Las Vegas, ten years ago…

Real life doesn’t come with movie moments. Still, Vegas at night is damned exciting and I have a good imagination. Almost good enough to create the perfect Tinseltown movie-come-to-life scenario from my girls’ night out on the Strip.  I’d stayed in touch with my four companions after graduating from law school, although we haven’t seen each other much in the past two years. We have careers to jumpstart, judges to clerk for, senior partners to appease. But when Mary Ellen announced her surprise engagement, we went all out, booking a penthouse suite in Vegas and planning two nights of bachelorette fun to commemorate the occasion. If our lives were a movie, this would be the moment where things took a funny turn or we uncovered a terrorist plot that required our efforts to foil or… something.

Instead, we’re tying one on and vying to see who has the worst senior-law-partner horror story.

We’d arranged to meet at one of the Strip’s hottest new it spots, an ice bar. I’m honestly not sure what the appeal is of sitting around on blocks of ice, but I agreed because it’s not my weekend. If Mary Ellen wants to celebrate in an igloo, then that’s what we’ll do.

When I roll through the entrance of the bar, Trish has already copped a prime spot at the bar itself, saving me the barstool on the end closest to the door. Wrapped up in a borrowed synthetic fur, I nurse my vodka in an ice-cold flute while my girls compare notes about runs on the slot machines and club plans for what remains of the night. My drink is the good shit, making the alcohol both tasteless and dangerous. Each swallow goes down easy, hits my stomach, and fires up my blood.

My girlfriends giggle beside me, banging back their shots. Trish’s bridesmaid tiara is askew. Drinking and dancing is a fine way to celebrate Mary Ellen’s last week of bachelorette-dom (is that even a word?) and I’m glad I let them talk me into coming. Never mind that I’ve just finished an eighty-hour workweek before hopping the midnight flight to Vegas. I’m here. My black cocktail dress is Macy’s finest, from the designer department, and I have a pair of Manolos to kill for. Eighty hours of lawyering for an LA firm is finally paying off.

I bang my empty glass back onto the bar that appears to be an enormous block of ice. Each breath I take puffs out a little cloud of white, making the fur coat loaner a nice touch. I run my fingers through the fur, letting the silky strands trickle over my palm. Imagine lying on that coat, naked…

Yeah. I’m also in danger of fucking drifting off at the bar, but that could be the vodka and tonics. Or not enough sleep. Three years of law school followed by a year of clerking and then full-time employment means I haven’t slept more than six hours a night in years.

Vegas is full of people. Although my phone claims we’ve reached the wee hours of the morning, the party is just getting started. Thousands of people crisscross the casino floor, lining up for the nightclubs and bars, plugging their paychecks into the slot machines. The scene is cheerful and sad at the same time. I may be sitting next to my girlfriends, but they’re already moving on. Getting married, settling down, and me… I’m working. I want the career, the security of a regular paycheck, and knowing I’m making a contribution. I’ve heard the lawyer jokes, but the law is what keeps everything—including this Vegas ice bar—working. People need to know what they can and can’t do. What’s off-limits and what doesn’t cross the line.

Rules matter, as I know better than anyone.

I have no idea why I look up or where the sensual prickle of awareness comes from, a shiver sweeping across my skin that has nothing whatsoever to do with my ice throne.

He leans against the ice wall, staring at me. He’s gorgeous in a raw, brutal way. Not a pretty boy like so many of the men knocking back drinks around me, but rough around the edges in the same way his faded blue jeans are white at the seams on his thighs. He wears black motorcycle boots and a dark T-shirt beneath a black leather jacket. A fantasy of him riding through the desert hits me like a visceral punch in the gut. He radiates caged energy, and I’m suddenly desperate to run my hands over all that sun-bronzed skin.

I don’t do bad boys. Ever. And this man, with his dark hair and darker eyes, takes bad boy to a whole new level. He watches me, hands loose on his thighs, and I stare back. I bet he has strong hands to go with the rest of his delicious package, although finding out firsthand for myself would be crazy. He doesn’t fit in my new life, a life I swore I’d do nothing to risk. No moment of fun is worth that risk. A shiver works itself up from somewhere near my toes, tightening my nipples. And not from the cold.

Nope. I’m not cold at all when I’m looking at Mr. Tall, Dark, and Bad Idea.

The surge of arousal has me squirming on my barstool. Which is stupid. It’s ridiculous to be aroused by a stranger who can’t even be bothered to come over and say hello.

“Someone’s looking at you.” The bride-to-be nudges me.

I take the new drink the bartender offers with a smile of thanks and then pull my borrowed wrap closer. The faux fur rubs against my skin, teasing nerve endings awake. What would the real thing feel like? Not dead and made into a coat, but on the living, breathing animal? An image of a wolf flashes through my head.

I tear my gaze away from the man holding up the wall and his hard-eyed gaze. Jesus. He could at least smile. Smiling is in the dating rulebook somewhere. I might be wandering the dating desert myself right now, but I’m positive of that much.

“He could be looking at you,” I suggest.

Mary Ellen snorts and waves her ring hand in the air. “I’m off the market. You’re not—and you’re definitely the woman he’s watching.”

“Creepy.” Don’t look. Don’t—but it’s like the connection between us is tangible. I sneak a second glance (real sophisticated) and he’s still there. Heat follows arousal until I’m goddamned melting. At my age, menopause is supposed to be at least twenty years in my future, and this is an ice bar. With furs.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Bad Idea shoves off the wall.

“He’s making a move,” my friend singsongs in my ear.

“And I’m out of here. Consider my eighty-hour workweek officially caught up with me. I’m going to bed.” I toss bills on the bar, slide off my stool, and beeline for the door.

“Honey—he looks like a hunter. Just don’t run too fast.” Happy laughter follows me. I wave and walk faster. I don’t see my watcher when I step outside the ice bar, but I can feel him on my skin. A delicious sense of anticipation sweeps through me, a sense that I’m playing a game I don’t know the rules to.

But he does.

LUC

Oui. I stop and look.

Stare.

There’s no dressing up my reaction. I’d been headed past the bar—some kind of froufrou place where people pay good money to freeze and do a fancy imitation of Siberia—when a feminine scent tugs at my senses. Heat crawls through me, followed by arousal. Possession. I almost check the night sky for a goddamned blue moon, the sensation’s that intense, but I’m inside and the only sky overhead is artificial.

Ice princess sits at the bar, wrapped in furs and a slinky black cocktail dress that hugs her breasts and her waist. Her shoes sport a heel, pretty as sin, and I’d enjoy every minute of her digging those wicked spikes into my back—just as soon as I catch her. It’s damned certain she can’t run fast, not in those shoes.

So I watch for a bit while she pretends she hasn’t noticed me and her friends tease her some. Eventually she leaves the ice bar, shedding her faux fur wrap at the door. The human bar scene doesn’t do it for me, not the way Vegas serves it up. I like a whiskey, like to kick back with my boys, but the frenetic energy here doesn’t appeal to me any more than the humans wrapped up in fake animal skins do, so unaware that the real deal is impossibly close to them.

Despite the incessant din of people talking, music blaring, and the never-ending sound of the slot machines, I easily make out the tap-tap-tap of her heels hitting the casino floor. Falling in behind her is the work of a minute. Now that I have her scent, I won’t, can’t, lose her. I have no idea why she matters so goddamned much to me, but for her I’ll make the time and I’ll follow.

Hunt.

As if she senses me on her heels, she whips through the too-loud, too-bright casino floor. Ducks behind first one blaring bank of machines and then another, weaving in and out of the crowds. Maybe she really believes she can lose me? It’s downright cute how human she is.

Eventually she slips outside into the faux Italian gardens of the casino. Although it’s summertime in the desert, the evenings are cool. Heat soaks into me from the sun-warmed pavement. Everywhere I look, there are fountains and more lights, but not as many as inside. I came to Vegas because I had investment business to take care of, but tonight is personal.

She darts through the hedges, giggling. She knows I’m there, knows I’m coming for her. The wolf yips happily. She’s playing with us. I prowl after her, closing in but careful not to end the chase too soon. Fuck, the wolf loves this game. The man sure as hell doesn’t mind either.

Not at all. I’ll chase her. Catch her. Take her. Oui. I’m no gentleman—but I’m also more than my wolf. I make a brief detour to score a bottle of champagne, vintage stuff from Tuileries. I lived in France when the vintner laid down the original bottles.

I’ll just enjoy her and move on. Vegas is a quick pit stop in my life, not a turning point. That’s the plan but when I look up, Fate has her own laugh at my expense. Fuck, but I should listen to my instincts. Vegas bling lights up the night sky, but the moon shines blue. The pretty rays light my female up, centuries of living as a werewolf paying off in one cosmic here-she-is moment. None of my pack has found a blue moon mate in centuries of looking, and my being the first is all kinds of wrong.  Wrong time, wrong place.

Right woman.

My dick is iron hard, the zipper biting into my flesh. Oui. My brothers will give me shit. Her husky laugh rings out from somewhere nearby, and what others think no longer matters.

She runs, picking a path that takes us nearer the animal enclosures where the casino keeps exotic wildlife, and I follow. When I catch up, she’s leaning against a marble statue of some Greek god to catch her breath. Her breasts push against the front of her dress, spilling over the top. My world narrows to the possibility of touching her.  Moving swiftly, I eat up the distance between us, setting a hand on her hip and tugging her forward until we’re sealed together.

“Caught you,” I growl against her throat.

“That’s a new one.” Laughter fills her voice, but she doesn’t pull away. She’s too tipsy, too giddy from her flight and my pursuit. Mine. Christ, I shouldn’t do this, but I’ve been so alone for so long. How can I resist?

“Have a drink with me.” I make it a statement and not a question. Truly I’m crap at human dating rituals. The wolf scents her readiness, her sweet, wet heat, and aches to ease the hem of her cocktail dress up and her panties down.

“Sure.” She leans back into the god’s embrace and grins at me. “You got a name?”

“Luc.” I press the chilled bottle against the heated skin of her throat, draw it down the bare slope of her breasts. Her breath catches.

“You’re wicked,” she breathes, but her words aren’t a complaint. Maybe, with me, she’d be happy to be bad.

A quick scan of my surroundings turns up no humans. Only beasts—lions. A tiger. The casino sells tickets, inviting people to queue up and parade past the glass enclosures. Forcing back the surge of anger at seeing my kind locked up and caged for entertainment, I work the lock—because a man learns how to do these things in hundreds of years—and get her inside. The zoo is closed, leaving us alone. Animals pace up and down the length of their cages, brushing against the glass walls that separate their small spaces from the greater freedom of Vegas.

“They’re beautiful.” She presses her fingers against the glass, tracing patterns I can’t see. “But…”

While she figures out the other half to her sentence, I open the champagne and offer it to. She accepts, pulling her fingers away from the glass to wrap them around the bottle’s slender neck.

“They’re sad, aren’t they? All alone.”

“They need to run,” I agree. She’s sensitive. She understands instinctively how the casino’s caged beasts feel… Will she understand me as well? I step closer and kiss her. Okay, I fucking devour her. I slant my mouth over hers, desperate for the taste of her, slicking my tongue over the closed seam of her lips. She opens with a husky moan and I thrust inside. She’s wet and hot and she drives me crazy. I feed her champagne between more kisses, pressing the mouth of the bottle against her lips.

“This dress go in a washin’ machine, shug?”

She laughs, a low, husky sound that does positively illegal things to my dick. Downright heavenly things too, depending on how my night ends. “You’d do better to ask me if I care. You do whatever you want to this dress as long as I’m still decent to walk across the casino floor.”

That sounds like permission to me. Pressing her back against the cool glass, I upend the champagne, pouring the pale liquid down her body, over those pretty breasts, and her stomach. Lower.

“Hold the bottle,” I demand roughly.

“Luc.” My name is part shiver, part moan, but she does what I ask. Her fingers close around the bottle, and I go to work, tugging her hem up.

“Keep your dress up.”

She hesitates, but then she does it, and hell… she’s got the prettiest panties I’ve ever seen, a teeny-tiny scrap of something silky with rows of soft ruffles over her center. I reach up and guide her hand, upending the bottle so the champagne hits her right where she burns for me if I’m a lucky man.

To make sure, I lean in and kiss her clit through the damp silk. She muffles her shriek with the back of her hand, but I don’t want her holding back. Not with me. Not ever.

“Cold,” she sighs.

“Not for long.” Not if I do this right. I want to mark her in ways both human and beast, want to line up with her in front of a preacher, and give her all the words I’ve never dreamed of speaking. Mine. Blue moon or no blue moon, she’d be mine then—and I’d be hers. Part of me recognizes that she isn’t Fate’s party favor. I have to earn her, not take.

Although taking is pure temptation right now.

“Marry me,” she whispers, like she’s read my mind. “And you can have whatever you wan’ from me.”

I think about it, so tempted to let her sweep me off to one of the twenty-four-hour wedding chapels dotting Vegas. Instead, I carry her back to her hotel suite, and we… have sex. Holy. Jesus. I strip her down to her skin. Lay her out on the bed, my mouth finishing her while I fuck her good with my fingers. Flip her over, bare her neck, and bite, the erotic sting sending her over the edge as I take her from behind. A shared shower heats her right back up again…

And afterward, much later, I slip out of her bed and go back to the bayou, because that way she’s free to go about her own life.

And if now I wonder how she’s filled up the past ten years because those same years have been an empty hole for me, that’s my problem. Not hers. I’m an animal at heart, and she deserved better.

Ten years is plenty of water under the bridge. I walked. She ran. And now… I’m not sure how to get our relationship back on track or if she’ll even consider it. Despite her encounter with the wolf pack, Gianna doesn’t seem overly shaken. She slides her heels off right by the front door, like stepping on the clean floor with her outdoor wear is sacrosanct. Naturally that makes me give my own shitkickers a once-over. I should probably do the same thing. My rubber soles and black leather aren’t the pretty bits Gianna sports, but it’s not like I’m housebroken either, so I leave them on. Since it’s hard to be the big, scary Alpha in sock feet, she’ll have to deal with dirty floors.

She doesn’t seem to notice though, picking up her heels like they’re her babies, turning them over, and inspecting them. I have no idea for what. Dirt? Blood? Wolf parts?

Clearly she sees me looking, because she sets the shoes on a chair. “They’re Manolo Blahniks,” she says, like that explains everything.

Color me clueless, because my brothers and I don’t name our shoes. “Call them whatever you want.”

She makes a face. “That’s a brand.”

More proof she’s too good for me. I’m outdoor camping with an outhouse while she’s Four Seasons material.

While she babies her shoes and turns on a light, I prowl around her place. The living room is 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 like to photograph. Apparently people do live in them. Not everything is perfect, however, because stacks of books and magazines bristling with Post-it notes cover every table surface. Her lair. Her scent touches every piece in the house.

Gianna’s place smells like lemon furniture polish, artificial apples, and cinnamon. It’s nice enough, but nothing like the gritty scents of the bayou. My camp there is no Macy’s perfume counter.

Shit. Say something civilized. “You have a nice place.”

Understatement. Before I came to the bayou, I wasted decades navigating the French court. I visited palatial country palaces and spent quality time in the decadent homes of Paris. I never think about those lost years, but Gianna’s home reminds me of those long-ago palaces. She’s classy. Gorgeous.

Oui. I’m definitely out of my league with her. I’ve never been on board with the whole blue-moon-fated-mate gig, although clearly Fate has been more than kind to my brothers. Their mates are fine women and females of worth, and I’d proudly lay down my life for each one of them. Looking at Gianna, remembering what she tasted like, felt like, coming apart beneath my touch, I know I’ll go even further for her.

“I like nice things.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal and wanders over to the window to stare at the slice of garden outside. Small spotlights light up a collection of those formal topiary things surrounded by a boatload of roses and white flowers. I’ve never understood why people settle for a night garden instead of being home during the daylight hours. She pushes the window open, flooding the room with the scent of night-blooming jasmine.

She wore a perfume that smelled like jasmine ten years ago, and now I get hard just breathing in those flowers in her garden. It’s ridiculous. Mating with her was the finest sexual experience of my life. I’ll admit that much—and it has to be the only reason why I crave a second taste now, right?

When she turns to look at me, I wonder if she feels the same at all.

“We’re not married,” she says, sounding relieved.

Nope. She’s on a completely different page from me when it comes to our relationship. In fact, she’s done with the book and ready to put it back on the shelf while I’m just getting ready to start… reading.

Mine. No way I let go of her now. I hung on to the possibility she represented when I let her leave me behind in Vegas. Dropping regular deposits into her checking account was one more way of satisfying the wolf’s need to provide and the man’s desire to hang on it. She’d looked for me—the private investigators on my trail are proof enough—and I’d evaded. Marital chase me, catch me. Or pure stubbornness on my part.

I don’t want to let her go. Worse, I want her to want to hang onto me and the chances of that happening are about one in a million.

“Your offer isn’t still good?” Stall for time. Find out what she really wants. “You propose to me and then chase me for years to tell me to fuck off?”

She takes a step back, putting critical distance between us, and faces me down like I’m a hostile witness in her goddamned courtroom. Two can play at that game. I drop deliberately onto her fancy white sofa, enjoying the irritated flicker of her eyes that betrays her dislike of my move. She wants me gone. Gone from her house. Gone from her life. Instead, here I am, ass parked on her furniture and staying put.

She purses her lips. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You got another?” I cross one booted foot over another. I draw the line at using her fancy little table as a footrest. I don’t want to mark it up none—just make sure she understands who’s in charge here.

“It’s time for me to move on with my life. Date. Get married.”

My wolf growls, not liking the thought of our female hooking up with another male. My more human side, however, is stupidly pleased that she’s waited for me. For the wrong reasons, sure, but no one else has been touching her and that’s good.

“You saved yourself for me.”

She inhales sharply, her fingers tightening on the window frame. Oui. She doesn’t like that mental image, but too bad.

“I wasn’t waiting for you,” she counters, like she’s talking about the garbage man or the contractor who fixes 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.”

I admire her sense of honor, but we see the world differently. I’ve touched other females, although only fleetingly and only as part of the pack. How would she react to that if I fronted with her and told her the truth? They’d been fine women, giving women, but they hadn’t been Gianna. Truth is, only Gianna is Gianna.

Which, no matter how fucking stupid I feel, is still true.

Unfortunately my little mate is a lawyer with superb instincts for blood in the water. She promptly goes for the jugular. “Would you have cheated on me?”

I counterattack. “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, gives her away, as does the little hitch in her breathing. I don’t share, and I’m a possessive bastard. Wolves share sometimes, but only to pleasure their mates.

She raises her chin and stares me down. “I’m ready to settle down. To get married and have kids.”

I can help her with that, so I pat the sofa beside me. “Come right on over here.”

She shakes her head, not done with her explanation. “Not with you.”

Right. Because I don’t even merit a spot on her list of potential mates. My mate isn’t talking about sharing—she’s planning on cutting me out of her life entirely. I have no intention of going quietly into that good night. A male can’t hold a woman who doesn’t want to be held. The blue moon’s a beacon—not a mandate. That’s one of the reasons I let her run from me in Vegas. I might be an animal at heart, but I’ll be a goddamned fucking human when it counts most.

Disappointment lances through me. Stupid, because I always knew I’d have to give her back. That one day I’d really and truly have to let her go. A piece of paper and a few words in front of a justice of the peace don’t begin to cover what I feel for her.

I look at her. “You don’ remember anything you like about Vegas?”

GIANNA

I remember too much.

Or not enough.

God, I have no idea which is true. Around Luc, everything gets crazy mixed-up so fast. I press my cheek against the cool glass, staring out into the garden.

“Come here, shug,” he orders in the rough-tender voice that has haunted my dreams. Of course I look over. Stupid. He’s sprawled on my couch like some kind of pasha, and when my eyes meet his, he pats the cushion beside him. I’m not his pet. His toy.

His woman.

But the heat building inside me demands attention, and it’s been so damned long. Wanting a lover is perfectly natural. He’s here and he’s temporarily mine. Why not make use of him? My logic sucks, but it’s been one of those days, and I’m ready for it to end on a happy note. Without conscious thought, my feet take me right over to the man on the couch.

My knees bump against the silky fabric, inches from his. “If we’d been married, I would have wanted a divorce.” I put the words out there. Tonight I’m in the market for a lover, but tomorrow I still want to move on with my life. This non-thing between us has to be resolved.

He nods, linking his fingers gently around my wrist. “I hear you.”

Not agreement, but it’s enough. Isn’t it? He tugs and I land on the couch beside him, the whole world freezing and slowing. No, not freezing. Burning. Every part of me is on fire around this man.

In no rush, he brushes a finger down my throat. I left my jacket in the car and undid the top button of my blouse in deference to the warmth I worked up walking. The callused pad of his finger moves down the open space, over my traitorous pulse, my collarbone.

“I missed you,” he growls.

Has he? Then he should have come knocking, should have looked me up. He trails his finger lower, flicking open the next button, tracing the valley between my breasts where I’m sweat-slicked and soft. My skin gives beneath his touch and I arch upward.

“This have a name too?” The hoarse rasp of his voice is a lifeline in a sea of sensations.

His hand gets busy, unbuttoning me, spreading open my blouse. I like sexy lingerie. Even if no one but me sees it, I love the way the fabrics touch me. Silk and satin. The soft cups or the crueler ones that push me up, hold me in place for a lover’s kiss that isn’t coming, and leave red marks on my skin. Even better is the satisfaction of sliding the thing off, of slipping free at the end of the day. This bra is my favorite, a rich gold with petal-soft cups and black lace.

“La Perla.” The words tumble out of my mouth.

“I like it.” My skin heats up where his fingers tickle me, like the champagne did ten years ago. But does he like me? I’m more than my lingerie, more than the things I’ve acquired along the way.

“Souvenir. That’s what you need. A little keepsake reminder.” His Cajun-French accent still does wicked, wicked things to my insides. Surrendering to the moment, I lean back against my couch, savoring the slick sensation of the upholstery beneath me. When I look down, La Perla is doing its job, shaping my breasts into the prettiest mounds. I like my breasts. That part of me isn’t the problem.

My breathing hitches. This is such a bad idea. But it’s been so long and I crave another taste of him. He’s such a pretty poison.

“Jus’ a memory,” he growls softly, as if he can read my mind. He drops to his knees. The change in position should put me in the position of power, but he’s in charge. Oh, God. Is he ever.

He brushes his mouth over the lacy cups and the exquisite pressure against my nipples has me sucking in a harsh breath and arching up. Take it off, I mentally plead. Bare me.

Like he did in Vegas, he knows what I need. Big hands fold my skirt up, the fabric creasing around my waist, and I’ll have to send it to the dry cleaners, and should I take him up to my bedroom and… my brain sputters and stops. Naked. Luc makes that rough sound of pleasure I love so much as he finds my knees with his hands and opens me up.

“You’re downrigh’ gorgeous, shug.”

For him, I want to be. He’s beautiful himself in a rough, fierce way. From the hard line of his jaw to the dark glitter in his eyes as he stares at my body laid out for him. His. For this one moment. Because right now, I want him and he’s offering. By tomorrow or even later tonight, however, the orgasms will fade, and then what will I have? He draws his fingers up my thighs, leaving small sparks of pleasure where he touches and… I’m ten years older. Softer. My body has more than a little wear and tear on it, and what if the reality of me isn’t as good as whatever fantasy he’s nursed for those missing years?

“Panties stay on.” My sudden nerves are ridiculous. He’s seen everything before. I am what I am, and no amount of wishing can transform me into a swimsuit model in the next five minutes. Five years wouldn’t be enough time to effect that particular transformation.

He nods. “Whatever you wan’.”

Oh, the fantasies of having him at my beck and call… He runs his thumb over the center of my panties, like he’s testing to see just how soft I am. And wet. I’m wet because I like what he’s doing way too much.

More than like. His fingers brushing over my lace-covered folds make me ache and dampen. I want him beneath my panties, stabbing deep inside, but I made the rules. He’s only playing by them.

He circles my clit with his thumb, and I moan, unable to hold back the little sound. It’s the white flag of my surrender, an unabashed admission that he’s in charge. And that I’m not.

“Oui,” he growls. “That’s what I wan’ to hear. You, comin’ on my fingers. Lettin’ me know how much you enjoy this.”

He hooks a finger in the side of my panties and tugs, making room for himself. Still playing by the rules I set, he slips a rough, male finger beneath the edge. Strokes over me where I’m wet and swollen. Oh. God.

I make noise after noise as he touches me. Pets me. He’s in no rush, and that’s one more thing I didn’t expect. Somehow, I thought he’d fall on me, take me fast-and-furious style, and so the sweet, slow loving undoes me. It feels good. He feels good. I can kick him out later. Do all the things I’m supposed to do… later. These stolen moments right now, however, are all about Luc.

Curling his fingers into me, he leans closer.

“Now I’m takin’ your panties down.”

Please.

Not waiting for an answer, he pulls, leaving the lace stretched around my upper thighs. Luc Breaux is definitely in charge. Bound by my panties, I can’t move. Can’t open my thighs wider in silent demand for more.

And he delivers. That’s the thing about Luc. He doesn’t disappoint when it comes to bedroom things. He kisses me. No lead up, no sweet tease. He just closes his mouth over my clit and sucks gently. God. The erotic suction has me crying out, my hands flying to his shoulders, digging into his T-shirt, marking the hard skin beneath.

He lifts his head, and I groan in frustration. “Hands by your side,” he orders.

When I hesitate because I’m really not into the whole giving-orders scene, he blows lightly, the stream of air tormenting my swollen clit.

“Do it.”

Or what? I dig my teeth into my lower lip, biting back the question. Luc will show me. I’ve got no doubt of that, or that I just might enjoy his sweet punishment. Too much. I’m not sure I’m ready to play those kinds of dark games with him tonight.

And so I press my hands into the couch beside my hips. Obedient but pissed off about it. And aroused. So very, very aroused.

“You trust me.” Fierce satisfaction fills his face as he makes his declaration. Or maybe the words are a promise. I like the thought of that. I need something more than touch—however good—to go on.

He comes back to me, circling his tongue around my clit. Licking the sides, tasting me. Teasing until the tiny tremors start to build inside me, the pulse between my legs threatening to drown out the banging of my heart. Luc.

He takes me with his mouth, and the whole time I keep my hands flat on the sofa, not touching him. I want to tell him to come here, to hurry up. To slow down and stretch the moment out for hours. By ordering me to keep my hands by my sides, he’s made this about my pleasure and not his. My thighs shake as my body tenses, fighting to come as he licks another wicked path around my clit. All Luc allows me to do is to feel—and hold on.

One finger dips into my pussy, slides deep inside me in a sure, liquid glide. He pulls out, switching fingers, and works the first against my tight rear hole. I tense, then relax into the bright pop of pleasure-pain as he breaches virgin territory. There are some things I’ve done with no one, and Luc is the kind of man who values firsts.

“Luc.” His name tumbles out before I can hold it back.

And then he stops. Lifts his head and looks me in the eye.

“Ask me for it.”

“I’m not asking you for anything.” I’ve spent my adult lifetime making sure I don’t ask for anything from anyone—and that includes him. No matter how good he makes me feel, I don’t have to have this.

“Then demand it from me,” he growls.

Oh, that works for me. My pussy dampens more, my body relaxing for him as I grab his beautiful, fierce face between my hands.

“Make me come.”

Ordering him I can do. Giving in is something else entirely.

He does something with his fingers, spearing my ass and my pussy, his fingertips rubbing and coaxing, and I come apart, my body taking a slow, melting tumble into orgasm. Arm pressed over my face, my mouth working against my own skin in a silent cry.

“Beautiful,” he growls, turning his face until his cheek rests against my thigh. Like he’s breathing me in and that’s enough for him.

I’m still trying to come to terms with my new boneless condition when something or someone in the garden sets off a silent alarm. I’d debated going the home security system route, not liking the idea of living in a fortress, but I’m a woman alone and shit happens. I bought the service.

“You’ve got company.” Luc motions to the phone vibrating on my coffee table.

I shrug away from his hold, putting myself back together as best I can. Pull up my panties and tug my skirt down. It’s likely wasted effort, because the look on his face says more clearly than words that he has every intention of undoing me again. Like he knows I wear self-control like armor and he plans to peel it all away.

Picking up the phone, I study the screen before flipping it around so he can see. “I’ve got a dog in my back garden.”

Yeah. He hears the question mark in my voice. He studies the image. The big black wolf has a chunk missing from its left ear. Golden eyes look up at the security camera as the wolf lets out a snarl.

“I’ll call animal control. Again.” I’m not sure what else I can do.

He shakes his head, his eyes on my face and not my backyard visitor. “There’s nothing they can do for you here.”

His tone makes it clear that I can dial and dial, but the problem in my backyard is way beyond what animal control could handle. At least to his mind.

“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 has me keeling over from the shock. When I start to dial, however, because I have to do something, he touches the back of my hand and stops me. “They can’t fix this for you, boo.”

“Give me a believable reason.” Because I need something other than the niggling recollection that animal control doesn’t work after hours. I could have a rampaging dinosaur in my backyard, but it would only be collected between the hours of nine and five.

“That’s not a wolf,” he says.

“Uh-huh.” And, hallelujah, we’ve set a new record. Luc has agreed with me twice in one evening.

“That’s a werewolf.”

I refrain from telling him that he’s crazy. Or that I’d like to believe he is, at any rate. Because… “Werewolves are a really fun literary fiction. There’s no such thing—and definitely not in my backyard.”

“Am I a figment of your imagination?” So he is going there.

“Are you telling me that you’re a werewolf?”

He stares at me levelly. “You know that I am. I shifted in front of you in Vegas ten years ago.”

Maybe. Just possibly. Or I could be the crazy one. Seeing things. Hearing things.

“I thought I’d imagined that. Werewolves in Las Vegas. You really expect me to believe that?”

His cool amusement isn’t funny at all. He’s bad news, offering raw sex and appealing to my inner bad girl. “I’m not trapped in the bayou, boo. So I’m sayin’ it one more time. That male out there—he’s not a dog. Animal control isn’t goin’ to be a solution here.”

“Uh-huh.” I shove off the couch, and he lets me go. “Is this where you tell me you’ve got a better plan?”

“Shit, shug. Do we have to play show-and-tell right now? What do you think happened to those wolves chasin’ you earlier tonight?”

LUC

I’m a werewolf.

I tore that last pack of bastards apart with my hands—and I’ll do this wolf with my teeth.

Oui. I don’t need an inner consult to know my mate wants to hear none of these things. For her, what happened in Vegas stayed there—until tonight. She’s my fated mate, my only and one shot at staying human. That makes her the center of my fucking universe, whether I like it or not. Equally clearly she doesn’t reciprocate the feeling. I’m more like a scribble in the margin on the page of her life. Or something. I don’t have words to describe what I feel, but… hurt might cover it. Shit.

Even after just our one night in Vegas, I knew things about her. That she’s driven, motivated, and smart. She’s pursuing a law career—and that hunt of hers consumes the better portion of her time. She’s modern, independent, and… the slightest bit fragile, although she’d kill rather than admit it. She’s been trying to move past her trailer park childhood, and she’s been succeeding.

I, on the other hand, am an atavistic wolf, more brutal predator than man, and after a few days in the city, I yearn for the solitude of the bayou. We’re not even opposites because we’re that far apart. How can I drag her back with me, force her to live with my pack?

Ten years apart hasn’t taught her how and when to back down, either. She advances on me, her words smacking into me like bullets, the not-a-wolf outside temporarily forgotten. Her proximity makes me want to growl. To touch. I just had my hands all over her, my mouth on her pussy, but now she’s pushing me away.

She leans down, slapping her hands on either side of me on the pretty cream sofa. “If you’ve got proof, show me. I’m not basing any decision on something I might—or might not—have seen ten years ago in Vegas. I’d been drinking. I was tired.”

Right. Proof. My mate prefers her i’s dotted and the t’s crossed. Since offering her proof is the one thing I can do, I stand up, and reach for the hem of my T-shirt. She backs the hell up, giving me space to work as my hands go to the buttons on my jeans. Piece by piece, I shed my clothes on her sofa and drop my boots on her floor. Her calm face doesn’t give away a thing as she watches me. The counselor’s in the room, not the woman.

“I didn’t realize your proof included a free show.”

Nothing in this life comes free, but I imagine she learned that lesson years ago. When I finally stand there naked, I shift. Bones crack as my body reforms, fur rolling over my skin. The wolf sees in black and white. The place smells faintly of lemon furniture polish and long-gone Lean Cuisine. Biolage shampoo and the sweet, musky scent of Gianna herself.

Her quick whiff of fear, however, is gone as fast as it arrives.

She sits back down on the couch abruptly. The wolf pads over, bumping its head against her leg. “Shoot. I was really, really hoping I was crazy.”

GIANNA

For ten years, I told myself that what I saw that one crazy night in Vegas was either pure hallucination or too much television. I’d imagined things, because men simply don’t turn into wolves.

Luc’s wolf calls bullshit on that belief, butting its head against my leg. The animal has to be well over two hundred pounds, and maybe I should be more worried. But… this is Luc. If he wants me hurt, he’d leave me alone with the other wolf pack rather than riding to my rescue. The other wolf pack. Before the night can get any crazier, I grab my phone and snap a picture. No one’s going to believe me, but I want the image for myself.

“Point made.” What do I do with a wolf in my living room?

The wolf rubs the top of its head against my leg, its fur brushing sensually against my bare legs. Then he shifts, the wolf flowing into the man just as quickly as that. Luc stands there casually, like he’s neither buck naked nor clearly nonhuman. Naturally the naked part is where my head decides to fixate. I take a good, long look. There’s plenty of Luc to admire. When he isn’t talking, I like him just fine.

“Glad we’ve got that settled,” he drawls. Reaching over, he snags my phone and deletes my latest picture. I don’t bother telling him that I have an automatic upload to Dropbox and still have my proof.

Looking at him, there’s no missing the leashed power. This is no backwoods man. This man is king in his domain. “You should know that my office knows precisely where I live.”

I don’t think he’d hurt me, but life has taught me it pays to be cautious. Always assume the worst and then enjoy the best when it and if it happens.

He reaches for his pants, a move that both pleases and disappoints me. “I don’ wan’ to hurt you. Convincin’ you would be plenty fun, however.”

Instead of pulling on his clothes, however, he strides toward my door.

“Where are you going?” Not that I care. Much.

“To take care of your wolf problem,” he snaps, pausing to grab the pile of his clothes and tuck them under his arm. “And then when I’m done, I’d prefer to not be strollin’ down your street naked.”

My female neighbors certainly wouldn’t be complaining. When I look out the window, however, I spot more dark shadows. Yellow eyes gleam in the light.

“How do you plan on doing that?”

He gives me a look. “I’m a hands-on kind of a man, shug. I’m goin’ out there to kick some ass. Close the door behind me and lock it.”

“Are you coming back?”

“Close the door. Lock it.”

Yeah, see, his first problem is that even if he is really, really good at issuing commands, I don’t take orders. He needs to find himself a different wife if he’s in the market for blind obedience.

“I heard you the first time.”

“All you have to do is listen to me once.”

Nope. Not happening when he’s playing the jump when I say jump game. “Are you coming back in?”

“I won’ leave you alone to face them. It would be better if you came on out to the bayou. Let me defend you on my own territory.”

The Louisiana bayou is rough backcountry that contains nothing civilized or citified. Going there voluntarily? Yeah. So not my thing. A body thuds against my French doors, the glass shuddering. Luc curses.

“You got to make up your mind fast.”

“Time’s up?”

“Uh-huh.” He focuses on the door and what it’s holding out. Barely.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” I point out. The french door shakes a second time. How fast can a 9-1-1 call get the police here? The army. A tank. A vet with a huge fucking tranquilizer gun. I don’t care which option works, but I’m certain that if the wolf on the other side of the door makes it inside my house, I’m screwed. And not in the good way.

“Non.” He lopes back toward me and brushes his mouth against my cheek. “I’ll fix it for you, shug.”

Then he opens the door, slams it shut, and shifts.

My hand hovers over my phone as if my fingers are waiting for instructions from my head. My heart. I have no idea what I’m doing if I’m honest. Animal control can’t do anything here, but playing the part of the peanut gallery isn’t my choice either.

Bodies slam into each other, snarls filling the air. I settle for activating the security alarm, even though the gesture seems stupid and petty. More sounds filter into the house from my backyard, and God help me, I have no idea what to do.

What I should do.

He intends to fix my wolf problem—and I’m in way over my head. I press my cheek against the cool glass, but the wolves are nothing but shadows in my garden now. I can’t see what’s happening, but the racket’s dying down. A shadowy form bolts away, followed by a tall male striding toward my front gate.

Luc.

For the briefest moment, he hesitates, like maybe he’s waiting for some signal from me. Right. He’s a werewolf. He’s my ex. And he’s given me one hell of an orgasm, and I want more. All of these are good reasons to let him keep right on walking away from me.

He disappears into the dark.

Problem solved.