Page 100 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

She wasn’t used to running just for the sheer thrill of it. Of being chased, because someone wanted her so deeply that it was an instinct.

Her. With her wild red hair and her inappropriate chatter and her vengeful, unladylike heart.

She ran faster, ducking under branches, leaping over exposed roots.

And then she giggled.

There was a growl behind her, much closer than she would have thought. It made her heart race faster. “You still think this is a game, don’t you, songbird?”

“I think you’re all talk, Aidan Carnahan,” she tossed back.

She knew it was reckless. Taunting a wolf was not generally a wise decision.

But it was delicious. Thrilling. Fun.

Whatever else this might be, it was fun. And Aidan needed a bit of levity in his life.

And clarity. She could prove to him that he wasn’t a monster.

Or better yet, that he might be, and she liked it.

She pushed her legs to move faster, twigs cracking under her shoes. There was only a whisper of sound behind her, and she only heard that much because he had allowed it. The back of her neck prickled.

He was close. She could sense it, even if she could not see him.

A glance behind showed only trees and shadows and moonlight dappling the ground. Bewitched fireflies that she knew he had sent to light her way so she wouldn’t trip and fall while pelting through the woods.

And he was concerned about his wolf. His wolf who had already protected her, just as he was protecting her now.

Even through the soft snarl that made her toes curl.

She pushed harder, her calf muscles straining. She wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace much longer. Perhaps she should find somewhere to hide. A cave, or a nice, leafy bush.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned softly, his voice coming from somewhere beside her even though she still could not see him. He had seen her glance to the side. He could smell her sweat, hear her panting breaths. Hear the crunching of acorns when she darted away again with a taunting smirk that she knew he could sense somehow.

She did not get very far.

A burst of speed, one step, two, and a strong arm wrapped around her stomach, lifting her off the ground. The momentum had her gasping a laugh, her back slamming into his unforgiving chest. “Caught you,” he rumbled in her ear.

“About time,” she said.

He pushed her forward toward the oak. “Hands on the tree,” he demanded, lips tickling her ear. “Now.”

When she let her hands hover in front of her, slowly, so slowly, just to taunt him, he gripped her wrists and pressed her palms to the trunk.

“Careful.” His warning was deep and severe, shivering up her spine like a slow-dragged claw.

And then his mouth was on the side of her neck, a soft bite, a long suckle of her skin between his teeth, and she arched, fingers digging into the bark for support. Sensations flooded her: a frisson, a bloom of heat low in her belly. She felt every inch of his body against hers, his thighs holding her still, his chest against her shoulders, his hardness against the top of her bottom. That long, torturous pause where he just held them there in that moment. Waiting. Anticipating.

And then his mouth was back on her, nipping at the spot where her shoulder met her neck, and his hands were under her skirt, parting her folds in one slick, soft drag of his fingers. She gasped, pushing against the thrust of his movements, the deliberate pressure against her bud, the ragged breathing in her ear that enveloped her, cocooned her, pulling her closer and closer to the edge.

She pushed against his erection. She turned her head to kiss him, lick him, bite him, anything.

“Ah, ah,” he scolded, every inch the Alpha, the stern museum curator. The combination was lethal. She melted. She sparked. His free hand tangled in her hair and tightened, angling her head back just enough to expose her neck again. She was trapped, overpowered, overwhelmed.

And she loved it.

He curled his fingers deep inside her, stroking, plunging, thumb circling her pearl in an unbreaking rhythm.