Page 17 of A Pack of Lies and a Big Bad Wolf

I cross the kitchen.

"—and furthermore—what are you doing?" She tips her head back to stare up at me.

"You have twigs in your hair." I pull the first one loose.

"I— that's not— we were discussing—" She goes very still, the particular stillness of prey that realizes it’s been spotted. Oh, she has no idea. "You are way too close."

"I like where I am right now." Second twig. Her hair slides through my fingers, and she smells of pine and clean sweat and my own shirt. "You picked these up chasing me through the forest, princess."

"I did not chase you. You ran off. I happened to run in the same—"

“Please,” I scoff. “You’re my fated mate. Your wolf wants mine, just like you want me, just like I want you. No, it’s more than a want. It’s a need. How have you been sleeping since you met me, mate? Not as well as you would if you were where you belong. In my bed.”

Her pulse is visible in her throat. I free the last twig and let it fall, and take her chin between my thumb and finger, tipping her face up to mine.

"Tell me to stop."

Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out of it.

"Cat got your tongue, princess?"

"You—" she manages, her voice husky, her eyes glazed with fury and desire. "You are the most—"

I kiss her.

She goes rigid for one heartbeat. Then she melts into me with a small furious sound, her fists closing in the front of my shirt, soft lips brushing against mine, and I make myself break it off, her breath still on my mouth.

"Tell me to stop," I growl, challenging her.

"Shut up," she breathes, and yanks me back down.

The last of my restraint goes up in smoke. I get my hands on her waist and somewhere behind me coffee mugs lift off the counter and thud back down.

There goes my self-control again.

"This doesn't mean I like you," she says against my jaw.

"Understood." I get an arm under her and lift her onto the counter, and she wraps her legs around me with zero hesitation for a woman who doesn't like me.

The gray shirt comes off over her head. And then she's bare in my kitchen, flushed and glaring, daring me to say one word about it, and I take my time looking because I've earned it and because it makes her breath go ragged.

"You're staring."

"I am." I bend and take one tight nipple in my mouth, and her whole body arches, her fingers driving into my hair. She gasps something that starts as an insult and doesn't survive to the end. I work my way across to the other one, unhurried, savoring every helpless sound she's trying to strangle, until she's squirming on the counter's edge and yanking at my shirt with genuine hostility.

"Off. Now."

"Bossy." But I strip it over my head, and her hands land on my chest and slide down my stomach with a hum of open appreciation, and when her fingers hook into my waistband every drawer in the kitchen rattles.

She freezes. "What was that?"

"Old house." I kiss her before the follow-up question, and slide my hand up the inside of her thigh, and she stops caring about carpentry.

She's soaked. I drag my fingers through her folds, slow, learning her, and she moans into my mouth and rocks against my hand with a shamelessness that nearly ends me on the spot. I work one finger into her, then a second, curling them, my thumb circling her clit, and she breaks the kiss to swear at me — a broad-ranging piece of profanity that questions my parentage and my ego while her hips ride my hand, chasing more.

"Look at you," I murmur against her throat. "All that yelling, and this is what you wanted."

That earns me a ferocious glare.