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I cover it with my usual gruff admonishments. “After tonight, no more windows. I mean it.”
She’s nonplussed.
Her lips twitch, and she reaches for the straps on her dress, shaking her shoulders as she adjusts slightly. I try not to imagine how her breasts are shifting beneath the fabric, and then it’s too late. My gaze lowers to the cut-out–why did I mention it?–and I’m stuck staring. I literally cannot look away.
Her red-painted fingertips skim the edges of the window, and a growl comes from my lips before I manage to close them and force myself to look away. Fortunately, Tony pulls up in front of the hotel where the ball is being held, and I throw my door open and climb out. I’m halfway to opening hers–force of habit, I tell myself–when she opens it herself. Tony is already there holding his hand out to help her out, and I have to bite back another growl.
My wolf hates that Tony gets to be the guy who ushers her out of the limo.
As soon as I can, I step in and offer my arm. I can’t help it. Madison’s brows shoot up to her hairline, but she accepts. Her touch is light and delicate, searing me through my tuxedo jacket. Even in her stilettos, I tower over her.
I stride up the red carpet, past flashing cameras. Madison’s grip tightens.
It’s all right,I want to soothe her. The red carpet paparazzi can be intimidating at first.You look perfect.And she does. She looks like she belongs.
Except she’s struggling to keep up with my long strides. I slow down, so she only has to take two steps to my one.
“I told you not to wear those things,” I mutter, glaring at her high heels.
“Your suggestion was noted and rejected.” Her red lips barely move. She’s already perfected the art of whispering while smiling at the cameras.
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
“What else would I wear with a twenty thousand dollar dress?”
“Whatever you damn well please. Except, in this case, it would be what I please.”
She gazes up at me with an adoring expression, hamming it up for our audience, and Fates, it’s all I can do not to rip off her gown and claim her right here.
“Next time, you obey.”
“Next time?” Her eyes widen, and she stumbles. I steady her with a hand on my arm.
“Careful.”
Her cheeks flush. From nerves? Or my touch? “Fine. Next time I’ll wear Birkenstocks and a mumu. Happy?”
“Very.” As if a mumu will put me off. I’ll just want to tear it off her.
Reporters call out to us, asking for us to stop on a step and pose. I ignore them. Another cameraman steps in front of us, desperate to get a newsworthy shot, and I growl, stepping between him and Madison. I set a hand at her back to urge her forward and shield her with my body as she hurries up the steps. Her hips roll under the skin-skimming satin, and I stop, fighting the urge to leap up the steps and capture her. This isn’t a hunt, and Madison is not my oh-so-delicious prey.
I have to remember that.
“Mr. Blackthroat!” more reporters call. I throw up a hand in a wave, giving them the shot they’re jonesing for.
When I catch up to Madison, she’s caught her breath. “Next time I’ll wear running shoes,” she promises.
“Good plan.” We move inside and join the receiving line. I scan the large hall, clocking familiar faces mingled with the strangers.
A female hustles by in a cloud of hairspray and cloying perfume. I turn to Madison, breathing in citrus and nutmeg. As delicate as it is, her scent dominates all others. My lips hover at her hairline.
She blinks up at me.You all right?Her golden brown eyes search mine.
“Time to earn your ticket.” I jerk a chin at the crowd. “Benson Senior.” I quiz her.
“There, entering the ballroom,” she says although I can’t see how she sees anything, as short as she is. “Grey suit, toupee.”
“That’s a toupee?” The shock of white hair looks real.
