A Werewolf's Valentine: BBW Wolf Shifter Paranormal Romance (3 page)

Three

McKenzi

When McKenzi’s sister had painted the double-wall mural as a birthday surprise, it had never occurred to her that it would end up being a kind of test.

Guys who sneered at Kesley’s art had proved to be pretty much 100% douches, so she’d gotten into the habit of offering them something to drink, then getting rid of them before things got any farther. If they thought she was blowing hot and cold, too bad. There were few buzzkills worse than guys with superiority issues.

But West stood there as if transfixed, which gave her a chance to really check him out, from the silvery glinting raindrops in his pale hair to the badass leather coat to his worn old jeans that molded long, strong legs. She would have thought he’d wear kickass combat boots, but his feet were encased in the lightest of deck shoes that looked as if he’d walked a couple thousand miles in them.

As the scotch warmed her, heightening the powerful beat of fire that seemed to simmer around him, she relished the prickle of anticipation along her nerves as she opened the little drawer in her lamp table, and pulled out an old pack of cards.

She set the scotch bottle on the low table, and sat cross-legged on the floor. She felt his gaze scorching slowly down her length as he sank down on the opposite side of the table. She poured out another finger of scotch for them both, then brought out the deck of cards, enjoying the way his gray eyes watched her hands.

“What style of poker?” she asked as she shuffled and snapped.

“Your house, your call,” he said, and that sexy Spike mouth curved up. “I’m sure to like whatever you choose.”

“Five card draw, high, winner picks the item of clothing?”

“Good by me.”

Wow, that
voice
. “If I win, will you sing for me? I happen to have a banjo in the closet—my uncle used to be part of a band.”

His smile sent heat right down to her core. “I’d like to sing for you.”

Okay, this was going to be fun. “I’ll deal, so you can pick the first ante.”

“Make it easy,” he said with a rueful curve to those entrancing lips. “Shoes. Mine got a mite wet. Wouldn’t mind losing ‘em right off.”

She grinned back, dealt two hands, and they each looked at them. “Stand pat?” she asked.

He dipped his head in a short nod that drew her eye to the beautiful line of his chin beneath glinting stubble. “In or out?” he said, as she was wondering how that stubble would feel along her thighs.

“In,” she croaked.

He laid out his cards—his two nines beat her dead hand. She kicked off her shoes, lifted her glass and toasted him, wondering if he could see the heat pouring off her. They both drank, and he took up the cards to shuffle.

“You go ahead,” he said. “Since I picked the first ante.”

“Coats,” she said, and licked her lips.

He stiffened a little, as if his breath caught. Then he dipped his head again, the blond a little darker where the raindrops had melted into dampness in his hair. She held out a hand. “Wait.”

He stilled like a startled prey animal. She was already on her feet. She dashed into the kitchen and returned with a couple of thick candles, and watched him relax and smile.

She lit the candles and set them at either end of the table, then turned out the lights.

Oh, yes. In that glow he looked like a mussed up angel contemplating his first sin.

He dealt, and she muttered in her head,
please, please, please
—and looked down at two jacks. This time, she asked for three cards—and got another jack. He also drew three cards.

“In,” he asked, “or out.”

“In,” she said, and laid out her cards.

His smile was sweet as he put down two tens . . . and she breathed, “Hah.”

He tossed back his scotch, stood up, and slowly, teasingly, let the leather coat slip down his arms. He carefully folded it and laid it over the arm of the chair behind him. She raked her gaze over the black tee that molded his shoulders, chest, and flat abs, her gaze zeroing to the bulge in his pants as he sat back down.

Oh, yeah. She was already soaking wet, and it had nothing to do with the rain.

“You win,” he said, low and husky.

One of the many fun things about strip poker is that the rules are always amendable, and nobody ever seems to care. “How about we wait on naming the ante until one of us wins. And then they pick the item of clothing?” she suggested.

“Your house, your rules,” he said again.

By now she knew where this was going, and relished how he let her set the pace. They toasted and drank after each deal. She lost her coat next, but by then she was no longer feeling the chill in the cottage—her internal heat glowed through her as she made a slow dance of unbuttoning her coat and sliding it off her, watching his eyes as she did so. The candlelight sparked in them, gleaming with twin lights.

Next round, he lost his shoes—revealing that he didn’t even wear socks. Ordinarily that would have grossed her out, but his feet, though scarred in places, were as clean as though he’d taken a bath in the rain. Clean and well-shaped, like the rest of him.

Her socks came next, and she was glad that she’d had a mani-pedi three days before. As she held up one foot, wiggling her blue-painted toes (no Valentine’s colors here!) he licked his lips, sending another jet of heat roaring through her.

After that, the cards snapped faster. She could feel the intensity of anticipation beating around them both. A four-to-eight straight got his shirt off. The light of the candles caressed his skin, stippling the blond hairs over his breastbone, and the darker ones starting right below his belly button, reaching straight down between the hollows of his hips, to vanish behind the barrier of his jeans.

Then she lost her shirt, feeling the swell of sweet power in the way his lips parted when she peeled it over her head and dropped it to the side, revealing her lacy black bra that didn’t hide how hard her nipples were. His thumbs twitched, and her breath hitched as she thought of those thumbs peeling the cups back. . .

“The hell with this,” she muttered, tossing down the cards.

Her head swam a little, but not unpleasantly. She knew her limit with liquor, and had hit it. Nothing,
nothing
, was going to ruin this moment, because every instinct cried out that she would never get another chance like this—ever.

She reached over the table, hooked her fingers in his belt, and gently tugged. “Come.”

He got to his feet. She put her fingers to his lips. And when he stilled, she caressed his lips slowly, enticingly with her thumbs, and then leaned up on tiptoe—the lacy cups holding her breasts brushing his naked chest—and kissed him.

And pure sensation hit like a tidal wave—from stillness to demanding, shaking, devouring kisses, tongues teasing and clashing, teeth nibbling until they were both out of breath. Every instinct howled inside, as if her entire life had been training for this moment. She didn’t want to talk. They couldn’t talk. There were far too many dangerous things that could be said, that could ruin this moment forever.

Still, doubt was never entirely gone. It chilled her now, causing her to pull back that one tantalizing inch.

“I don’t do relationships,” she whispered.

That light in his eyes flared. “Nor do I.”

“Tomorrow is another day. No promises, no expectations.”

“No promises,” he said, like a prisoner granted release. “No expectations.”

His gaze had gone diffuse, his gray eyes darkening with emotions she could not define, then the muscles along his beautiful, clean jawline clenched, and he looked down—and this time it was she who looked away, because she was afraid of what he would see in her face.

“You,” he murmured, “are so beautiful.” He brought his hands up to her shoulders. Now it was his turn to slide his thumbs in a slow, caressing circle, before he slid the lacy straps of her bra down her arms, slowly, slowly, a question in that tentative movement.

She answered the question by throwing her head back, and when the fabric reached her elbows, she pulled her arms out, reached behind her and undid the fastening.

They locked together in another kiss, chest to chest, his tongue first demanding surrender, and when she moaned, her entire body on fire, he eased back, tentative with question, inviting her to lick, and nibble, and plunder his mouth. Oh, God that mouth—they kissed until her head reeled from her effort to catch her breath. Then his hands came up to cup her breasts, and she lost her breath all over again as he slowly caressed her nipples in deliberate circles. Then he kissed along her jawline, and down her throat, pausing to lick the hollow of her throat.

She groaned with yawning want—and then he closed his lips on her nipple.

Her knees gave way.

With a laugh he caught her up, and they stumbled together to the bedroom, and fell on the bed, she on her back, her hands outflung. He slid his fingers up her arms to her hands, palm to palm, then pressed them into the mattress as once again his mouth took possession of her nipple, and he took his time teasing, licking, sucking, and then a sharp nip that sent lightning shards burning deep into her secret places. Delicious throbs radiated out in echoes from breast and core, as he switched to the other nipple.

He took his time, and she writhed under him as urgency built and built—God, she was going to come just from this—

He bit her sensitive nipple, zapping her with another bolt of lightning, then he pressed a lingering, soft kiss on the sweet ache as she crested, tumbling down in quick rings of pleasure.

My turn
. She fumbled at the belt buckle of his jeans. He sat up, his cock so tight against his jeans the zipper strained. But he let her yank the belt free, then press him down onto the bed so she could straddle his hips.

She took her time running her hands from his waist up to his throat, where she paused to rub her thumbs lingeringly over the bristle along his jaw as she enjoyed the way he watched her breasts. The flickering candle light from the other room was no more than an outline, striking glints of gold in his hair, and limning his contours. Where she touched, she left a trail of kisses. When her fingers encountered the puckers of scars, she caressed gently, and kissed those, too, causing his breathing to harshen.

She had this beautiful, mysterious man to play with—tomorrow he would be gone. The thought stabbed through her with unexpected pain, and so she shoved it away with a toss of her head, and unzipped his pants. She was going to make this last.

One more card trick would have given her all of him—he went commando inside those jeans. She gurgled a laugh of delight as his cock sprang free, hard and silk-skinned and gorgeous. She reveled in the shudder and tightening of his abs as she licked all around and over. Two could nip, she thought, and applied her teeth to the tip—causing him to rocket off the bed.

She laughed as he whirled her over, and with two moves he unzipped her jeans and yanked them off.

He skimmed his fingers over the top of her thong, then eased aside the fabric to slid his finger inside her. Finding her wet and slick, he grinned, as another finger slid in, and his thumb, callused from years of strings, found her clit.

It was her turn to jump, as the tide in her surged. “Now,” she pleaded, reaching for her night table. “I want you inside me.” She kept condoms in the drawer. She pulled one out as he kicked free of his jeans. She helped herself to an enticing look at his naked body, his cock hard and tight against his stomach, and said, “Let me put it on.”

“If you touch me again I’m going to lose it,” he said hoarsely.

“So?” she cooed as she slid her thong down and tossed it. “We’ve got all night.”

She’d seen more cocks than she could count, all shapes and sizes, but his mesmerized her with overwhelming desire to touch and taste. What was so compelling about West? She couldn’t get enough of his heat, his musky male smell, the contrast between his hardness and the silky skin of his dick. She wanted him inside her now, hard, fast, but she made herself take her time easing the condom down over every fold and ridge as careful as if he were made of glass. His breathing harshened more, and he gritted his teeth—

Then he rolled on top of her, and slid into her in one sweet stroke.

“Oh yes,” she whispered.

His hands caressed down her arms to her hips, stroking them before moving over her butt, and then down her thighs to her knees. Then he pulled her knees up—deepening him inside her, which caused her to writhe frantically.

She locked her ankles around his hips and he began to thrust, she rocking with him, harder and faster, until his hands came up again to press her knees open, higher, which gave his thrusts a friction deep in her folds that jacked her sensitivity to searing, brain-blitzing heat. Two hard thrusts and she came like a lightning strike, followed by thunderous throbs that clenched on him, sending him off. He stiffened, then relaxed on top of her, skin to sweaty skin, as they came down in breath-shuddering bliss.

God, it was good. He was good, like he had slipped inside her skin and mind and knew what she wanted before she knew it. Her head swam with contentment as he rose to slip off the condom. She took it, tied it off and tossed it into the trash, then lay back, trying to find words, but there were no words, only touch: she caressed him over his ribs, the hard ridge of his shoulder blade, to the tender curve of his neck, then pulled his head down onto her shoulder.