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I arch a brow. “Is that right?”
She arches hers right back. “It is. And I’m not even a little bit embarrassed about admitting it.”
“Says the girl with pink cheeks.”
“Woman,” she whispers. “Woman with…pink cheeks.”
I bite my lip, fighting a smile.
Fuck.
I actually like this girl. This woman.
I like her, but I can’t let her know it. That, I can already tell, would be a serious mistake.
She’s smart and brave and determined to get what she wants from me. If I hope to maintain the upper hand, I can’t show weakness. I’m in control here, and she needs to acknowledge that, and remember it.
With that in mind, I thread my fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and make a light, but firm fist.
Her eyes widen and her throat works, but she doesn’t try to pull away and doesn’t so much as flinch as I bring my lips closer to hers and ask, “And why did you read so many naughty books, little wolf? What was the attraction for you?”
She swallows. “I think you know.”
“I want you to tell me. Tell me what you liked about those books. Did you imagine you were the big, bad Dom, in total control of your willing submissive?”
“No,” she confesses softly.
“No?” I ask, tightening my grip on her hair.
Her breath feathers out, warm and minty on my lips and her chest rises and falls faster, drawing my attention to her full breasts. She’s curvy as hell and I can practically taste how sweet her skin would be against my tongue as I lick and suck her tight nipples.
As I slide my fingers between her legs and make her come on my hand, erasing the memory of whatever unpleasantness she experienced with her mate earlier tonight.
I can’t imagine fucking Pax was anything but a chore for her and not nearly as exciting as one of her novels.
The thought makes me ask, “So how did your night with your one true mate compare to your romantic fantasies?”
Pain flashes across her features and I almost regret the question.
But it’s best if she hates me. Like I told her the moment I met her, I don’t have time for new friends.
And I don’t fuck members of my pack, let alone any other. I don’t fuck wolves. Period. I fuck fairies and nymphs and other women who are good at understanding the boundary between sex and love, and who aren’t interested in more than a good time.
I’m especially disinterested in bossy little wolves who might be pregnant with another man’s child.
Or so I tell myself, ignoring the thickening behind my fly and the way my blood rushes faster as Willow says, “He’s not my one true mate. He’s not fit to lick my shoe, and I will never be naked or semi-naked with him ever again.”
“No, you won’t,” I agree. “I’m sure he’s already made plans to kill you. Slowly.”
“Well, I have plans, too,” she says. “And my plans include finding a job and making a new life for myself and maybe, someday, meeting a man who knows how to make a woman feel good.”
I could make her feel so much better than good.
She deserves to feel better than good. She deserves orgasms and pleasure and a man who knows what to do with a strong woman who daydreams about abandoning control to her lover.
And I confess, the thought of this strong woman on her knees for me, because she chooses to be there, and can’t wait to do what I tell her, turns me on.
And just like that, I’m fully erect, hard and thick, my cock straining the front of my pants in its eagerness to be buried inside this curvy little wolf.
