Page 32 of What a Wolf Demands

And exploded outward.

Exquisite.

A million butterflies kissed her skin, fluttering up and down her arms . . . her legs . . . her breasts. Her rock-hard nipples. She mashed her chest hard against the glass, grinding her tits against the unforgiving surface. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and her eyes watered. With her clenched fist, she pounded the glass once, twice. She bucked her hips, her pussy bumping the glass. From some dim corner of her mind, her subconscious urged her to be quiet.

Don’t care. This was too damn good. She sucked in a breath and shuddered as her release tossed her on a wild current.

When the last wave left her, she slid to the floor. The water was ice cold now, but she didn’t have the energy to stand up and shut it off. Drawing on the last of her strength, she scooted her ass sideways so the spray didn’t hit her face. Then she brought her knees to her chest and hugged them.

Little aftershocks rippled up and down her skin. Her heart still raced, her pulse fluttering in her neck. She rested her chin on her knees. Sodden strands of dark red hair plastered themselves to her legs.

What the hell just happened? She’d never had an orgasm like that. Never. It was almost . . . frightening.

She shivered—and it wasn’t from the water.

At least she didn’t have to worry about losing control in front of Prado. She did, however, have to leave the bathroom at some point. He was probably wondering what was taking her so long.

The thought of him pounding on the door was like a jolt of caffeine. She surged to her feet. A wall-mounted toiletry dispenser held various types of colored liquid. She found shampoo and worked it through her tangled hair. She followed it with a quick rinse of conditioner, then soaped her body. There was no razor or shave gel, but her body hair was light and sparse to begin with. She could go another day or two without shaving.

She shut off the water. There was a low, sleek bench next to the shower piled with neatly folded towels. She got out, grabbed one, and wrapped it around her body. Her dirty clothes lay in a sad puddle, the black shirt darkened where the rum had saturated it.

She wrinkled her nose. There was no way she could put that back on—not even while she waited for the new outfit Prado had promised.

Except she hadn’t told him what kind of clothes she liked. Or her size.

Shit.

She kicked at her discarded clothes. The cloying scent of rum wafted up. She sighed and spun toward the mirror, and a flash of white caught her eye.

A set of hooks on the wall held two long terrycloth robes. The kind people wore at fancy spas. At least that’s what she’d seen on television. She went to the hook and dropped her towel, then plucked a robe from the wall and shrugged into it. The fabric enveloped her, stretching almost to her ankles. She cinched the belt at her waist and rolled up her sleeves. Even shortened, they still covered her hands.

After hunting around for a brush and turning up nothing, she raked her fingers through her hair, doing her best to work out the tangles. The strands around her face were starting to curl, which always happened when she didn’t have a dryer handy. She checked her reflection in the mirror. The robe was definitely made for comfort, not sex appeal. She might as well be wearing a comforter. She turned sideways and did a quick nipple check.

Nothing. Good.

Not that there was any danger of them becoming erect anytime soon. After that orgasm, the urges would stay away for a good long while.

So she had no excuse to hide in the bathroom. She went to the double doors and put her hand on the knob.

Her stomach did a flip.

This was her last chance to convince Prado to take her to a different territory. She couldn’t let nerves trip her up or distract her. She was going to march out there, sit down with him, and plead her case.

In a bathrobe. Across from the guy she’d just fantasized about eating her—

She tightened her grip on the knob until her hand ached. Not going there.

More than anything right now, she had to focus. She needed to do whatever it took to make Prado see her side of things.

Her knuckles tingled. She lifted her hand and studied them. The sharp pain was gone, but a lingering soreness persisted.

Yeah, punching him in the face was definitely off the table. She had to be accommodating. Reasonable.

Demure, even.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she pictured her mother hooting with laughter. “Lily Colette Agincourt, the only thing more fiery than your temper is your hair.” It had been one of Madeleine’s favorite sayings.

“Well, maman,” she murmured, “there’s a first time for everything.”

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