Page 31 of What a Wolf Demands

Deep in her belly, another wave of heat built. Sweat broke out on her chest. Moisture dampened her panties, and a moan gathered in her throat. She whirled from the door and went straight to the shower—a big glass cube with more nozzles and controls than a fighter jet. She fumbled with them, cursing under her breath, until she managed a cold, pounding stream.

Stripping out of the rum-soaked shirt and bra was heaven. She tossed them on the tiled floor, followed by her jeans and underwear. She stepped into the spray, letting it hit her hair and face. The cold made her gasp, but she gritted her teeth and endured it. Anything to make the . . . feelings go away.

The urges. That’s what she’d always called them in her mind. She closed her eyes, and her mother’s face floated behind her lids. Maman had never mentioned them—had never attempted “the talk” or any discussion revolving around sex. It wasn’t until later that Lily learned it was common for latents to lack sexual desire. Latent males often struggled with impotence, and few latents managed to have children. Maybe her mother hadn’t wanted to pile another problem on her teenage shoulders.

What would maman say now? Lily let out a soft laugh. No way could she ever tell her mother about this. Her mother, who’d been born in the early nineteen hundreds and still blushed when someone said “damn.”

Used to blush.

Lily opened her eyes and turned so the water hit her back. She braced her palms flat on the glass and dropped her head forward. Sometimes it seemed like her parents had been gone for decades. Other times it was as if she’d spoken to them just yesterday.

Either way, the pain was the same.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Stop thinking about it. She rolled her head gently from side to side, letting her forehead rock back and forth on the glass like a boat. Think about something else, anything else. Like how she was standing in a shower in a New Orleans hotel room with a hitman about twenty steps away.

One who expected her to sit down and eat dinner with him.

How the hell was she going to manage that? He wasn’t exactly a conversationalist. What would they even talk about? The latest in leather jacket fashion? His long list of latent executions?

Although, maybe this dinner was another opportunity to convince him not to take her to Bon Rêve. Men were always more receptive when their stomachs were happy. It was definitely true of the ones she’d spent five years serving beers and chicken wings.

Somehow, she couldn’t picture Prado eating wings. He seemed like more of a steak guy. And he probably ate with his head down, his whole focus on his plate. She’d be lucky to get even a glimpse or two of those blue eyes.

Without warning, desire slammed into her—the force so strong, her knees loosened. She let out a sharp gasp. Her nipples stiffened, the tips a dark, lurid pink at the lower edge of her vision. Before she could get her bearings, another wave rocked her. The flesh between her legs throbbed. Her inner muscles clenched of their own accord.

Another wave.

Another.

She whimpered and leaned more heavily on the glass. The movement made her breasts brush the cool surface, which set off sparks in her sensitive nipples. Her sex was like a heartbeat, each throb growing more intense. Water pounded her back. A wild, urgent instinct made her want to bend over and thrust her sex toward the spray.

Friction.

That’s what she needed. One palm flat against the slippery glass, she buried her other hand between her legs. The skin there was swollen, the lips plump and slick. Even without looking, she knew her clit stood up from the folds, supersensitive and begging for attention. A few quick rubs and she was off like a rocket, her breaths coming in short, sharp pants. Sizzling, buttery warmth flooded her, raising goosebumps on her arms as the orgasm took her.

“Yes.” Her gasp echoed off the tiled walls. Finally, she could exorcise this lust that had been grabbing at her all day, threatening to tug her down and smother her into submission.

She rubbed tight circles around her clit. Even with the sound of water pounding all around her, the wet smacks of her fingers working her folds reached her ears. Letting her eyelids flutter shut, she widened her stance and pressed her whole upper body against the glass. Her heart thudded in her chest. Sweat formed on her skin, then washed away under the shower’s cold spray. She clenched the fist of her free hand. Her nipples mashed against the glass, the jerking movements making them squeak as they slid up and down. Any second, the frenzy would settle and die.

But it didn’t.

Instead, another wave of desire built. She tensed. Moisture soaked her fingers.

Yet another wave took her. The orgasm built, crested, and receded—and another came on its heels. Her legs trembled. Too much. This couldn’t be normal. She turned her head to the side, her breaths puffing hot, damp air against the glass and back onto her lips.

Like Prado’s mouth on hers.

At that thought, another wicked lightning bolt of lust slammed through her. A moan ripped from her throat. She bit her lip and ground her forehead into the glass to stop another from escaping. Her hips jerked. Her pussy spasmed, her inner muscles clamping down. She rubbed herself at a furious pace, her breath hitching.

Suddenly, an image popped into her brain.

Between her legs, it was no longer her fingers moving over her aching clit. It was Prado’s mouth, his lips and tongue aggressive and sure.

She squeezed her eyes shut, helpless to stop the fantasy from playing out. He’d grip her thighs with strong hands, spreading her wide, his dark head lowered. Or maybe he’d open her with his thumbs, holding her lips apart as he nipped and suckled at her clit while she writhed and moaned. Every once in a while, he’d reach up and pinch one of her impossibly hard nipples.

Every muscle tensed. She curled her toes against the tiled floor. Another couple of rubs. Her entire being seemed to condense into a tiny point.

She sucked in a breath. Flicked her aching clit one last time.

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