Page 51 of What a Wolf Demands

Suddenly, her embarrassment over last night seemed unimportant. Bart was in a cell—possibly suffering—while she stood in a luxury bathroom, a criminally soft towel wrapped around her clean body. The thought made a pang of guilt shoot through her. It had been over a month since she fled Bon Rêve. Luc could have been holding Bart the entire time—and he probably wasn’t delivering fresh towels and healthy meals every day.

Moving fast, she threw off the towel and rooted through the clothes. There was a little bit of everything, from jeans and buttery soft yoga pants to button-downs and heavy pullovers. She chose a pair of skinny jeans and an oversized sweater that fell to her thighs. Dom had seen every inch of her last night. Today, she wanted to keep all her assets under wraps. The sweater was like a wearable blanket—thick and soft, with a subtle pattern woven into the cream-colored knit. It was far too hot outside for a sweater, but she didn’t care. Just about everywhere in the South had air conditioning. She’d just have to avoid going outdoors as much as possible.

She blushed as she selected a black bra and matching thong and pulled them on. The sizing was perfect, which meant he’d guessed her measurements on sight alone.

Bart. Think of Bart.

She’d brushed her teeth right after her shower, but she brushed them again. Dom’s warning to “take care” with her hygiene wasn’t just a casual comment. Wolves who slept together took on each other’s scents. Any wolf who got within ten feet of her would know exactly what she’d done with Dom. The only way to erase his scent from her body was to literally scrub it off.

She rinsed her mouth, then stepped into her jeans and threw the sweater over her head. As expected, it covered her ass and thighs, leaving everything to the imagination.

At last, she faced herself in the mirror. A woman with flushed cheeks and swollen lips stared back at her. A mark under her jaw made her turn her head and angle it back.

Yep, that was beard rash, right there on her freaking neck. He’d nuzzled his face there, his breath hot against her skin while he—

Memories flared to life in her mind. Dom’s deep grunts echoed in her head. The muscles in his shoulders had bunched as he held himself above her, his hips rocking against hers, his thick length brushing her clit over and over. His tan skin had been a sexy contrast against her freckled paleness. And when he’d lifted up, raising his torso above her, she’d had a clear view of his veined shaft pumping in and out of her, the thick length wet with her arousal.

In the mirror, her lips parted, and her eyes went heavy-lidded. She braced her palms on the counter and squeezed her eyes shut. Gave her head a little shake. Focus. She had to focus. Bart was innocent. He didn’t deserve to suffer because of her.

A sharp knock brought her head up.

Dom spoke from the other side of the door. “We need to get moving.”

“Coming!” Her heart rate sped up, and her throat went dry as she hurried to tidy the clothes and toiletries scattered on the counter. She finger-combed her hair, which had dried into soft waves. A ponytail holder would be great, but she’d have to make do without one.

As she turned toward the door, she paused and took a few deep breaths. She needed to slow her thundering heart. Of course, there wasn’t much point trying to pretend she was calm. There was no denying what happened last night.

One foot in front of the other. Wasn’t that what Bart always said? At least she didn’t have far to go.

She opened the door, and cool air from the bedroom rushed in. Dom stood at the window again, his back to her. He wore his leather jacket, with the gun probably underneath it. After Luc’s visit, she suddenly felt a whole lot better about him carrying a weapon.

Dom turned. “I’d like to leave right away. If you’re hungry, we can stop for breakfast on the way.”

“I can’t go to New York,” she blurted.

Silence, then he walked to the foot of the bed, closing the distance between them. His frown let her know exactly how he felt about her declaration. “I assume you heard Thibeaux last night. You’d rather I took you to Bon Rêve?”

“He’s got Bart.” She licked her lips. “Yes, I want to go to New York, but I can’t leave him behind.”

“Who’s—”

“My boss. Former boss. He owns the bar in Bon Rêve.” She moved closer to the bed, her hands spread. “After my parents died, he was the only one in town willing to hire me. He’s never cared that I’m a latent.”

Dom’s face didn’t change. The frown stayed firmly in place.

“He’s done more than just pay me. For five years, he’s protected me from Luc and his friends.” She dared to round the bed, putting herself steps away from Dom. “Please, Prado. I-I know I’ve asked a lot of you. Especially a-after last night—”

“We’re not going to talk about that,” he said, his expression darkening.

She snapped her mouth shut, shocked by the vehemence of his tone. Confusion descended. He wasn’t just regretful. If anything, he seemed angry.

He looked away, breaking eye contact. As if he couldn’t bear to even look at her.

A horrifying thought sprang into her mind. He’d grown up with Remy, which meant he had to be in his early thirties. Werewolves usually mated young . . .

“Prado.” Her voice came out thick, and she had to clear her throat.

He met her gaze, his eyes hard.

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