Page 42 of His to Hunt

I stand and move closer, lowering my voice. “I’m not angry at you. I’m angry that no one did this sooner.”

“It’s just clothes.” Despite what she says, her eyes shine a little.

“No, mate. It’s not,” I sigh. “It’s more than that. It’s about taking care of you the way you should have always been cared for. If it wasn’t for that fucking fate-block…”

She stares at me for a moment, then nods and looks away.

I hook a finger beneath her chin and turn her face back to mine. “You don’t have to earn being cared for.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. Good. Maybe that one got through.

“Next outfit,” I say, letting her go. “Before I kiss you in front of Jennifer and Susan and make everyone uncomfortable.”

“I think you already made them uncomfortable,” she whispers.

“They’ll survive,” I chuckle.

She laughs softly as she disappears again.

That sound does something to me. Something stronger than her arousal. Her laugh makes my chest tighten, makes the bond claw under my skin. Makes me want to buy the entire damn boutique just because she laughed inside it.

The next thing she tries on is a little black dress. She steps out looking nervous and spectacular, with the fabric hugging her breasts and stopping halfway down her thighs. The dress has thin straps and a neckline that makes my wolf rise close enough to the surface that my vision sharpens.

“This is too much, right?” she asks anxiously, smoothing the fabric with her hands.

“Yes,” I admit, already knowing I’d have to tear out a throat or three if she walked out of here in that dress.

Her face falls slightly, but she seems to understand.

“For anyone else to see,” I clarify, standing up.

Her eyes lift to mine.

“That dress is mine,” I growl. “You can wear it for me. In private. Where I can tear it off you with my teeth if I decide I don’t like it being on you anymore.”

Her scent spikes so fast I almost close the distance between us in one giant step. Jennifer coughs. Susan suddenly becomes very interested in organizing hangers.

Taryn presses her thighs together, and I see it. The tiny movement. The way her knees shift. The way her fingers twitch at the hem of the dress.

“You can’t say things like that in public,” she whispers.

“I can say much worse in public,” I growl. “Like the fact I can smell how fucking wet you are. How much you wish you had my tongue or my cock inside you.”

Her eyes go huge. “Stop!”

“Am I wrong?” I laugh.

Her blush answers before her mouth does. “No,” she whispers.

My jaw tightens. I take one step closer, then another. “If we were alone, I’d put you over that little velvet bench, push this dress up, and find out exactly how wet.”

She sways a little.

I catch her hip, steadying her. “Careful, mate.”

“You’re doing that on purpose,” she accuses, but her voice is too breathless to hold any real anger.

“Maybe I am,” I quip.