Mating the Huntress Page 3

  One hand slid into her pocket without permission, feeling for that acorn again. A nagging little voice in her head reminded her that humans were animals too.

  “Pizza should be here in thirty minutes,” the Werewolf announced, running a hand through his always-messy hair. “Want a cupcake?”

  Chastity stared.

  “I know,” he said. “Cupcakes should be dessert. But it’s Halloween.” He flashed her a smile that was seven kinds of sinful and excruciatingly sexy, his eyes darkening to a shade that reminded her of a midnight forest. “Red velvet’s your favourite, right?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, feeling almost dizzy with the force of that tempting smile, that knowing voice. This must be some kind of ploy. Since when did men who weren’t her brothers notice her favourite things? Especially men she barely even spoke to?

  “Great.” He sauntered off to the kitchenette. Most of this cabin seemed to be open plan, though his bed was nowhere to be seen. Chas found herself peering around at the few doors in her view, wondering which of them led to his room. Her pulse ratcheted up a notch as she thought about being dragged into his lair, about those unnatural eyes appearing above her in the dark right before he—

  “Here we go,” Luke called from the kitchenette, showing her a fat cupcake crowned in creamy icing. “I got them today. Oh, wait—you probably want a plate. And a fork? I’m not good with…”

  She almost said, Human stuff? But caught herself at the last second. “Don’t worry about all that,” she assured him, because really, who bothered with social niceties when there was cake to be eaten?

  He grinned, grabbed a cupcake of his own, and wandered over, popping one into her hand. The cake’s sugar-sweet scent was delicious, almost as delicious as him. And where the hell had that thought come from? No more thinking about Luke’s bedroom, she decided as he sat down beside her.

  She was concentrating on tamping down the fight-or-flight response elicited by sitting an arm’s-length away from a Werewolf when she noticed that Luke was licking his cream cheese icing.

  Oh, fuck.

  His broad tongue swept over the thick, pale swirls, scooping up the little red flakes of sugar that acted as decoration. He managed to decimate half the icing in one long lick, his lids lowered in shameless pleasure, his blissed-out expression making her oddly… uncomfortable. Fidgety. Unable to look away. Which was why, when he opened his eyes a second later, he found her staring at him.

  His lips twitched, but there was something disarmingly erotic in his eyes. “I have terrible manners, I know.”

  “I lick the icing off, too,” she blurted out. She had no idea what was going on with her runaway mouth. Why on earth would she tell a Werewolf something like that?

  His smile widened into a grin she found disturbingly attractive. “Tut, tut, Chastity. What else do you lick?”

  The odd, electrical tingling in her belly that occurred whenever he was near—presumably some kind of instinctive Werewolf-alarm—kicked up a notch. Her mouth felt suddenly dry, her mind disturbingly blank.

  After a heartbeat, he added, “When you bake, I mean. You do bake, don’t you?”

  They’d already covered this at the café. She was fairly certain that wasn’t what he’d meant at all. Especially because his smile had turned a little rueful, as if he couldn’t quite believe his own cheek. Well, neither could she. The bloody nerve of this… this monster, to flirt with her! She flashed him a smile that was more a baring of teeth and said, “My main problem is biting, actually.”

  He choked on a mouthful of cupcake.

  “I just can’t stop eating everything I make,” she went on smoothly. “And if I don’t manage, my siblings do. Perils of a big family.” She rolled her eyes heavenward.

  He nodded along while wheezing. At this rate, he might well suffocate. Death by cupcake, courtesy of Chastity’s smart mouth. Really, she was a natural huntress. If her parents hadn’t allowed themselves to be influenced by nonsense from strange witches, she might have the highest kill streak of the family, instead of Mercy. Chastity was about to take a smug lick of her own icing when a thought hit her: witches. Spells. Poison.

  She put the cupcake on the coffee table.

  Beside her, Luke—who had unfortunately survived the choking incident—frowned. “You don’t like it?”

  She scrambled for a believable excuse, since, based on smell alone, those cupcakes were clearly gorgeous. “I, um… sometimes, eating other people’s work makes me feel bad about my own.”

  His brows flew up, but he didn’t laugh in her face, despite the absolute bullshit she’d just come out with. In fact, he seemed to accept her nonsense immediately.

  “Ah,” he nodded, holding up his now-naked cupcake with a disgusted expression. “This is crap, anyway.”

  “…Is it? You licked off all the icing pretty happily.”

  “Worst icing I’ve ever tasted.” He actually threw the cupcake over his shoulder. She whipped her head around to watch it hit the far wall and land on the floor with a sad little thwack. Then she looked at him again, just in time to see his lips twitching and humour dancing through his unnatural gaze.

  And goddamn her, Chastity felt herself smile in response, unwelcome laughter bubbling up in her throat. She even allowed herself a giggle or two, for the sake of flirtation—but her amusement was painfully real. He was actually kind of… sweet.

  Never think it. He probably licks out people’s brains the same way he licked off that icing.

  And yet, when she tried to visualise it, all she could see was that tongue working somewhere else. The forbidden image, sudden and shocking, was so intense that Chastity found herself squeezing her knees together. She sucked in an involuntary breath at the hot, decadent sensation rolling through her body.

  Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

  She kept her expression carefully neutral, even as she grappled with the disturbing realisation that she apparently had the hots for a fucking Werewolf.

  The Were in question was watching her far too closely, as if he could read her filthy thoughts. His too-sharp canines sank into his lower lip in a way that should remind her he was a dangerous predator, but didn’t. Instead, she found herself imagining the graze of his teeth over her nipples, the rasp of those talented hands over her bare skin. Then his fine nostrils flared, and he leaned ever so slightly towards her…

  Fuck. She looked away and said, her voice fast and high, “We should start the film now!”

  There was only the slightest pause before he said, his voice calm and friendly, “Alright.”

  She stared at the floor and battled to regain control of her breathing while he faffed around with the TV. She was so freaked out, her pulse loud and frantic in her ears, her skin hotter than it should be even under this damn coat, that she almost missed the fact he was using a VCR. But even her deep inner turmoil wasn’t enough to distract her from that freakishness.

  Her confusion with her wayward body forgotten, Chastity frowned over at his stack of videos and laughed, “Are you serious right now?”

  He looked at her over his shoulder. His broad, broad shoulder. Stop that! Concentrate. “Serious about what?”

  “You still have tapes?”

  “Oh.” He chuckled, looking down at the copy of The Exorcist in his hand. “Yeah. I suppose I never got around to the whole DVD thing. I don’t watch much TV.”

  She decided not to point out that society had largely moved past ‘the whole DVD thing’ and onto digital. Instead, while he sorted out the film, she wondered if Werewolves were immortal—since clinging to outdated technology seemed a logical symptom of the condition. Surely, if they were, her family would know?

  But then, they didn’t exactly have a Big Book of Lore lying around. Their traditions were spoken, of course, which would have been fine if her great-grandparents hadn’t died unexpectedly before they’d finished passing everything on to their young. Since then, the Adofos had been scrabbling for more knowledge and relying strongly on a huntress’s
natural instincts.

  See, this was why she’d strapped these silver chains around her upper thighs. If she could tie him up and torture him into spilling info, she’d be doing the whole family a service—along with society in general, since more knowledge meant faster kills and fewer Werewolf victims.

  Tape inserted, Luke sat down beside her again, the TV remote in his hand. He’d been careful, before, not to sit too close—which she’d noticed, been surprised by, and tried not to think about. Now he sat a little nearer than before, and his thigh brushed her knee as he moved. It felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. It felt as if she’d been swept out to sea. It was just the barest touch, not even skin on skin, and she couldn’t fucking breathe.

  The air grew slow and heavy. She looked up and found him staring. Chastity was relatively tall and solidly built, but something about him in that moment—the way every muscle in his big body seemed primed and ready to spring, the intensity of his sheer focus—made him seem huge and her feel small.

  The worst part was, she liked it. She felt as if he were magnetic and she were just a helpless pin. She felt as if he were a man and she weren’t an Adofo, as if this were a date and it was going very, very well. She felt as if her heartbeat had relocated between her thighs, as if her skin were on fire and her head in the clouds.

  This would not do.

  Her meek and mild routine had been wearing thin anyway—she wasn’t the best actress—but she abandoned it completely in her desperation to snap this powerful, invisible cord between them. In her panic, it was either that, or snap his bloody neck. “What?!” she demanded, as if she didn’t know. As if she didn’t feel the surge of attraction between them, just like he did.

  At her question, Luke froze, then shook his head slightly as if he’d been dragged out of a trance. Maybe it was the coming full moon, amping up his bloodlust. Maybe, while her pussy grew wetter with every breath, he’d been slowly succumbing to the urge to rip out her throat. And why the hell was she still horny even after that thought?

  “Nothing,” he said, his voice hoarse. But he was still staring at her as if she were a meal. “It’s just… you smell really fucking good.”

  “Thank you?” she squeaked. She was not usually a squeaker, but she couldn’t seem to find her typically firm tones.

  Luke frowned, his eyes sliding shut, his solid chest rising as he took a deep breath. Then he said, his voice so rough it was almost a growl, “I mean, really good. Chas, I know you’re kind of… shy—”

  She tried not to snort.

  “—but you don’t need to be shy with me.” He opened his eyes and watched her with an urgency that almost, almost swept her away. “If you want something—anything—you should just tell me. I’ll give it to you.”

  She stared, her mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. When he leaned closer, the sheer heat of him practically melted her, his proximity setting her nerves alight even though they weren’t actually touching. But they could be touching, her mind whispered. The voice of reason argued that he was a literal monster, but Chastity’s sex was slick and desperate now, her breathing rapid, a current of pure lust drowning all rational thought.

  “I mean it,” he whispered, the words stroking over her skin. “Look at me. I mean it.”

  She did look at him, as if hypnotised. For the first time she forgot about the slight glow of his eyes and what it meant, ignored the fact that they shouldn’t be so vivid. Maybe it was unnatural, but so was creme brûlée, technically, and she loved creme brûlée. The deep green of his irises, the copper-gold that fractured the emerald—she could get lost in them. And in everything she saw there: his hunger, his need, his strange, unbelievable softness.

  His lust.

  Lust. The thought smacked her so hard, she got whiplash: if Weres, as Ma always taught, could scent fear…

  Was this motherfucker smelling her goddamn arousal?

  Chastity stiffened, her mind lurching out of desire-induced languor and kicking into high gear. He wasn’t coming on to her; he was taking advantage of her weakness. Beguiling her. After all, that made far more sense than a genuine attraction between them—and she’d almost fallen for it. Jesus, she was ridiculous. Did Weres even have sex?

  Her gaze dropped without permission to Luke’s lap, where it became breathtakingly apparent that regardless of what other Werewolves did, this one had sex. Or wanted to, at least. With her. Right now.

  Okay, maybe he wasn’t entrapping her. But she, Chas suddenly realised, could entrap him. She could fuck him, lure him into the ultimate sense of security, then tie him up and stick a silver bullet up his arse. Fantastic.

  It wasn’t the kind of thing she’d usually do—the probability of success was too low—but she felt strangely compelled to. Her sisters were always talking about the huntress’s powerful instincts. Well, she was officially on the hunt, which made her a huntress. And her instincts were telling her to rip this sexy fucker’s clothes off, sit on his dick, and then carve out his heart. Or something. She was hazy on the details.

  “Chastity?” he murmured, as if checking up on her. His gaze searched her face, and she wondered why he was being so… careful. He was a monster, and he clearly wanted her, but he seemed to be waiting for an actual Yes. Which was surprising, to say the least.

  He must have a long-term plan that requires you to think he’s an okay guy. He’s playing with you. Somehow.

  Well, let him. Chastity Adofo played to win.

  3

  The Change

  It had been hard, trying to set Chastity at ease while his lungs were flooded with sex-edged oxygen, the scent of her wet cunt drowning him. Harder still as the night went on, as her gaze caught his every so often and her breath hitched, as the scent of her arousal flared while that prim and proper expression remained on her face. At this point, Luke was clinging to control by a claw, nothing but raw determination keeping his wildest instinct at bay.

  So, when Chas reached out and caught both his hands in hers, he almost lost it.

  Restraint. Restraint. Restraint.

  Her palms were velvety, with callouses whose texture teased his own. Working hands. His beast was a fan. And he was a fan of the hot, hard look in her eyes, and of the way she pinned his hands to the back of the sofa, her grip firm and unyielding.

  “Keep these to yourself,” she said, in a tone that stiffened his spine and his cock. She was his fucking woman, alright. So controlled and so controlling that he just had to push.

  “Why?” he asked, though he had no intention of disobeying. “Are you about to do something that’ll make me want to touch you?”

  “You already want to touch me,” she said, a smile playing about her lips. It was one he’d never seen before, sharp and confident.

  “True,” he admitted. “But if this is where you want me, sweetheart, this is where I’ll stay. For now.”

  “For now,” she smiled. And then, without warning—he really could’ve done with a warning—she moved to straddle his thighs. Luke’s heart almost gave out. Sheer arousal ripped a true growl from his chest before he got himself under control. He froze, studying her face, hoping he hadn’t scared her—but she showed no concern, or even surprise, at the inhuman sound he’d just produced. Judging by the heavy, drugging scent of her wetness, she might be too turned-on to notice. He could understand that; he felt a little slow himself, right now.

  As she moved, her fancy skirt lifted an inch or two, and for a second he caught a glimpse of something shiny on her thigh—but he didn’t stop to think about it. Why would he, when he’d just caught sight of soft, dimpled flesh and secret, dark spaces, of skin, skin and more fucking skin? Luke’s head fell back against the sofa as he arched up, into her, his aching cock in desperate need of pressure. What he didn’t expect was for her to meet him, to rock against him, to cradle his denim-covered erection between her lush thighs.

  “Chastity,” he rasped out, his eyes searching hers. “Are you—?”

  She cut him off wit
h a kiss.

  Ah, fuck. His brain burned out in the blink of an eye, coherent thought suddenly impossible. Stars exploded against the darkness of his mind, flames of need and pleasure and uncontrollable hunger ripping through his body until he was nothing but sensation. The feel of her, moving boldly against him; the scent of her, hotter and wetter by the second; the harsh little sounds she made as she rubbed herself on his cock, like she was too desperate to control herself; every part undid him. But most of all, he was destroyed by the taste of her. Addicted.

  She swept her tongue into his mouth, slow and easy, and pleasure shimmered over his skin. She was rich and real and right, and he remembered some long-forgotten fragment of knowledge, something he’d heard: that human mates felt the bond more intensely once bodily fluids had been exchanged. He’d never learned if that was true. He really fucking hoped it was. Because for him to want her, to need her this badly, while she was still able to walk away from him? That would be hell.

  She pulled his lower lip into her mouth and sucked, each slow, wet tug sending arrows of desire through his body. His hips jerked in time to that languid rhythm, until she fucked him up completely by sinking her teeth into his flesh. He growled into her mouth and she laughed, actually laughed, the wild sound feeding his hunger. Something about it snapped the tenuous bonds of his restraint, and for the first time, he kissed her back.

  He took her mouth the way he’d always wanted to, since the first morning he’d walked into that café with her scent hidden in his pocket and laid eyes on her and known. His tongue teased at hers, tasted the sensitive seams of her mouth, drank down every gasp and moan. The kiss grew desperate, forceful, both of them straining together, but he didn’t move his hands, even though her hold had slackened.