by Liz Craven
“Oh my God!”
Lucas laughed against her belly before pulling at her pants. She felt the button give and reached down, desperate to remove them.
He slapped at her hands. “I want to do this. Unwrap you like the gift you are.”
Wow. If her body hadn’t already melted like butter, those words would have done it. Her hands fell to her sides and fisted the covers beneath her as he unzipped the jeans and worked them down her hips.
“Faster,” she ordered.
“You’re killing me. You’re so wet you’ve soaked through the pants.”
She was so desperate for him the obvious proof of her arousal couldn’t embarrass her—nor could the control-top grannie panties. Not that he waited to admire them. After his harsh, ground out admission, he jerked the panties and pants off her legs.
He reared back and his gaze swept her from head to toe. “You are so beautiful. You have no idea how long I’ve hoped for you.”
Her heart turned over, and she reached for him again. Lucas had other ideas. With a gentle shove, he parted her legs. He took a moment to run his fingers through the tight brown curls between them before using thick fingers to separate her folds. He lowered his head and traced the ridge between her outer and inner labia with his tongue. She bucked against him and he switched sides, repeating the procedure before blowing a hot breath against her clit.
The sensation knifed through her, startling a scream from her throat. “Jesus Christ!”
Lucas didn’t respond, lowering his head and drawing the aching nub into his mouth. She writhed and thrashed as one thick finger slid inside her. The combined sensation almost killed her. She was so close, so very close ….
Once again, Lucas pulled away, wrenching a sob of despair rather than pleasure from her chest.
“Not this time, honey. The first time you come for me, I want to feel it around my cock while I hold you in my arms.”
He moved to take her mouth again, for a moment she tasted herself, then the kiss deepened and she tasted only him. She wound her legs around his waist and felt the uncomfortable rasp of silk against her thighs.
“You’re boxers,” she protested around his tongue.
He pulled back, and to her later amusement, grabbed the open slit in the front and ripped the offending garment from his body. She caught a glimpse of his cock, a moment before he settled back between her thighs, and had to admit, Elliot had nothing on Lucas. The image of her current lover’s penis was emblazoned on her brain. Long, thick and crowned with a flared, mushroom head engorged with blood. The sight had her salivating.
Dwelling on the impressive image, she missed him shifting a hand down between her thighs. Only when he stroked her clit did she realize what he was doing.
“Ready honey?” he asked.
“I passed ready at dinner,” she shot back.
He laughed, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and held her open as he gently pressed himself into her.
Her breath caught in her throat at the heavenly sting and burn.
He froze. “Am a hurting you?”
“No, but I’ll hurt you if you stop.”
“Honey, the only thing that could stop me is you.”
She canted her hips. “That feels so good.”
“Good doesn’t do it justice,” he ground out. He continued to push, stretching her. “I’m almost in.”
Good God, he was going to press against her tonsils shortly. Not that she was complaining. If anything, he wasn’t moving fast enough. To hurry him, she tightened her thighs around his flanks and thrust upwards. To her delight, he snarled and thrust hard.
The heavy weight of his balls rested against her ass as he paused. “You okay?”
“Never better,” she assured him.
And then he started to move.
Her eyes rolled back in her head as he buried his face in her neck and thrust. The hand between her legs shifted to caress the tight bundle of nerves that ached so badly, causing bolts of delightful electricity to shoot through her body.
He filled her so tightly she could feel every ridge, every vein. Time ceased and she existed in a vacuum of erotic pleasure. Nothing mattered but the sensations coursing through her.
Lucas seemed determined to draw it out. He knew how to touch her, how to stroke her clit, her breasts, with just enough pressure to keep her on the knife’s edge without letting her slip over to completion.
Finally, he muttered, “I can’t last any longer. I’m sorry.” And then he stroked her clit with more force as he shoved hard into her.
She splintered and shattered. A strangled scream burst from her throat and vibrant colors danced behind her eyes.
He pressed against her, held, and she felt him spurt deep within her. He pulled back, surged forward, and spurted again, before repeating the process a third and last time. She could have died happy feeling him come within her.
His arms trembled, but he levered himself up—and regrettably out of her—to offer a satisfied smile. “You’re amazing.”
The sincere honesty and pleasure in his eyes made her want to burst with pride. Instead she managed, “You’re pretty amazing yourself.”
He laughed and rolled to his side, pulling her with him. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll amaze you again.”
“Again?”
“I think there was something about exploring the lovemaking options offered by a floor.”
She laughed and cuddled against him, only to find herself amazed a few more times that night. Even if he never got around to removing that last sock.
Chapter Ten
Lucas blinked against the light streaming through his bedroom window. At some point one of them must have turned off the bedroom lamp. He glanced down and smiled at the sight of Jan tucked tightly against him. The corner of his eye caught sight of the shattered lamp on the floor. It brought a memory from the night to the forefront and had a smile playing across his lips.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, groggily.
“Remembering what happened to the lamp.”
To his delight, she turned bright red. “I’ll replace it.”
He snorted. “I was thinking about having the remains framed to honor last night.”
Jan buried her head against his chest. “That was depraved.”
“But fun,” he agreed.
“Definitely.”
The thread of embarrassment in her voice made him want to tease her. Unfortunately, his conscious wouldn’t let him. They’d mated during the night. Fully and completely. He needed to let her know what had happened—and what he was. She deserved no less. Honestly, she had deserved to know before he bedded her.
“Jan, honey, there’s something I have to show you.”
“I saw it last night,” she grumbled, snuggling closer.
“This is important.” He shrugged the shoulder she’d burrowed against.
She raised her head, giving him an irritated, sleepy glare. “What?”
“I’m Tigre.”
“That’s nice,” she muttered lowering her head.
“I’m a shapeshifter.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
Was she falling back asleep? He jostled the shoulder again. “I turn into a tiger.”
She glared and flopped over onto her own pillow. “I saw that last night. Can I compliment you later?”
“I’m not talking about being a tiger in the sack.”
“You were,” she told the pillow. “I promise you were fantastic.”
“Jan,” he growled, shaking her shoulder. He’d always heard mates were difficult, but this was ridiculous. “Turn over and watch.”
“If I do, will you let me sleep,” she mumbled into the pillow.
“I promise.”
She flipped over to face him with a disgruntled expression.
Feeling self-conscious he peeled the left sock from his leg.
“Wow. I’m impressed,” Jan grumbled. “Can I go back to sleep now?”
“Just remember, I
will never hurt you.”
“I know.” Her voice and eyes softened.
Before he could lose his nerve, he shifted. In the space of a few heartbeats, he went from two legs to four.
Jan jerked up and stared at him for a long moment, before letting lose a blood-curdling scream and racing for the door. She snagged a t-shirt from the clean clothes hamper by the door.
Lucas shifted, swore, grabbed his pants from the previous night and chased his mate down the hall, hopping into them as he went.
He followed his stubborn little mate out the backdoor. Instead of chasing her down the steps to the backyard, he leapt over the railing. He landed in front of her and received a strong right hook to his left eye. Staggering back more in surprise than pain gave Jan the opportunity to dash around him.
The growl that left his throat was issued in frustration, but she picked up the pace and he smelled the additional surge of adrenaline. Angry at himself, he ran behind her, intentionally not overtaking her. “Can we talk about this for a minute?”
“Stay away from me!” she shrieked without breaking stride.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I am not!”
“We need to talk about this.” He took pride in the reasonable tone he used.
“Fine. Give me a call next week.”
He swallowed a laugh at the acerbic response. Jan definitely had spunk. “I’d rather talk now. For crying out loud, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Ha!”
He was spared having to come up with a witty rejoinder for such a philosophical point, when she tripped over something. He sped up and caught her before she hit the ground. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Let go!”
He had a firm grip on her upper arms and had no intention of letting her loose. “Calm down. I just want to talk to you.”
“There are no such things as werewolves,” she screeched.
“I’m not a werewolf.” He tried not to grind his teeth in frustration.
“Werewolves are nothing but legends grown out of historical misunderstanding of a medical condition. Hypertrichosis causes excess bodily hair that covers the entire dermis. Of course, lycanthropy refers to the psychological condition where a person believes himself to be a werewolf. But real werewolves are myths just like vampires—which I think have roots in a medical condition, too.”
“This I’ve got to hear,” a voice said from behind him.
Lucas glared over his shoulder at his Alpha. His mate had him so tied up in knots he hadn’t sensed Damien’s arrival.
A bewildered expression crossed Jan’s face, but she responded to the statement. “There is a medical condition that I saw on a rerun of CSI where a woman had to consume the organs of a human or go insane. She used her dog to kill people for her so she could put them in the blender. I think the history of vampires ties into that somehow. I can’t remember what that condition is called.”
The completely bizarre tangent had Lucas wondering if their bond allowed Damien to order her as he would any other pride member. He put the thought into words. “Why are we discussing vampires?”
She glared at him. “You’re the one who brought it up.”
He was fairly certain he hadn’t, but given the bizarreness of the conversation he decided not to debate the issue and muddy the waters further. “I’m not a vampire and I’m not a werewolf.”
“Of course not. They don’t exist.”
“Honey, you watched me turn into a tiger, not a wolf.”
“I did no such thing. What did you give me? A little peyote in the wine?”
The insult had him growling again. “I would never do that.”
Damien began to laugh so hard he was choking.
“You’re not helping,” Lucas snarled.
“I’m not trying to,” his Alpha told him cheerfully. “You’ve got to admire her ability to rationalize.”
“That’s what this is,” Jan gasped and her face lit with understanding. “You aren’t a polygamist cult. You’re a cult that worships werewolves!”
“We are not wolves,” he growled at her in frustration.
“Fine. You are a cult that worships weretigers.”
“Polygamists?” Damien howled with laughter. “Have you met Caitlyn? She’d castrate me first.”
The need to rake his hands through his hair made him release his stubborn mate. She took advantage of her freedom and leapt into the river. The distance she gained was pretty impressive, especially for the human.
“Stay back! Cats don’t like water.”
He glared at her, but didn’t correct the obvious fallacy. “Jan, the water’s cold. Come out and let’s discuss this inside where it’s warm.”
“I’m perfectly warm right here.”
“You are courting hypothermia right there,” he snapped back. She wasn’t, not yet. But she would be if she didn’t come out soon.
“Maybe I should get Caitlyn,” Damien suggested between guffaws.
“I can handle this,” Lucas muttered.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
Lucas followed her gaze to see his Alpha stripping.
“Do you feel stoned right now?” Damien asked.
“I’m stone-cold sober,” Jan assured them haughtily. “And you can put your clothes back on this minute, or I’m telling Caitlyn.”
Lucas fixed his gaze on his recalcitrant mate when he felt the prickle of magic that accompanied a shift. Jan’s eyes widened and she stumbled backwards.
“Maybe I’m not sober, yet,” she whispered.
Lucas had enough. Taking advantage of her distraction, he strode into the water and slung her over his shoulder. Her bare legs felt like ice and the fists pounding his lower back didn’t feel much warmer.
Ignoring her yells, he strode back to his house without so much as a nod to Damien. He figured the other man had a half-human wife and understood his frustrations.
He hadn’t shut the door behind him when he’d chased the stubborn minx out into the woods. The living room was chilly, but still warmer than it was outside. He locked the door behind him then carried her through the house to the laundry room. After dumping her gently if unceremoniously onto the floor, he hauled sweats and a pair of socks out of the dryer and grabbed a towel and first aid kit from beneath the sink.
“Dry off. Get warm. Wash your feet in the sink—you’ve probably cut them—then come into the living room. I’m not going to hurt you, but we need to talk.”
Stalking from the utility room, he closed the door to give her a sense of privacy. Then he headed to the keypad and set the alarm. He wasn’t going to trust his volatile little mate as far as she could throw him.
Chapter Eleven
Jan sat on the counter watching Lucas whisking eggs in a ceramic mixing bowl. He’d been so offended by the peyote suggestion he demanded she watch him make breakfast so she could see the ingredients.
He dumped the eggs into the frying pan before asking, “How bad are your feet? Do I need to look at them?”
His eyes stayed on the spatula he used to scramble the eggs and she felt a little sliver of alarm that he wouldn’t look at her. Had she offended him? Of course, she’d offended him. Why did it bother her so much?
The world had gone crazy and she was the only one who’d stayed sane. Or maybe the world had stayed sane and she’d gone crazy.
“Just a few scrapes. I doctored them and slapped a couple of bandages on.”
He hesitated a brief moment before resuming the methodical movement of eggs over heat. Nervous energy had her swinging her legs lightly, which felt odd in male sweats. What was it about the cut of men’s sweats that had the crotch hanging down between her knees?
“You’re a scientist. I assume you are familiar with Occam’s razor.”
Cocking her head to the side, Jan studied his bland expression. “It’s a theory that states the most obvious answer is usually the right one.”
“You’ve watched both Damien and
me turn into tigers. What does Occam’s razor suggest?”
“It suggests you’re a weretiger—”
“Tigre,” he corrected.
“—but Chatton’s anti-razor counters that there are too many variables in the world to ever reach an obvious answer.” It was a weak argument, but she wasn’t ready to admit out loud that she believed in … Tigress. God help her.
He lifted the pan from the heat and used the spatula to divide the eggs onto the two plates that already held crisp bacon and toast slathered in melted butter. “Do you really believe I’d slip you a drug?”
Temper flared. “You already did!”
He met her eyes and she saw his surprise, then offense. “I didn’t slip you the painkiller. I made certain you knew what I was doing.”
“You forced a drug on me against my will!”
“And I’d do it again, but I would never slip you anything!”
“So it’s okay to force drugs on me if I know you’re doing it, but not if I don’t?” Incredulity weighted the question.
“I will not let you suffer intense pain when I can help. I make no apology for treating a patient too stubborn to see to her own health.”
Jan’s jaw dropped almost to the floor. “Oh my God! What country are you living in? What century are you living in?”
“I know you find this hard to believe, but I didn’t like giving you the drug against your will—at least once I knew who you were. Damien, who is Alpha of this pack, ordered me to treat you. I didn’t like making you unhappy or making you feel powerless, but I liked the idea of your pain far less. I won’t lie to you. I would have given you that shot even without his order.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “I don’t remember dropping acid this morning, but that’s the only rational explanation I can come up with—Occam’s razor or Chatton’s anti-razor.”
“Breakfast is ready,” he announced, as if she couldn’t see him putting the plates on the table.
She wiggled down from the counter, her stomach making unladylike demands, and shuffled to the table, keeping the too-big pants hiked up as best she could, before falling onto her meal like some prehistoric creature on a kill.
