Page 2 of The Stalker

His chest heaved beneath her back. His arm held tight around her waist. And for one moment, the night alive with the sounds of their breathing and their competing heartbeats, she allowed herself a delicious shiver of fear. A moment to remember what it had been likebefore.

Then he shifted under her, laying her down on the pine needles and springing up to brace above her, propped with his hands on either side of her head. He’d lost his hood and his hat in the tumble, and even in the dark she could see him clearly: the deep-set blue eyes, the sharp lines of jaw and nose, the gleam of his teeth as he grinned. Delighted and easy, happier than he ever seemed to be anymore. She’d French braided his hair back at the apartment, tucked the tails up and tied them together with a bit of black ribbon; little wisps had come loose under his hat, silky black flyaways that stood up like a halo around the crown of his head.

“Good evening, Lady le Strange,” he said, the words formal, his voice dark and velvety. His accent was still English-royalty crisp, like he’d just flown over from London. No amount of time in the States could dull it, and for that she was supremely grateful. (He’d confessed to her once that he hoped she never lost her Old South drawl, so she supposed they were even on that score.)

“Baron Strange,” she returned, biting back a chuckle, her own smile wide enough to make her face hurt.

He put on a fierce mock scowl, a smile trying to crack through. “Do you alwayslaughwhen you’re accosted bystrangemen in the woods?”

“Do you always make such horrible puns that involve your own name?”

“Maybe.” He leaned in low, breath ghosting across her lips, close enough to taste the vital heat of his mouth without actually touching. He lingered there a moment, his lashes dark fans against his cheeks, his nose nudging up against hers. Then he ducked his head and fastened his mouth to her throat, that tender pale place just beneath the hinge of her jaw. He pressed in with his teeth, just enough for her to feel the too-sharp points of his canines, but not a true bite.

Anna smoothed her hands down the back of his head, the two orderly plaits woven tight against his scalp, the sleek, heavy softness of his gorgeous hair all bound up tight. Her heart gave an unsteady bump and she arched up, leaning into his mouth, into the weight of his chest above hers. “Baby.”

“Hmm, not baby,” he murmured against her skin. “A scary strange man in the forest, remember?”

“Oh, right, right.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud. “Ooh, scary strange man, whatever will you do to me?” she asked, drawl coming out extra-thick. Scarlett O’Hara dramatic.

He snorted and pulled back, expression stern, but eyes dancing as he looked down at her again. “You’re terrible.”

“Yes, but I’d really like you to kiss me.”

His gaze softened. His voice did too. “That can be arranged.” No teasing this time; he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, easy and sweet, full of all the softness he sometimes didn’t know how to express with words.

She loved when he was sweet like this, careful and gentle, like she was made of spun glass. Or, rather, like he didn’t trust himself; or maybe didn’t trust that she wanted him, that she craved him like sunshine and chocolate and red wine. But it hurt her a little, too, when he was careful, because it reminded her of what he’d been like before, in those first early days when they realized that the inescapablethinggrowing between them wasn’t violence, but lust. Deep, true, animal lust that had nothing to do with his stuffy, buttoned-up British denial of the wolf that lived beneath his skin.

So even if she loved sweet, she lovedrealmore. Wanted him to be therealhim; to be wild with her.

She skimmed her hands down his neck, his back, settled them over his ass. She hooked her legs around his hips and pulled him down into the cradle of hers, grinding against him, the bulge already forming behind the fly of his jeans.

He gasped, and the kiss turned sloppy. His hips kicked against hers. He made a ragged sound against her mouth, half-moan, half-growl, a deep rumble in his chest that vibrated through bone and skin; she felt it at the base of her throat.

“There he is,” she whispered against the corner of his mouth. “I don’t want a stranger. I want my husband.”

He lifted his head, and his eyes blazed in the dark, their pretty blue color now electric, glowing, their brilliance pulsing in time to his heart, where it throbbed against her breasts. The sound that moved up his throat wasn’t anything a human could make.

She whined in response, tipped her head back on the pine needles and showed him her throat. She would have loved the hot gust of his breath across her skin anyway, but she needed it, too, the way it made her hot all over, left her wet and desperate. People had no idea, no idea how at all, how much more intense and amazing it was when it wasn’t just a boyfriend, or a husband, but yourmate. They had rings, and certificates, and fucking noble titles to make it official, but none of those came close to touching what it meant to be mates.

In a world that had tried to convince wolves that they were supposed to be alone, no less.

He sat up on his knees and growled again – lower, hungrier. His hands, long-fingered and white and beautiful, moved deftly down the front of her body. Pushing up her shirt, tugging down her jeans and shoes all in one go.

It was a warm night, but the air was warmer than her overheated skin and she lifted into the caress of the breeze, wishing it was his hands instead. There were nights for taking it slow, dragging it out for hours, but tonight wasn’t one of them. Her heart felt like it had relocated down between her legs, her pulse strongest there, where she wanted him most.

“Baby, comeon.”

“Don’t rush me.” But he was breathless, the tendons standing out in his neck. He tugged his hoodie over his head and spread it out on the ground, which gave her a chance to admire the way his shoulders looked in his gray tank top. “Here.” He lifted her hips – she whined at the contact, needing more, needing all their skin to touch – and repositioned her onto the sweatshirt.

“Such a gentleman,” she said, groaning, laughing. “Baby, I don’t care.Come on.”

“See if I try to make you comfortable again,” he griped, but a smile teased at the corners of his mouth.

“I could be more comfortable.” She hooked her legs around his narrow hips and dragged him in close, hissing a little at the friction of his jeans against her damp sex.

He hissed too, hands finding her waist and clamping down hard, hips bucking forward in an involuntary little movement.

They stayed like that a moment, panting, not wanting it to end too soon.

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