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I scramble away, rattled at how easily I melt for him.
For all these Wyvern motherfuckers.
Finn closes his eyes and sucks his lips, savoring my flavor. “More.”
“No more.” I can’t handle any more.
“Why?”
“Because your pack isn’t right for me. I can’t have a pack.” For exactly this reason.
Show up when you want, all licky, and smoky, and tempting.
Leave me alone when it counts.
I’d rather go all-in on solitude except for pre-scheduled sexcapades with the knotted gigolos who write me the checks.
“Perfect. I don’t have a pack.”
“Finn. Come on.” The Wyverns chose the wrong guy if they sent him as peace ambassador. He’s like the honey badger who mauled the dove and used its olive branch as a toothpick. “Shouldn’t you be with them? Figuring out how to rebuild?”
“That’s Hunter’s thing. My future’s right here.”
Red card on the field.
That shit is so illegal.
“Get out of my room.”
Finn accepts the command, all docile, nodding with that glint in his green eyes that promises he’ll be back in my sheets the second I fall back asleep. “I’m serious. Next time you climb into my bed, I’m pulling the trigger. Got it, Trouble?”
For a moment, Finn is silent.
Flat.
That gaze like his father’s, where you don’t know if he’s meditating or mentally slitting your throat.
Then he smiles.
It’s not his shit-stirring smile or his instigating and watching shit pop off smile. Not even his burn-this-motherfucker-to-the-ground smile.
I’ve seen those before.
Walked away still breathing.
This is a smile that should be banned after dark.
A boyish fucking grin that makes his freckles pop and his eyes light up and hits the soft, gooey part of my heart in a spray of honey-soaked bullets.
“Star,” he says huskily, all melted butter and smoked brown sugar. “You used my nickname.”
My nipples perk, saluting the alpha they very much still want to recognize as theirs, and I churn out pheromones like a caramel bomb at an ice cream factory.
“Out!” I sprint to the bathroom.
Bolt the door.
Been doing a lot of that.
