Growl (8 page)

Then his cock was gone, and she mewled in protest as she opened her eyes.

A cry was torn from her as he blew hotly on her plump lower lips. Big hands cupped her ass and raised her, positioning her at just the right height for—

Her body arced in a giant letter C at the flick of his tongue on her clit. Unexpected, the sudden touch proved too much. She might have caught him off guard with the first lick, but by the second and third he'd anchored her to the bed. A good thing, too, because once he latched his mouth to her she went mindless with pleasure.

She couldn't have said what she enjoyed more, the light flicks of his tongue against her clit or the probing between her lips, teasing her channel. But he wouldn't let her come.

She tensed. She trembled. She shuddered on the brink. He pulled back until she could have screamed.

A whimpered, “Please.”

All that got her was a different kind of penetration. His tongue was replaced by one finger. Two. In and out, he pumped his digits. It wasn't enough. He knew it and added a stretching third. He also changed his angle, and the pitch of her moans changed to a high note as he repeatedly stroked her G-spot.

“Come for me,” he murmured. “I want to feel it on my fingers.” And his tongue apparently, as he began his oral tease again.

This was one order she gladly obeyed. Her channel tightened almost painfully around his pumping fingers before the climax ripped through her. Spasm after spasm, quivering and panting. And still he fingered and licked her.

He gave her intense pleasure and kept going, building her tension again until she keened and cried for relief.

He withdrew. Fingers. Tongue. All gone.

She could have cried. Instead, she sighed as the swollen head of his cock pressed against her moistness.

Inch by torturous inch, he fed his wonderfully large cock into her sex. It took forever, and it was wondrous. She couldn't help but have the muscles of her channel cling to him tight.

His turn to groan and throw his head back, the cords in his neck deliciously taut.

Braced on his forearms, Gavin hung just out of reach. She couldn't kiss him or lick his skin the way she wanted, but she could touch him. Rake her nails down his chest so that he hissed and his hips jerked, seating him deeper.

She could pinch the tips of his nipples and see the goose bumps rise on his skin as he reacted.

She could also say, “Get down here so I can kiss you.”

And taste herself on his lips.

Their mouths clashed and clung in a fiery embrace while his hips pistoned his hard length. Her legs locked around his waist, urging his furious pounding. How she loved the fleshy smack of his body against hers, the delightful friction as he thrust in and out.

She clawed at the skin on his back, her breathing and cries incoherent grunts and pants, which matched his lower tenor ones.

Together they rocked and undulated, two bodies joined, lips meshed, hearts racing as one.

Their rhythm took on a primal life as rapture built. Built and built, much like a teetering tower of blocks until, with one teeny push, it fell over. Or, in their case, exploded.

Hers wasn't the only voice yelling as her orgasm hit and shook her.

Above her, Gavin gave one final thrust and went still, but she felt the hot spurt of his climax and heard his utterly possessive, “Mine.”

But she allowed it because, in that moment, she couldn't help but think it, too.

 

CHAPTER 11

How the fuck did a cat get in the room?
was Gavin's first thought when the caterwauling started. It took only another second to realize he was getting a call. His phone sang the old Purina cat commercial song, which involved a lot of meows, which drove his inner wolf mental.

Bloody Broderick. The irritating feline had gotten his hands on Gavin's cell somehow and put it as his ringtone. Gavin had yet to figure out how to change it.

I've really got to try that brownie recipe I found on the Internet but replace the marijuana with catnip.
The resulting blackmail video might atone for some of his pal's pranks.

Sliding out of bed, leaving the warm and cuddly body of his mate—
after last night she's mine, even if she doesn't know it yet
—he padded naked, but for the phone in his hand, to the bathroom and shut the door.

“What do you want?” he answered, forgoing a hello.

A tad grumpy?
Damned right.
He'd harbored other plans for waking up that didn't involve speaking to his friend while a naked delight waited in bed.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“It's not morning yet.” Not even close.

“Doesn't matter. You need to get up. Where are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“It could. I don't suppose you've got a certain lady with you?”

In the past, Gavin might have bragged, but this was his woman. Things were different now. “I don't see that it's any of your business.”

“I'll take that as ‘yes' and hope there are witnesses, since her apartment was set on fire last night in what the cops are calling ‘an attempt to conceal a crime scene.'”

“What the hell are you talking about? Her place was trashed, yes, but to accuse her of torching it is nuts.”

“I don't know anything about her place getting ransacked. I'm talking about the body.”

Turning on the water tap to muffle his conversation in case Megan awoke, he asked, “Rewind. What fucking body?”

“The one you apparently don't know about yet. About eleven p.m. last night, an off-duty fireman, coming off shift, smelled smoke coming from Megan's place and grabbed an extinguisher from the hall to put it out. Given he had to kick the door in to spray the place, he was the one to spot the body inside. The very dead and obviously murdered body of a male.”

Good thing Gavin knew where Megan was or the news might have sent him off. As it was, the revelation of more shit aimed his mate's way didn't sit well.

“Any idea who the body belongs to?”

“You're going to love this. It's Jacques Lamontaine.”

The name seemed familiar. “Isn't he a bookie?”

“Yes, and he works for—”

“Fabian.” Funny how the case had veered back in Gavin's creator's direction. “What the hell was Jacques doing at her place?”

“The cops have a theory, but you're not going to like it, as it just reinforces the case against Megan.”

“Tell me.”

“They think that Jacques hired Megan to kill Pierre as a public example of what happens to people who shirk on their debt. They think Megan called him over to her place to extort money from Jacques, except he refused to give her more money, so she shot him.”

“Well, their theory is wrong. Not only did Megan not kill the guy, but she didn't set fire to her place either.”

“So you can alibi her?”

“Yeah, me and a bunch of others. Not to mention the hotel we're holed up in has cameras on all the floors and in the elevators for security. I can easily prove she didn't leave this room after we entered it last night just after seven.”

“Good thing, because someone's got it out for the lady.”

“No shit. Question is, who? Fabian swears he's not involved.”

“And you believe him?”

Much as it pained Gavin to admit? “Yeah. It's not his style. He'd either do it himself and not leave any evidence or make it so subtle no one would suspect murder in the first place.”

“Good point. Whoever is behind this isn't afraid to get their hands dirty and has it bad for your little secretary. What are you going to do?”

Apparently, go furry, because, even over the sound of the water running there was no missing the distinctive thump as the hotel room door got kicked open, and he somehow doubted it was room service.

Of more concern, though, was who slept defenseless in the room.

Megan!

“I gotta go. We're being attacked,” he said as he tossed the phone down without bothering to hang up.

As he was already naked, it took Gavin but a moment to let the adrenaline surge until claws popped from the ends of his fingers, fur sprouted from his skin, and teeth elongated.

With a howl, he rammed into the bathroom door, cracking the frame and slamming it into the wall. Teeth bared, he lunged to meet the threat and surprise his mate.

More like she surprised him.

What the fuck is she doing?

 

CHAPTER 12

The meowing ringtone woke Megan, but comfortable in the bed, she didn't bother to stir—although she did crack an eyelid to admire the flexing, tight buttocks of her lawyer/lover.

My lover.

Not quite the stupidest thing she'd done lately but, given her situation, not the brightest either.

At least her lapse in judgment resulted in a phenomenal night of sex. Apparently, Gavin's skills weren't just in the courtroom. The man knew how to play her body, leaving it pleasantly sore and, more surprising, hungry for more.

Indeed, just thinking about the pleasures of the previous eve had arousal stirring and her skin tingling. How rare to find a man who attracted her and on more than one level. Not only did his body attract; his mind wasn't too bad either.

Another unexpected aspect about Gavin was her ability to sleep with him. Sleepovers weren't her forte. Something about the vulnerability of sleep made her restless and unable to enjoy but the lightest of slumber, a habit she'd not managed to drop since she went out on her own. A lone woman never liked to be caught unaware.

For some reason, Megan relaxed her guard when around Gavin. For a three-piece-suit kind of guy, he managed to exude an aura that screamed,
I can take care of myself and you!

He'd certainly taken care of her last night. She only had to stretch a little to feel the pleasant soreness of certain muscles.

The low murmur of his voice rose as he practically yelled, “What the hell are you talking about? Her place was trashed, yes, but to accuse her of torching it is nuts.”

He's talking about me?

Straining to hear, she silently cursed as the sudden whoosh of water coming from a tap drowned his words.

That wouldn't do. Slipping from the bed, she tiptoed to the bathroom door, not bothering to put on any clothes. She wanted to hear. Who was calling him at this ungodly early hour? And what were they talking about?

Pressing her ear against the door, she couldn't quite make out his words but caught enough. “Fabian.” “Kill.” “Fire.”

The plot thickened, and she needed answers. But first she needed pants. Confrontation was always less effective when naked. Especially when someone kicked in a door and rushed in aiming a gun.

Good thing she'd honed her reflexes over the years. “Chubby” didn't mean she couldn't move.

Instinctively, she ducked, so the first shot fired went right overhead. Before the gunman could trigger a second, she lunged and hit him in the knees, tackling him. Down he went, landing with a hard thump on his back. A moment later, her bare thighs pinned his arms, her forearm was pressed against his throat, and he stared at her with wide eyes.

Occupied with the intruder under her, Megan only vaguely noted the bathroom door smashing open as Gavin rushed out. Poor guy. He probably didn't expect to find his supposedly sweet and innocent client—and bedmate—restraining a hired killer.

A low growl rumbled from behind her. A very ungentlemanly growl. One would say even inhuman.

What the hell.

Despite the threat beneath her, Megan couldn't help but crane to peer behind her.

Her eyes widened. Her breath was caught. Her rigid pose relaxed, and the gunman took advantage of her lapse to fling her away from him.

She hit the wall with an oomph, but the shock of impact was nothing compared to the mental one as she beheld a veritable wolfman looming over the blubbering gunman, who aimed his gun with shaking hands and pulled the trigger.

Red blossomed as the bullet hit the massive beast, but the wound, which went right through his shoulder and leaked blood, didn't stop him. The wolfman emitted a snarl of rage while a paw tipped in claws swiped at the hired killer.

But the wolfman didn't strike to kill. Rather, he grabbed the man by his jacket and lifted him, shaking the large fellow much like a dog with a stuffed toy. Then the wolfman tossed him, clear across the room.

The hired killer hit the wall, hard, then the floor. With a single bound, the beast reached him and picked him up again.

It was at this point that Megan came to a few realizations. One, that wolfman was Gavin. No mistaking those gorgeous blue eyes of his, and besides, given there was no human lawyer in the bathroom, or anywhere else for that matter, simple logic prevailed. Two, this was not a place for her to stay.

While Gavin played with his new squeaky toy, Megan snagged some clothes off the floor, his keys off the desk, and dashed for the door.

Stark naked, she streaked up the hall, which, to her surprise, remained quiet. Even better luck, the elevator was still at their level. As the doors slid shut, she saw through the shrinking crack wolf-Gavin emerge in the hall in all his furry splendor and glance in both directions.

His gaze caught hers at the last moment.

Through a jaw not meant for human words, the wolfman managed a gruff, “Come back.”

As if.
“Like hell,” she muttered, not without a smirk.

And then the doors slid shut but not before she heard him howl.

A shiver went through her.

No wonder he called her little rabbit. The man truly was a wolf. And she'd just done the one thing prey should never do.

Run.

 

CHAPTER 13

Emerging from the bathroom, Gavin expected to encounter a few things. An intruder with nefarious intentions. Maybe some screaming from Megan, because a normal woman would be frightened by not only someone kicking their door down and shooting but also the appearance of a living and, yes, viciously snarling Lycan.