Page 10

He took a step closer, crowding her against the kitchen counter. “You intrigue me.”

Thirty minutes. That’s how long it could take for her herbs to have an effect. To pretend she’d really come here and broken into his apartment so he’d choose her to be intimate with tonight. Not the gorgeous brunette in the red dress. Not any other woman who’d been at the fundraiser. Her. It wouldn’t be too hard. Because right now, with the heat of his body turning hers into a raging inferno, there was a part of Grace that did want it to be her. Wanted this stunningly attractive man to desire little old Grace, a nobody shop owner born and raised on a cotton farm. Even if for a moment.

He took another sip. The more he drank, the more of her herbs he’d ingest and the quicker they’d work. He set the glass on the counter and caged her in with his arms, his warm breath brushing across her cheek and his body—the whole muscular length of him—pressed in tight. The scent of his aftershave swirled around her, woody and fresh, like the forest, with a hint of something musky underneath she couldn’t quite place. With his belt buckle digging into her stomach and the lapels of his jacket flush against the tops of her breasts, his thigh intruded on the gap between hers.

He leaned in, running his nose along the curve of her throat and inhaling deeply. A low rumble emanated from his chest.

Jumping Jehoshaphat.

Twenty-nine more minutes. With the way her body was melting into his, she’d be lucky to last three. He pressed a soft kiss beneath her ear. She quivered and almost dropped her glass.

Stand firm, Grace. The herbs should start working soon.

He cupped her chin, capturing her with his unusual eyes, his lips hovering an inch from hers. Less than an inch. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She imagined he’d be an excellent kisser. He took her glass from her, setting it aside, then placed his hand on her ribcage. The warmth of it seared through the thin fabric of her dress and soaked into her skin, stirring up a desire she’d never experienced before. And probably never would again.

His hand inched higher. Grace didn’t want to imagine anymore. She wanted to know. His hand cupped her breast, and she arched against him. His lips touched hers and her eyelids fluttered closed. Forget about the herbs and the grimoire. About Cordelia and her tattooed henchmen. The only thing that mattered right now was him, and the magical thing he was doing with his mouth. The press of his lips against hers, the taste of him as her mouth eased open, inviting him in. The caress of his thumb across the swell of her breast, her peaked nipple begging for attention.

She snapped her eyes open at the sudden coolness of distance between their bodies. Dark shadows shifted in his eyes, along with a banked hunger and a new coldness. He dropped his gaze. She followed it. In his fingers, her half empty vial of herbs.

Busted. “Son of a nutcracker.”

Chapter Seven

Alain quirked an eyebrow. Son of a nutcracker?

He shook his head and tossed the vial into the sink. It shattered, the aroma of herbs sharp on the air, and she flinched. Did she think he wouldn’t know? That he wouldn’t taste or smell her herbal concoction? Oh, she’d ground it up fine, and any other witch could have missed the bitter aftertaste of skullcap, written off the slight numbing sensation of their mouth and tongue from the kava to having drunk too much, ascribed the hint of passionflower to the aromas of the red wine. Not Alain. His senses were too acute for that.

And that could only mean one thing. She didn’t know. What he truly was. That he wasn’t merely a witch but a werewolf, too. She couldn’t, or she wouldn’t have bothered trying. There could’ve been enough herbs in his wine to fell a bull elephant, she could’ve added a spell to double or triple their potency, and it would have little to no effect on him. Already his body, his werewolf blood, had processed the herbs out of his system. Alain couldn’t fathom why Cordelia would send a witch after the grimoire without informing her what she was up against, and one so obviously out of her depth, but he was going to find out.

Eyes wide, she trembled beneath him. Not from desire, not this time, and it tugged at him, deep in his soul. Had him wanting to soothe her and care for her. Wrap her in his embrace and promise to protect her. It was the nature of his beast, and his darker desires. Aftercare came naturally and was as much a part of him as breathing. Were this one of his usual sexual encounters, he would. But she’d come here to steal from him. She worked for Cordelia King or the Faucherians. Or both. Keeping the grimoire from falling into their hands trumped everything.

He fixed her with a hard stare. “Tell me who you are and who you’re working for.”

She clamped her lips together and lifted her chin. If she had any idea what her defiance did to his already raging libido, she would have chosen a different response. He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, delighting in the involuntary gasp and the popping open of her mouth.

“You want to play, ma jolie voleuse?” He slipped his thumb into her mouth, watched her pupils blow out, and her breath stall in her throat. Putain, he wanted her to say yes. Wanted nothing more than to bring the fantasy of her tied to his bed, her expressive eyes following his every move, to life. Or take her to his playroom down the hall, chain her to the St. Andrew’s cross and watch her writhe beneath his hands as he tormented her to the edge of her endurance before he gave her the best orgasm of her life.

She closed her mouth over his thumb, and a groan rumbled up through his chest. Then she clamped her teeth around his knuckle and bit him.

He snarled, pulling his thumb from her mouth. Little brat. “Have it your way.” He grabbed her by the arm and marched her from the kitchen.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

There was an edge of panic in her voice that had his wolf whimpering in his mind and his conscience pounding loud against his psyche.

She’s here to steal the grimoire, you fool.

Where was he going to take her? His playroom? Oui. Non! The thought of her in there was too much to bear. And she was smart and bold. Though he doubted she had much—if any—experience of any sex play other than vanilla, it wouldn’t take her long to work out the self-release clips on all his restraints. He tugged her in the opposite direction.

She made a grab for the door frame as he propelled her into his bedroom, but he was too strong for her. Parquetry floors gave way to plush, soft pile rug as he crossed the threshold. Very few women were ever invited into this room. Certainly not those he’d met only once. He was making an exception for her, for this situation.

“Allume la lumière.”

The lights came on, dim and soft, and he had to remind his body—and his wolf—he was not here to play. Not tonight. Not with her. But, putain, he wanted to.

Alain thrust her on the bed and grabbed a set of silk scarves from the drawer. He had one wrist secured to the bedpost before she’d registered he’d done it.

She scuttled away from him as far as she could. “Wait!”