly pleased that she’d waited for him. For the wrong reasons, sure, but no one else had been touching her and that was good.
“You saved yourself for me.”
She inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening on the window frame. Oui. She didn’t like that mental image, but too bad.
“I wasn’t waiting for you,” she said, like she was talking about the garbage man or the contractor who fixed her plumbing. “There was every chance that I’d gotten married in a drunken fit. That means I play by the rules. That’s how it works.”
“No cheatin’.”
“Absolutely not.”
He admired her sense of honor, but they played by different rules. The thing was, he’d touched other females, but only fleetingly and only as part of his Pack. How would she react to that if he fronted with her and told her the truth? They’d been fine women, giving women, but they hadn’t been Gianna. Truth was, only Gianna was Gianna.
Which made him feel fucking stupid but it was still true.
Unfortunately, his little mate was a lawyer with superb instincts for blood in the water. She went for the jugular. “Would you have cheated on me?”
He counter-attacked. “You didn’t look at any other male, but you didn’t think about takin’ him into your bed?”
Her blush, that teasing flush of pink on her cheekbones, gave her away, as did the little hitch in her breathing. He didn’t share and that made him a possessive bastard. Wolves shared, but only to pleasure their mates.
She raised her chin and stared him down. “I’m ready to settle down. To get married and have kids.”
He patted the sofa beside him. “Come right on over here.”
She shook her head, not done with her explanation. “Not with you.”
Right. Because he didn’t even merit a spot on her list of potential mates. His mate wasn’t talking about sharing—she was planning on cutting him out of her life entirely. He had no intention of going quietly into that good night. A male couldn’t hold a woman who didn’t want to be held. The blue moon was a beacon—not a mandate. That was one of the reasons he’d let her run from him in Vegas. He might be an animal at heart, but he’d be a goddamned fucking human when it counted most.
Disappointment lanced through him. Stupid, because he’d known he’d have to give her back. That one day, he’d really and truly have to let her go. A piece of paper and a few words in front of a justice of peace didn’t begin to cover what he felt for her.
He looked at her. “You don’ remember anything you like about Vegas?”
***
She remembered too much.
Or not enough.
God, she had no idea which was true. Around Luc, everything got crazy mixed-up so fast. She pressed her cheek against the cool glass, staring out into the garden.
“Come here, shug,” he ordered in the rough-tender voice that had haunted her dreams. Of course she looked over. Stupid. He’d sprawled on her couch like some kind of werewolf pasha and, when he eyes met his, he patted the cushion beside him. She wasn’t his pet. His toy.
His woman.
But the heat building inside her demanded attention and it had been so damned long. Wanting a lover was perfectly natural. He was here. He was temporarily hers. Why not make use of him? Her logic sucked, but it had been one of those days and she was ready fo
r it to end on a happy note. Somehow, without conscious thought, her feet took her right over to the man on the couch.
Her knees bumped against the silky fabric, inches from his. “If we’d been married, I would have wanted a divorce.” She put the words out there. The thing had to be said. Tonight she might be in the market for a lover, but tomorrow she still wanted to move on with her life. This non-thing between them had to be resolved.
He nodded, linking his fingers gently around her wrist. “I hear you.”
Not agreement, but it was enough. He tugged and she landed on the couch beside him, the whole world freezing and slowing. No, not freezing. Burning. Every part of her was on fire around this man.
In no rush, he brushed a finger down her throat. She’d left her jacket in her car and had undone the top button of her blouse in deference to the warmth she’d worked up walking. The callused pad of his fingers moved down the open space, over her traitorous pulse, her collarbone.
“I missed you,” he growled.
Had he? Then he should have come knocking, should have looked her up. He trailed his finger lower, flicking open her topmost button, tracing the valley between her breasts where she was sweat-slicked and soft. Her skin gave beneath his touch and she arched up just a little.
“This have a name too?” The hoarse rasp of his voice was a lifeline in a sea of sensations.
His hand got busy, unbuttoning her, spreading open her blouse. She liked sexy lingerie. Even if no one but her would see it, she loved the way the fabrics touched her. Silk and satin. The soft cups or the crueler ones that pushed her up, held her in place for a lover’s kiss that wasn’t coming and left red marks on her skin. Even better was the satisfaction of sliding the thing off, slipping free at the end of the day. This bra was her favorite, a rich gold with petal-soft cups and black lace.
“La Perla.” The words tumbled out of her mouth.
“I like it.” Her skin heated up where his fingers tickled her skin, like the champagne had that night ten years ago. But did he like her? She was more than her lingerie, more than the things she’d acquired along the way.
“Souvenir. That’s what you need. A little keepsake reminder.” His Cajun-French accent still did wicked, wicked things to her insides. Surrendering to the moment, she leaned back against her couch, savoring the slick sensation of the upholstery beneath her. When she looked down, La Perla was doing its job, shaping her breasts into the prettiest pale mounds. She liked her breasts. That part of her wasn’t the problem.
Her breathing hitched. This was such a bad idea. But it had been so long and she wanted another taste.
“Jus’ a memory,” he growled softly, as if he could read her mind. He dropped to his knees. The change in position should have put her in the position of power, but he was in charge. Oh, God. Was he ever.
He brushed his mouth over the lacy cups and the exquisite pressure against her nipples had her sucking in a harsh breath and arching up. Take it off, she mentally pleaded. Bare me.
Like he had in Vegas, he knew what she needed. Big hands folded her skirt up, the fabric creasing around her waist and she’d have to send it to the dry cleaners and should she take him up to her bedroom and…her brain sputtered and stopped. Naked. Luc made that rough sound of pleasure she loved so much as he found her knees with his hands and opened her up.
“You’re downrigh’ gorgeous, shug.”
For him, she wanted to be. He was gorgeous in a rough, fierce way. From the hard line of his jaw to the dark glitter in his eyes as he stared at her body laid out for him. His. For the moment. Because right now she wanted him and he was offering. By tomorrow or even later tonight, however, the orgasms would fade and then what would she have? He drew his fingers up her thighs, leaving small sparks of pleasure where he touched and…she was ten years older. Softer. Her body had more than a little wear and tear on it and what if the reality of her wasn’t as good as whatever fantasy he’d nursed for those years?
“Panties stay on.” Her sudden nerves were ridiculous. He’d seen everything before. She was what she was and no amount of wishing would transform her into a swimsuit model in the next five minutes. Five years wouldn’t have been enough.
He nodded. “Whatever you wan’.”
Oh, the fantasies of having him at her beck and call… He ran his thumb over the center of her panties, like he was testing to see just how soft she was. And wet. She was wet too because she liked what he was doing to her.
More than liked. His fingers brushing over her lace-covered folds made her ache and dampen. She wanted him beneath her panties, stabbing deep inside, but she’d made the rules. He was only playing by them.
He circled her clit with his thumb and she moaned, unable to hold back the little sound.
“Oui,” he growled. “That’s what I wan’ to hear. You, comin’ on my fingers. Lettin’ me know how much you enjoy this.”
He hooked a finger in the side of her panties and tugged, making room for himself. Still playing by the rules she’d set, he slipped a rough, male finger beneath the edge. Stroked over her where she was wet and swollen.
She moaned softly as he petted her. He was in no rush. Thank God. So she let it feel good. She could kick him out later. Do all the things she was supposed to do…later. Right now was all about Luc.
Curling his fingers into her, he leaned closer.
“Now I’m takin’ your panties down.”
Please.
Not waiting for an answer, he pulled, leaving the lace stretched around her upper thighs. Luc Breaux was definitely in charge. Bound by her panties, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t open her thighs wider in silent demand for more.
He kissed her there. No lead up, no sweet tease. He closed his mouth over her clit and sucked gently. Oh, God. The erotic suction had her crying out, her hands flying to his shoulders, digging into his T-shirt and the hard skin beneath.
He lifted his head and she groaned in frustration. “Hands by your side.”
When she hesitated, he blew lightly, the air tormenting her swollen clit.
“Do it.”
Or what? She dug her teeth into her lower lip, biting back the question. Luc would show her. She had no doubt of that, or that she would enjoy his sweet punishment. Was she ready to play those dark games with him? Tonight?
She pressed her hands into the couch beside her hips.
“You trust me,” he said, fierce satisfaction filling his face. She had no idea whether his words were a question or a statement. Maybe a promise.
He came back to her, circling his tongue around her clit. Licking the sides, tasting her. Licking and teasing until the tiny tremors started to build inside her, the pulse between her legs threatening to drown out the banging of her heart. Luc.
He took her with his mouth and she kept her hands flat on the sofa, not touching him. She wanted to tell him to come here, to hurry up. To slow down and stretch the moment out for hours. By ordering her to keep her hands by her sides, he’d made this about her pleasure and not his. Her thighs shook as her body tensed, fighting to come as he licked another wicked path around her clit. All she could do was feel—and hold on.
One finger dipped into her pussy, slid deep inside her in a sure, liquid glide. He pulled out, switching fingers, and worked the first against her tight rear hole. She tensed, relaxed into the bright pop of pleasure-pain as he breached virgin territory.
“Luc.” His name tumbled out before she could hold it back.
And then he stopped. Lifted his head and looked her in the eye.
“Ask me for it.”
“I’m not asking you for anything.” She’d spent her adult lifetime making sure she didn’t ask for anything from anyone—and that included him. No matter how good he made her feel, she didn’t have to have this.
“Then demand it from me,” he growled.
Oh, that worked for her. Her pussy dampened more, her body relaxing for him. She grabbed his beautiful, fierce face between her hands.
“Make
me come.”
Ordering him she could do. Giving in was something else entirely.
He did something with his fingers, spearing her ass and her pussy, his fingertips rubbing and coaxing and she came apart, her body taking a slow, melting tumble into orgasm. Arm pressed over her face, her mouth working against her own skin in a silent cry.
“Beautiful,” he growled, turning his face until his cheek rested against her thigh. Like he was breathing her in and that was enough.
***
She was still trying to come to terms with her new boneless condition when something or someone in the garden set off a silent alarm. She’d debated going the home security system route, not liking the idea of living in a fortress, but she was a woman alone and shit happened. She’d bought the service.
“You’ve got company.” Luc tapped the monitor on her coffee table.
She shrugged away from his hold, putting herself back together. Pulled up her panties and tugged her skirt down. It was likely wasted effort, because the look on his face said he just wanted to undo her again. Like he knew that she wore her self-control like armor and he planned to peel it all away.
Picking up her phone, she studied the screen before flipping it around so he could see. “I’ve got a dog in my back garden.”
Yeah. That was a question mark he heard in her voice. He studied the image. The big black wolf had a chunk missing from its left ear. Golden eyes looked up at the security camera as the wolf let out a snarl. Oui. He’d bet most humans wouldn’t be messing with an animal like that, on their property or not.
She fidgeted with the phone. “I’ll call animal control. Again.”
“There’s nothing they can do for you here.” She could dial and dial, but the problem in her backyard was way beyond what Animal Control could handle.
“That’s a dog. A wolf. A fucking coyote. Whatever it is, it’s furry, has four legs, and no business being in my garden.”
“Oui.” His easy agreement about had her keeling over from the shock. When she reached for the phone, however, he touched the back of her hand and shook his head. “They can’t fix this for you, boo.”
