Rescued by the Wolf (Blood Moon Brotherhood 2)

And things were getting dangerous.

“We’re not doing this,” he hissed, pressing her back against the wall. “You hear me?”

She nodded. But her gaze was fixed on his mouth.

He gripped her shoulders. “Olivia?” The desperate hunger in her gaze had his wolf howling and him reeling. She shouldn’t look at him like that. She didn’t understand that she was playing with fire.

The air crackled between them, wrapping them together in a way that made him forget anything else existed. His wolf wanted him to give in. Dammit, he wanted to give in.

“Mal,” she whispered. “This isn’t the ripple-wavy thing, is it? This is just more of the me and you thing?”

His nod was stiff.

If he were smart, he’d drag her back to their table and wait for Finn’s phone call. He’d put space between them, stop touching her. But he’d relied on his instincts for so long.

He tilted his head, running his nose along her temple and across the bridge of her nose. Her lips were soft beneath his, but her hands gripped his shirtfront fiercely. She was shaking, but dammit, so was he. His lips lingered, absorbing the flavor of her—the feel of her. When his fingers slid into her hair, he didn’t know. The silken threads caressed his fingers. In a hard world, Olivia was the embodiment of soft. One he wanted to protect. One he wanted to claim.

He stiffened slightly, his wolf’s demand echoing in his ears.

Olivia would never be his mate.

His grip tightened on her hair. But it was Olivia that wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. It was her lips that clung to his, urging them apart so her tongue could trace the length of his and almost bring him to his knees. She was the aggressor, her fingers tugging his hair, her moans greedy and frantic.

Her lips fastened on his neck, her tongue and teeth nipping and sucking until his earlobe was bathed in the heat of her mouth.

“Fuck,” he bit out, grinding his granite erection against her. “Goddammit.”

She hooked one leg around his waist, her mouth seeking his.

He lifted her, her legs wrapping snug around his waist as he gripped her hips. She had a firm ass, one he’d love to feel without her denim overalls between them. Hell, he wanted to touch all of her, naked and warm on a bed—with mirrors if she wanted them.

His wolf was ready, damn near whimpering.

Mal froze, burying his face against her throat. “No more.” The words were hard and cold.

She was gasping for breath in his arms, her legs still tangled around him, her nails biting into his scalp. He disentangled her, holding her by the shoulders until her gaze cleared and her cheeks were bright with embarrassment. It wasn’t her fault. He wanted her so bad it hurt to let her go. His wolf craved her more than anything. That was going to make this whole pack of two thing more difficult than he’d anticipated.

The sooner Finn got here, the better.

...

Olivia washed her face for the third time. Never in her life had she been as mortified as she was right now. Or as confused.

What was she thinking? She’d practically climbed up his body and attacked him. It was sad—considering how easily he shut her down. Of course he would shut her down. She was acting crazy.

Because this was crazy. All of it. Whatever Mal said was wrong. She was losing it.

She stared her reflection in the eye. How long had it been since she’d done something normal like wash her face and look at her reflection? It felt like years.

But the last few days had been relentless, and it showed. Her matted hair stuck out, in need of a brush. Or some scissors. Dark smudges shadowed her eyes. Her lips were dry and chapped. Wearing the large trench coat she’d taken for Mal didn’t help. She looked like a homeless person—a deranged homeless person. This is how crazy looks.

It made more sense to believe she was in a coma somewhere, dreaming. Maybe she’d had a reaction to her flu meds. Maybe she’d saved her brother from being mugged and knocked her head. Or maybe she was dead, and this was some sort of purgatory she’d have to earn her way out of.

But believing in werewolves—being a werewolf—made no sense.

As a student of anthropology, she’d learned the importance of tiny details and hypotheses. Sometimes it was necessary to suspend doubt, to suspect the unlikely, to find the truth. But this was asking too much.

“Pull it together, Olivia,” she said loudly, to her reflection. “Wake up.”