A Werewolf's Valentine: BBW Wolf Shifter Paranormal Romance Read Online Free Page B

lights.
    Oh, yes. In that glow he looked like a mussed up angel contemplating his first sin.
    He dealt, and she muttered in her head, please, please, please —and looked down at two jacks. This time, she asked for three cards—and got another jack. He also drew three cards.
    “In,” he asked, “or out.”
    “In,” she said, and laid out her cards.
    His smile was sweet as he put down two tens . . . and she breathed, “Hah.”
    He tossed back his scotch, stood up, and slowly, teasingly, let the leather coat slip down his arms. He carefully folded it and laid it over the arm of the chair behind him. She raked her gaze over the black tee that molded his shoulders, chest, and flat abs, her gaze zeroing to the bulge in his pants as he sat back down.
    Oh, yeah. She was already soaking wet, and it had nothing to do with the rain.
    “You win,” he said, low and husky.
    One of the many fun things about strip poker is that the rules are always amendable, and nobody ever seems to care. “How about we wait on naming the ante until one of us wins. And then they pick the item of clothing?” she suggested.
    “Your house, your rules,” he said again.
    By now she knew where this was going, and relished how he let her set the pace. They toasted and drank after each deal. She lost her coat next, but by then she was no longer feeling the chill in the cottage—her internal heat glowed through her as she made a slow dance of unbuttoning her coat and sliding it off her, watching his eyes as she did so. The candlelight sparked in them, gleaming with twin lights.
    Next round, he lost his shoes—revealing that he didn’t even wear socks. Ordinarily that would have grossed her out, but his feet, though scarred in places, were as clean as though he’d taken a bath in the rain. Clean and well-shaped, like the rest of him.
    Her socks came next, and she was glad that she’d had a mani-pedi three days before. As she held up one foot, wiggling her blue-painted toes (no Valentine’s colors here!) he licked his lips, sending another jet of heat roaring through her.
    After that, the cards snapped faster. She could feel the intensity of anticipation beating around them both. A four-to-eight straight got his shirt off. The light of the candles caressed his skin, stippling the blond hairs over his breastbone, and the darker ones starting right below his belly button, reaching straight down between the hollows of his hips, to vanish behind the barrier of his jeans.
    Then she lost her shirt, feeling the swell of sweet power in the way his lips parted when she peeled it over her head and dropped it to the side, revealing her lacy black bra that didn’t hide how hard her nipples were. His thumbs twitched, and her breath hitched as she thought of those thumbs peeling the cups back. . .
    “The hell with this,” she muttered, tossing down the cards.
    Her head swam a little, but not unpleasantly. She knew her limit with liquor, and had hit it. Nothing, nothing , was going to ruin this moment, because every instinct cried out that she would never get another chance like this—ever.
    She reached over the table, hooked her fingers in his belt, and gently tugged. “Come.”
    He got to his feet. She put her fingers to his lips. And when he stilled, she caressed his lips slowly, enticingly with her thumbs, and then leaned up on tiptoe—the lacy cups holding her breasts brushing his naked chest—and kissed him.
    And pure sensation hit like a tidal wave—from stillness to demanding, shaking, devouring kisses, tongues teasing and clashing, teeth nibbling until they were both out of breath. Every instinct howled inside, as if her entire life had been training for this moment. She didn’t want to talk. They couldn’t talk. There were far too many dangerous things that could be said, that could ruin this moment forever.
    Still, doubt was never entirely gone. It chilled her now, causing her to pull back that one tantalizing inch.
    “I don’t do