Page 9 of Virgo Queen
I cradle my cup in both hands and sip while I watch them over the rim. On the crowded floor, Zara and Ronin sway in unison with their eyes locked on each other, her arms raised overhead and curvy hips swiveling, Ronin’s hands wrapped possessively around her ass. Maxim sidles up behind Ronin, looking skittish and furtive, and mutters something in his ear.
Whatever Ronin says back is apparently just the thing. The dragon relaxes and nuzzles his face into Ronin’s neck, scenting him and sucking a hickey into his skin.
Clearly approving that entire arrangement, Zara hooks a leg around Ronin and basically starts dry-humping him, right there on the dance floor, while he holds her steady and rocks into her.
Then Maxim slides his hands around Ronin’s waist, and—holy cow!—unzips Ronin’s fly.
Suddenly I realize it’s distinctly possible I’m going to see two dicks in one night. Tonight’s going to be an honest-to-God red letter night. I can hardly wait to write about it in my diary.
Even if I don’t get that special first kiss I’m longing for.
I’m so absorbed watching all this (which probably makes me some kind of voyeur, but after all, they’re doing it right in public) that I’ve been guzzling my rum punch without even noticing. I’ve just realized my cup is empty and my head is swimming when a familiar hit of Mogadon pheromones, spiced with juniper and bergamot, makes my skin tighten and my pulse spike.
Even as a guttural Icelandic mutter hits my ear from behind. “Like to watch, don’t you,hjartfólgin?”
I suck in a startled breath and drop my cup, which is thankfully empty, or I’d make a huge mess. Before I can catch my breath, two big hands close around my waist and spin me hard away from the heated scene that’s unfolding on the dance floor.
I’m a tall girl, but I still need to tip back my head and look way up to meet Draco’s intense ice-blue glare. A deep furrow digs between his brows. His square jaw is clenched so hard the sinews stand out in his corded neck.
For some reason, very clearly, he’s agitated.
Even pissed.
At me.
But, gosh, I haven’t even done anything. I’d never tell Ronin, or anyone else, Draco’s secret.
My heart leaps into my throat and lodges in my esophagus like a peach pit. My pulse flutters in my veins like a trapped butterfly.
Simultaneously a lean sinewy body, fragrant with moss and patchouli, slinks up behind me. A warm feral breath skids across the back of my neck and hisses in my ear.
Jae Labête.
That shifter isn’t even touching me. Still, somehow, I sense that his werewolf—a rare and dangerous breed I’ve never seen before—is perilously close to rising. Goosebumps race down my arms and my heartbeat trips.
These two warned me to run. They warned me. Now it’s too late.
I didn’t believe their warning.
Now I’m trapped.
“I suggest you forget about watching that fucking Pendragon,” the Icelander snarls down at me, “before I rip that asshole’s dick off. Don’t you want to find out firsthand, Mallory McSnicker, how it feels having two guys like us all to yourself?”
Chapter Four
Jean-Emilien
“Wow. That… that’s… quite an offer.” Ah, how breathless she sounds, this sweet prey my wolf and my lover have trapped between us.
Me, I don’t dare to touch her. Not yet. Not until I am certain myloup-garouis contained.
He is wickedness incarnate, the werewolf, this accursed beast who shares my skin. And the innocent scent of spring rain and honeysuckle floating from Mallory’s copper curls and milky skin…
That scent. Intoxicating.
She is driving my wolf to madness.
Then there is the moon. Tomorrow, she is full. This time for me, and for all these frail mortal souls around me, is most dangerous.
