Did he care what she did with other men? She was here now. She smelled like flowers. Looked like sin. And it was obvious she hadn’t come for a chat.
Stryke pulled her to him in a swift move that married their bodies at hips and chest. He felt her nipples harden beneath the velvet and his hand glided to one breast to squeeze. There was something about a woman intent upon getting exactly what she wanted. And he sensed this flawless piece of female was here on a seek-and-have-sex mission.
He dipped his head to her breasts. The dress was cut low, and he dashed his tongue under the velvet. She gasped and leaned into him, asking for more with her body.
“I hope you’re not busy,” she whispered. “I don’t normally stop by without first calling, but I didn’t have your mobile number.”
Mobile was what the French called the cell phone. He lashed his tongue over her firm breast. “Was only planning on sightseeing. Mmm, Blyss, you are incredible.”
Her hand slid up under his T-shirt, fingernails gently clawing his abs. “And you are très fantastique, Stryke.”
He slid the thin red strap off her shoulder and pulled down the dress to expose her breast. Kissing and suckling her erect nipple, he moaned at the pleasure of the surprise. And his inner wolf stirred, sensing the connection to—hmm...to what?
Something about her called to his feral instincts in ways that no woman ever had. It puzzled him, but then again, he couldn’t question it too much. Maybe later.
Her leg hooked about his and she gripped him at the back of his neck, pulling him hard against her breast. When he nipped her skin she gasped. She liked that. A little rough? He’d always thought himself a gentle lover, but he could amp up the intensity if that was what she wanted.
Squeezing her other breast while he sucked in her nipple, he gripped her ass and lifted her so she wrapped her legs about his. The bedroom door was five steps away. Moving blindly, he managed to miss the door completely and crush her up against the wall. He knew she liked this position.
“Sorry, was aiming for the door.”
“Your bedroom is through there? Yes, let’s try it on a bed this time, mon amour.”
My love? Oh yeah. She was here for more than a social call.
This time he made it through the doorway and they tumbled onto the king-size bed made with simple white linens and a scatter of fluffy pillows. He didn’t let her go, though. Instead he pulled down the other dress strap and the dress fell to her waist. Burying his face against her breasts, he breathed in what was surely expensive perfume. He’d fallen into a rose garden.
She tugged at his shirt and he slipped it over his head. Cooing, Blyss ran her hands over his chest, setting his nerve endings ultrareceptive to all things good.
“So ripped,” she murmured. “American men are so much more than the French man.”
When he was about to foolishly say it was the wolf in him, she pressed a finger to his lips. “Let’s not talk. Let’s taste.” She lashed her tongue under his jaw. “And touch.” Her fingers slid over his crotch and curled about his erection. “And devour.”
“Devouring sounds good to me.”
Stryke made quick work of his fly, unzipping and shrugging out of his jeans. Boxer briefs hugged his erection, but they didn’t stay up for long. Blyss shoved them down his hips and grasped his aching hard-on. The contact felt like fire singeing him in the sweetest way. He hissed.
She coiled her fingers about him and squeezed. Oh, yeah, that was twenty kinds of all right.
Stryke was about to kiss her mouth, but the red lipstick stayed him. She was so pretty, so perfect. She deserved mussing, but he’d do it in another way. Planting the kiss on her neck, he nuzzled there and gently bit down along her shoulder. Her hands busied themselves with his cock and he would come too fast if she kept it up.
He grabbed her wrists and pinned them up by her shoulders. This time, he intended to orchestrate their liaison. No coming for him until she did first. He owed her one. She cooed, her tongue dashing out to lick those teasing red lips. He’d caught her. Now what would he do with her?
Indeed, what to do with this gorgeous bit of glamour that surprised him at every turn and whom he wanted to figure out. And yet, he did not. The surprises were what made her so exciting.
Rocking his hips against hers, he teased at her hot, sticky wetness with his cock. She moaned and murmured, “Yes,” but he was inclined to tease a bit longer.
The dress hugged around her waist. Her thigh-high stockings glided like silk against his legs. She still wore the shoes, and thinking about those spiked heels hardened his cock even more. He wanted to feel her softness and her dangerous sharpness all over his skin.
So when she struggled against his hold on her wrists, he relaxed his grip and allowed her to push at him. He rolled to his back, pulling her on top of him in a smooth movement. Straddling him, she pulled off the dress and tossed it to the floor.
Afternoon sunlight beamed across the bed and her body glowed as if she were a sun goddess. Stryke glided his hands up her stomach. When he cupped her breasts, she tilted her head back, offering her succulent fullness to him. She wiggled, her moistness heating his cock. And with a shift of her hips she managed to take him inside her.
“I don’t have any—” Stryke never had unprotected sex. Werewolves could get mortal women pregnant.
She tutted him. “You didn’t last night either, no?”
Right. She’d said she was on the pill.
“Lover, you are steel between my legs. Mmm...”
He closed his eyes and fell into the exquisite rhythm of her rocking above him, feeding off him, milking him, pairing with him. Bonding—no.
When two werewolves had sex together in werewolf form they bonded for life. It was a serious deal. And while he hoped to someday bond with a werewolf and make a family together, this woman was merely human and he just wanted to have fun with the glamour goddess.
Blyss cupped his hands, still wrapped about her breasts, and squeezed. Murmuring an approving sound, she quickened her pace, up and down, bringing him to climax with expert skill. Stryke’s hips bucked up against her, and when she pressed her hands to his chest and watched him ride out the pleasure, he thought surely she was looking inside him for some secret.
The secret was that he was stymied by her interest in him. But then again, maybe he should stop thinking like a Northwoods hick and accept the Parisian ideal. Whatever that was.
Slipping his fingers between her legs, he found her swollen apex and stroked her until she gripped at his shoulders and tossed back her head. The scent of flowers and salty sweetness and...something so familiar filled his senses as she cried out in pleasure.
Stryke inhaled deeply, testing the scent she gave off and wondering... It was too familiar not to recognize. Was she really? There was no mistaking her feral scent. He knew it from long runs in the woods with his brothers while they were in wolf form and from the rush of adrenaline the wolves got when chasing prey.
As Blyss’s body softened above him, Stryke gripped her by the shoulders. “You’re a werewolf?”
Blyss pushed out of Stryke’s demanding grasp and shuffled off the bed. She clasped her hands across her breasts, the urge to protect herself heightened by his out-of-the-blue question. And his strangely accusatory tone. Inhaling, she fought to not mentally return to that moment in high school—the moment life had turned against her.
How could he have known?
In all the years she had been taking a pill to suppress her werewolf, never had anyone