Jungle Freakn' Bride (38 page)

Happy birthday to me.
Despite her potty mouth—which could do delightfully dirty things to him anytime it liked—he beheld feminine perfection with a few extra curves—
more cushion for the pushing
. Reaching his chin, the wearer of the cargo pants had ebony skin, which gleamed like the richest of chocolates. Round cheeks, full red lips, a snub nose and dark, really annoyed eyes greeted him. As if that weren’t enough, Ms. Hot-Ass possessed the most fascinating hair; long and feathered in layers, black as sin but tipped in white, even the edges of her bangs. It gave her an exotic look he found quite appealing. Just ask his twitching cock.

Inhaling, he took a sniff and his toes curled in delight at the spicy citrus scent that emanated from her. He did so like his fruit, especially the eating part. Further examination of his whiff and he determined she belonged to the bird genome, although he couldn’t quite pinpoint which caste. Not that he cared. Unlike his snobby brother, Mason enjoyed the ladies of all species, because as everyone knew, bears loved their
honey
. Mix it with some sweet pussy pie, and they were in heaven.

His mouth already watering at her imagined taste, he smiled at the angry woman, a thousand watt, panty dropping whopper of a grin, and waited for her scowl to melt along with her inhibitions.

Unlikely as it seemed, her glare deepened until her eyes shot veritable daggers at him, dozens of sharp pointed objects with unerring aim that almost made him flinch and definitely dampened his cheerful mug.

Faced with such antagonism, he decided to rely on his charm. With a voice women called velvet seduction, he said, “Hi. How you doing?” Okay, so he borrowed—ahem, stole—that line from Joey off the show
Friends
. How could he resist? The man was pure genius when it came to getting women.

Even that didn’t work on the steaming mad hottie. She planted her hands on her hips—nicely curved ones made for gripping—and curled her lip disdainfully. “I was doing fine until you came in. You’d better have a good excuse for slapping my butt, Mason Brownsmith, or you’re going to find yourself one day, real soon, in a cell full of convicts who are going to find your ass mighty interesting.”

As threats went, it was pretty damned good, and frightening if she meant it. “Darling, you wound me. I was just complimenting you on your fabulous buttocks. I promise, hard as the temptation will be, to keep my hands to myself from now on, unless you want them on you.” He raised a hopeful brow. She shot it down with an arched one of her own. Damn, but that just made her more desirable. “It seems you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name and all I know about you is that I’d like to get to know you better.” He left out the naked part. Somehow, he didn’t think she’d appreciate it. Yet. Optimism; one of his finer traits.

“I’m Jessie Cygnclair, FUC agent and head of the technical department, and totally unimpressed with your feeble attempt to get in my pants. I don’t sleep with coworkers. I don’t find crass sexual come-ons sexy, and I most definitely have no intention of getting to know you, a proven manwhore, better.”

Mason slapped a hand over his heart in mock injury, not entirely untrue given the blow to his ego. “Manwhore? That’s harsh. I prefer the term erotic specialist with a degree in oral pleasure.” He waggled his lips in opposing directions—a hit with the ladies, especially once they got their pants off—and winked.

Unimpressed, she kicked him, hard, in the shin.

“Ow!” He hopped on one foot and thanked his stars she’d not aimed higher. She wore black combat boots with what felt like steel enforced toes.

“Get out.” Not an ounce of sympathy entered her expression as she crossed her arms under an impressive set of tits.

“But—”

“Out,” she snarled. “And if you come back, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

Seeing as how he was apparently off his game, Mason thought it better to retreat and regroup. He slunk out with his short bear tail tucked between his legs. That only lasted until he hit the hall and his confidence came seeping back. So what if one mocha-skinned tech geek didn’t think he was God’s gift to women? She’d eventually get the memo and when she came begging and smiling…he’d make her scream in pleasure, of course. He never could hold grudges, especially not where beautiful women were concerned.

Intrigued? Grab a copy of Swan and the Bear by Eve Langlais.
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