“Smell so good,” I muttered under my breath, the words slipping between my lips before I was able to stop them.
“Hmm?” he asked, his voice sounding as distracted as mine, the hand splayed at the small of my back flexing just above the curve of my ass.
My gaze fell on his mouth as he licked his lips, his breath hot and smelling of coffee as he exhaled a long and softly trembling breath. My wolf wanted to lick those lips, nip at them, bruise them and mark them as ours. The human half of me didn’t exactly balk at the idea either. Lifting my gaze up to his eyes I found them heavy-lidded and dilated until the deep forest green was little more than a narrow ring around his pupils.
Just as I was about to tell him to close the bathroom door and take me against the vanity he cleared his throat, managing to regain a professional air with what must have been herculean self-control.
“We should get back out there,” he said, his voice thick and heavy. Releasing me he took a step back, the heat of him quickly receding, leaving me cold and alone.
“Yeah,” I managed in a breathless whisper, unable to meet his eyes. “Let me just…um…get dressed.” Without waiting for an answer I darted past him and across the hall into my bedroom.
Shutting the door behind me I let my head fall back against the aged wood with a loud thump, a shuddering sigh flowing between my lips.
What the hell was that?
I was awash in a confusing sea of emotions—the heat pulsing between my thighs inspired by Special Agent Holbrook at war with the crippling fear roused by the thought of Samson Reed on the loose.
I’d been a sophomore at Colorado State University studying graphic design when I met Samson. I’d still been recovering from the recent loss my grandmother—the last of my family—and was unprepared for the intensity of my attraction to him. Then again, I’d been far from alone in my attraction to him—all of the girls, and a good portion of the guys, were head over heels for the gorgeous and charismatic junior. And for some reason I was unable to fathom, he had decided that he wanted to date me, the Plain Jane art nerd.
At the time, vulnerable as I was, I’d welcomed the affection he offered. I’d had no idea that he was a raving lunatic, or that I would be the only one of nine victims to escape his clutches alive, if not unscathed.
Absently my hands drifted to my middle again, lingering over the raised ridges of scar tissue that bisected my belly. It was rare to contract the lycanthropy virus through a scratch or bite—most werewolves were born, not turned. I just happened to be part of the lucky one percent of were victims to be turned by an attack.
No doubt he’d thought I would bleed out like his other victims, but even as had been tearing into my body with savage glee, the virus had started to spread, changing me forever. Through the miraculous healing abilities of lycanthropy, I was afforded the rare opportunity of knowing what it looks like when your insides are on the outside. It was not a memory I cared to relive.
The ensuing trial had lasted for seven painfully long months, during which I was forced to endure the media shit-storm that had made me feel like I was being brutally violated all over again. Thankfully, it had only taken the jury fifteen short minutes to return with a guilty verdict. As soon as Samson was carted off to White Sands in the desolate wastes of New Mexico I had fled the spotlight.
Shucking my robe, I let it puddle on the floor at my feet as I dug a bra and underwear out of my dresser, the drawer squeaking in protest.
I need to oil that damn thing, I thought idly and then giggled hysterically at the absurdity of the thought. You’re not going to live long enough to worry about a squeaky drawer! my brain supplied oh-so helpfully.
Clamping a hand over my mouth to silence the bark of laughter, I clutched at the edge of the dresser for support, hot tears stinging my eyes and causing my breath to catch in my throat. I refused to allow my tears to overwhelm me, and instead snatched up a discarded pair of jeans, tank top, and a flannel shirt that somehow still smelled like my grandfather’s cologne, even after all these years. Pulling them on with angry motions, I choked back my tears and resolved to focus on the anger that roiled nauseatingly in the pit of my stomach.
Anger I could handle. Anger I had in spades.
I was angry at myself for being afraid, angry at the agents in the other room for witnessing my fear, angry at Agent Holbrook for being so damned gorgeous, and most of all, angry at life for being so fucking unfair.