Taken by the Pack Read Online Free

backroom. She'd killed the lights for her little one-on-one session, but it was past six o'clock now. No longer pitch black, the light had that fuzzy gray quality of right before sunrise.
    She shot to her feet, shoving off the camp bed and turning toward the front door. Which she'd locked. Her feet slapped against the floor, her heart pounding as she closed the distance between herself and the safety of outside. She was cold, cold, cold, fingers and knees shaking with the shock. Jesus.
    “Hey—”
    Behind her, his voice got closer. Nope. No way she stuck around for that. She didn't know who he was or what he wanted, but anyone who showed up uninvited in the wee hours wasn't someone she cared to meet. Slapping her hands against the closed door, she fumbled for the latch. Her cell phone was in her purse, but the bag was on the counter and that was too far. She'd get out. Then she'd figure something out, because staying put wasn't an option.
    Then he came up behind her. Not in a hard rush, but with a slow, careful pad, like he wanted her to know he was coming.
    “Hey,” he said again. Two arms came down on either side of her.
    The latch clicked and she reached for the safety chain.
    Big, scarred fingers closed carefully around hers. “Give me jus' a second here, Eden.”
    He knew her name. God, was this personal.
    “Five minutes,” he said roughly against her ear. “If you still wan' to leave after that, I won' be stoppin' you, shug . You give me that much time, oui ?”
    Large hands closed on her shoulders, turned her around, putting her back to the door. She looked down—Jesus, he was naked and hung like a bear, which she didn't need or want to know—and then she was looking up, up, up...into familiar Cajun eyes. Anger followed swift on the heels of stomach-melting, knee-weakening relief. Oh, yeah. She knew him all right.
    “You remember me?” His thighs pinned hers in place and he had no pants on. Naked was a good look for him—she snuck another peak south because he sure lived up to all those late night fantasies she'd entertained five years ago—but he had no business standing here buck-ass naked and she'd never taken him for a perv.
    She slugged him in the stomach. Hard. Her knuckles stung, because of course he still had washboard abs with a side of steel, and he just grinned at her. He gently captured her fist in his fingers and brought them to his lips, brushing his mouth against the sore skin.
    “ Oui. ” Dark caramel-colored eyes laughed at her. “You remember Jackson.”
    Jackson Breaux.
    Eden was a bayou girl, born and bred. There had always been Breauxs in this part of the bayou — elusive, big, rough men who came and went on the edges of Port Leon. They radiated don't fuck with me and most of the town's inhabitants were happy to respect the message. She didn’t know when she’d first spotted Jackson Breaux in particular. It seemed like she'd always been aware of him, aware of the way her breathing hitched when he got close and how he got her panties wet imagining what the two of them could get up to.
    Fantasies.
    That was all she had.
    The truth was, he'd had no idea she existed other than as a casual hi-how-are-ya acquaintance. And that was okay, or so she'd told herself. She'd had an opportunity to remind herself of that at least once a week, because the man had a sweet tooth and they both liked the pie at Port Leon's Sugarheart Bakery. He also liked the baker—she’d stumbled on the two of them kissing once, Mia’s leg hitched around Jackson’s waist while his hand delved into the dark crease at the top of her thighs. Eden had been shocked—and angry. He was hers . He just didn’t know it yet.
    After that, she'd actively plotted ways to draw his attention.
    Eventually, she'd gotten her way. They went out on a date. She’d asked him, a huge step out of her comfort zone. She was boring, bland, vanilla. Pick any one of the three adjectives. Most of the time, she was okay with that. She