Seduced by a Cajun Werewolf

by Seduced By a Cajun Werewolf [MF] (v5. 0) (epub)

  “Something like that.” His forehead creased in a frown. He stared up at the ceiling and took a long breath. She watched his massive chest rise and fall and felt a strong urge to place her hand over his heart. To ease the pained look that marred his handsome face. Not physical pain, but emotional. Like their conversation might, in fact, kill him.

  She turned back to the storm lighting up the sky. Failure is not an option, she reminded herself. “Do you have any idea why I'm here?” she finally asked.

  “No,” he said. “But I've wished for it at least once a day for the last seventy-four thousand days.” His words were honest, passionate, and defeated.

  “Enough!” She spun and glared at him. “Your words will not alter your fate.”

  “I don't expect them to. Why are you here, Cayenne? Obviously something happened all those years ago. Something of which you have no memory. Which means you also have no memory of me. So why have you come?”

  Even tied to the bed, flat on his back in what should have been a vulnerable position, he was making sense, taking control. She took another deep breath and started forward. She may not remember him, but she remembered her dreams. She knew the feel of his skin against hers, the way the coarse hair on his chest tickled her breasts. She remembered the heat of his breath against her cheek as he whispered endearments to her in French.

  Every sensation was as real as if they'd actually been together. But they hadn't. And so, the realism made her curious. Would his muscles ripple beneath her fingertips?

  Her curiosity disgusted her. She wasn't used to being sidetracked. She was cold. Ruthless. Calculating. She didn't dawdle. Never allowed herself to participate in small talk. Why would she? The sooner she was done, the sooner she could leave.

  But there was something about him. And, damn it, she wanted to find out what that something was.

  Chapter Four

  Cayenne looked at Laurent with glowing blue eyes. He swallowed but didn't look away. Her glossy hair cascaded around her shoulders as she stalked toward him. She reminded him of a panther walking along a branch in the jungle, stalking her dinner.

  He'd gladly offer himself for her table. Almost did, when she licked her lips and crawled onto the bed. She straddled his legs and slowly crept up his body, her gaze never leaving his. He couldn't have looked away if he'd wanted to.

  Something about her was different. Maybe only a subtle shift in attitude, but he could feel it. Could see it in the tiny smirk on her lips. Lightning lit the sky, turning the darkness bright and bathed her in pale blue light. The rain continued to pour down and, a few seconds later, thunder rolled over the city like a run-away steel drum.

  She stopped when her hand touched his shoulder. She had such cold fingers for such a hot night; they seared his overheated skin like icicles. A yearning deep inside made him want to hold her close and warm her up. Desire ran hot and fast through his body, and he couldn't stop it or deny the evidence she surely felt. Couldn't hold back the need he'd experienced for so long.

  “I'll admit you intrigue me.” She cocked her head to one side, as if she wasn't sure what to make of him. When had that sweet little girl become this sassy, insanely sexy woman? It didn't matter, he decided. He liked her sass. Yet he wondered if it was an act.

  “What did I call you? All those years ago?”

  “You called me Laurent.”

  “So you are Laurent Deveraux?” She leaned down and licked his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to memorize every detail, every sensation that washed over him.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Is it?”

  “I wouldn't want to kill the wrong person.” Her sultry pout belied her words. Kill? As in kill...him? That siren went off again in his head.

  “Why would you want to kill me?”

  “It's not what I want, dearest. It's what I was hired to do. It's how things work.”

  “Then why haven't you killed me yet?”

  Her face the portrait of concentration, she raked her fingernails across his chest, and he sucked in a sharp breath. She lifted her hands and inspected the nail on her index finger. The seconds ticked by. What the hell was she thinking? What game was she playing?

  “That's a good question, Laurent. A very good question.” This time, when she aimed her fingernail above his heart, the muscle he'd thought was long gone actually skipped a beat. Momentarily he thought of turning, fighting, and getting the hell out of there. But he couldn't make himself do any of those things. Instead, he laughed.

  “You find something funny about being chained to my bed, wolf?”

  “I find it ironic that I’ve spent the better part of two hundred years trying to drink away your memory and here you are, almost to the day of your disappearance—tormenting me once again. I can’t help but wonder if I’m dreaming.”

  “I can assure you wolf, you’re not dreaming.”

  A sharp sting ripped through him as the red tip of one of her nails carved into his flesh like a knife. Not too deep, but far enough to make it bleed. He growled up at her. Any normal person would have been scared shitless, but she just laughed.

  Then she sliced another line.

  “An upside down cross...for the fallen ones.”

  “Do you mark all of your victims?” he asked.

  Her gaze flicked to his, and then back to his chest. “No. You're the lucky first.”

  “Kiss me.”

  “What?” For a second, maybe even less, she looked rattled. Unsure of herself. The cocky smile that graced her lips disappeared.

  “I told you to kiss me.”

  “And you think I'm going to follow your orders?” Sass and superiority flooded back into her beautiful azure eyes. “Just like that?”

  “You know you want to,” he taunted. And he knew he might just die if she didn't. He wanted to feel those dusky pink lips on his. Against his skin. Gliding over his stomach, wrapped around his cock. He went in for the kill. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “You lie.”

  “Do I?” he asked.

  She was looking at his lips.

  Mentally, he pictured himself cupping her cheeks. Imagined the softness of her skin. He knew she'd be cold to the touch and wondered how long it would take for him to warm her. He wanted to haul her close and lavish her with kisses and caresses, to touch her until she remembered. Until she would never forget him again.

  Instead, he settled for rotating his hips, effectively rubbing the hard length of his cock against the apex of her thighs.

  She licked her lips and leaned forward. It was all he could do to stay relaxed against the bed, to not seem so anxious. The wolf inside him demanded he snap the chains and make her his. His more human half recognized the need to engage her if he had any hope of reserecting their relationship.

  He needed to seduce her.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I won't bite.”

  “But I will, monsieur,” she whispered, her lips only millimeters from his.

  He sucked in a deep breath and held her gaze. Two hundred years he'd waited for this. Did she have any clue? Did she know he was ready to pass out from the ecstasy? But he wouldn't. He couldn't. Like hell, he'd miss this kiss.

  “I was hoping you would,” he whispered back. Then he closed the tiny distance between them.

  The first tentative touch of her lips quenched his thirst. He pressed his body to hers. Her lithe frame and feminine curves fit against him from chest to crotch; she rested her hands on his shoulders and kissed him slowly, her movements exploratory. The delicate brushes of her lips became firmer, hotter.

  He let her take the lead, accepted her weight as she sank down on him and wrapped an arm behind his neck. She opened her lips ever so slightly and hovered there, barely moving, as if waiting. Deciding something. Then her tongue swept along his lips, tasting and tempting him. He groaned.

  She swallowed the sound and kissed him harder. Hot, open mouthed, her body grinding against his as if she couldn't get enough. He
slid his tongue inside her mouth, let it parry with hers. She sucked it in deep and nibbled it with her teeth.

  Not touching her was torture. The muscles in his arms, shoulders and chest ached, not just from the confinement, but from the desire to wrap around her and never let her go. Part of him felt weak and helpless. Violet was in his arms...or rather, she should have been. He was kissing her as he'd always wanted to do. Yet he didn't want to snap the chains and scare her away. The other part of him, the darker part, however, demanded that he do exactly that.

  When she pulled back, her hair cascaded around them like a sleek, dark curtain. “You're right. I did want to do that.”

  “So do it again,” he urged.

  “Sorry, monsieur. It was a one-time deal.”

  “I don't think so, sweetie,” he said. He knew she was lying; he could smell her arousal. But he could also smell something...darker. More toxic. Not anger or fear. He was losing his control over her mind. He stared pointedly at her lips. “That was the best kiss I've had in a helluva long time. I want another.”

  She didn't even look at him as she slithered off his lap. Her footsteps were barely audible over the loud bang of thunder. The storm outside crescendoed as she reached into her coat. He saw the hilt of a sword, then the sheen of its silver blade.

  His heart exploded. With a single hard yank, he pulled free of the chains and leapt across the room.

  She whirled with a surprised cry.

  He grabbed her wrist before she could raise the sword, but miscalculated her strength. She jerked away from him and swung the weapon. He jumped back.

  “I thought you were joking about the whole killing me thing.” He held his hands out in a placating gesture and offered her a dazzling smile.

  “I never joke.” Her fangs were a brilliant white against her berry colored lips; her eyes, an eerie silver, swirled with emotions. She continued to attack.

  “What the hell--” He dodged another swing. “--is wrong with you?”

  Perhaps she was possessed. She moved around him like a firefly, wielding her weapon. He ducked. The blade came down on the dresser next to him, and the once contemporary piece splintered into bits of wood.

  “You're strong, I'll give you that.” He hurled himself across the bed.

  She vaulted onto it, her sword held high, and he attacked her. His tackle brought them down in a heap. The sword hit the ground with a clatter, and air whooshed out of her lungs.

  “Wolf!” she snarled.

  “Did you think I wouldn't go down fighting?” he asked. She strained against him, but he held her down. Years of service in several armies had taught him how to stay alive.

  “You're supposed to die,” she snapped. “It's ordered.”

  “Too fucking bad, princess.” He rubbed his cheek against hers, relishing the softness of her skin, the subtle scent of woman and lotion.

  “I’ve always wondered what happened to you. We never found your body.” She lay coiled beneath him as tightly as a snake, ready to strike. But it was his turn to enjoy her. He licked her earlobe, and then dragged the tip of his tongue along the edge of her jaw.

  She sucked in a breath and bucked against him. When that didn’t move him, she tried a different tactic. “Let me go, Laurent,” she said softly, sweetly.

  “So now you use my name.” How wonderful it sounded on her tongue. After all these years, it was a balm to his soul. A soul he’d thought was long gone, forsaken. He looked down at her, noticed that her eyes were an odd mixture of blue and silver. Ducking his head, he kissed her throat, her collarbone.

  “Mine,” he groaned against the tender skin between her breasts.

  “Over my dead body.”

  He was momentarily distracted by the delicious mounds of flesh beneath him, and she twisted and pushed against him until she was free. He grabbed her foot and yanked her back across the bed.

  He came down hard against her back. She fought like a Pit Bull, her fingernails shredding the bedding.

  “You're already dead,” he said. “Remember?”

  “Not all of me.” A sharp elbow connected with his ribs, and he howled in pain and rolled away from her.

  Damn it to hell, she was strong.

  Still, he reached for her. Her nails sliced his skin like a paper shredder. He grabbed her throat, and surprise flickered in her eyes. Then her shin connected with his balls, and he saw stars.

  “You’re…not gonna kill me,” he puffed out, glaring at her. “So you might as well…give up.”

  “Never.” She rubbed her throat. “I always complete the job.”

  “Listen, honey, my were is about two seconds away from making his debut, and we both know who always wins those fights. So do yourself a favor and keep your pretty skin intact.”

  “Your balls still hurting, big boy?” Her foot came at him again, but this time he was faster. He caught her foot in midair and gave it a hard twist. She spun through the air. He barely managed to duck out of the way of her other foot before she landed on the floor.

  A quick roll, then a fancy flip had her standing upright again.

  “Watch a lot of kung fu movies?” he asked as he pounced on her.

  She hissed.

  He snarled, and they both fought for the upper hand. Her back hit the wall, and he leaned in close. This wasn't how he'd envisioned getting his hands on her. In fact, it was the farthest thing from it. He'd never touched her in anger before. Never seen her angry. But she was out for blood this time. His blood.

  She tensed her muscles and pushed against his chest. “You're not a half bad opponent.”

  “I'd have to say the same about you,” he uttered, and deftly kissed her nose.

  With a grunt, she shoved him away.

  He grinned. “Cat and mouse. Is that how you like to play?”

  “You make a nice mouse,” she said, leaping over the bed and grabbing her sword.

  He waited for her to come at him, knowing he could sidestep her moves all night. Would she ever grow tired of this game? Wasn't she ready to give in and let them both have the pleasure they desired? She started toward him, each step carefully placed on the floor. Lightning glinted off the sword at her side, its tip pointed at his chest.

  He jumped left, then right, to avoid the blade. “When did you learn to fight?”

  “Years ago.” Wood cracked and splintered as she chopped into a table. He continued dodging her. She kept swinging. “Why. Won't. You. Die?” She punctuated each word with a jab.

  “So this is your job? Killing people?” He rolled backwards over the bed, feeling like a playful, eight week-old pup. Her eyes flashed silver. He wasn't particularly afraid of her—and if he could take a time out, he was sure he'd laugh at the whole situation.

  The woman he loved more than life itself had been hired to assassinate him, and here she was dancing around him in her lingerie, trying to slice him to bits. Yes, the Fates had a brutal sense of humor.

  “Why are you not afraid of me?” She stopped to look at him. Her heaving breasts threatened to spill over the top of the lacey cups of her bra. Standing in the doorway, with rain splattering her feet, she was a vision. Lithe, toned, and delicious.

  “I used to kill your kind for a living.” He cocked his head to the side, watching her through his lashes as his words sank in.

  She let out a piercing battle cry and leapt at him. He caught her wrists and held them high over her head.

  “I will kill you,” she promised. Her features hardened, and her tone was filled with fury.

  “I'm not afraid of death.”

  Her eyebrows drew together and frowned as if she hadn't understood him. That glossy hair he longed to run his fingers through trailed over her shoulder in a way he found far too alluring for their present situation.

  “My turn,” he said. “Why do you kill?”

  “Because it's what I was trained to do.”

  “You aren’t very good at it.”

  She moved so quickly he hardly had time to react. Her bl
ade sliced into his arm, and he growled low in his throat as he spun out of the way.

  “Then again, I'm not used to fighting a mere woman. Perhaps women are not made to fight. To kill.”

  “Would you like to see my kill book?” Her fangs peeked over her lips again.

  “Not particularly.”

  When she swung this time, he kicked the sword out of her hand. She hissed like a cat who'd just had its tail stepped on.

  “Perhaps your heart just isn't in it.” He gave her a dark, lingering look. And before she could reply, turned and walked out onto the balcony.

  Rain poured down upon him, drenching his jeans and soaking his hair. Through the thick precipitation, he could make out a few landmarks and skyscrapers. They were on the top floor of a building. The balcony stretched left and right. The thunderstorm carried the salty scent of the ocean and put on a great light show.

  A sharp pain seared his back.

  “You're stupid to turn your back on me, wolf,” she said, her voice raised above the roar of falling water.

  “I told you—I'm not afraid of death.”

  The point of her sword moved to the base of his neck. A chill broke out over his skin. The feeling...couldn't be fear. He'd thought about it for so long; had welcomed it on more than one occasion. All this time, he'd thought that she, Violet, was dead.

  Life had seemed so dim. It hadn't mattered how many women had graced his bed. How many parties he'd attended, or how much money he'd made. Travel, food, and life itself had become tasteless and boring. Death would take away the pain. The monotony.

  Slowly, he turned to face her. Her hair was plastered against her porcelain skin, and her eyes had turned that weird shade of blue and silver. Water dripped from her nose and ran like a river between her breasts, disappearing beneath the lacey edge of her panties.

  “Who hired you?” The tip of her weapon was only inches away from his throat, and he was completely vulnerable. A rare feeling.

  She frowned. “Why do you care?”

  “Don't you think a dying man deserves to know who paid for his execution?”

  “I don't know the person's name.”

  “You lie.”