“Not that I mind you groping me,” I babble. “I just think you should buy me dinner first—”
His hands leave my sternum so fast, I lurch forward. Before I can fall, he catches my shoulders and flips me around. He locks his arms around me from behind, applying pressure to my breastbone again.
“How’s this?” He sounds amused. “Better? I don’t want my good deed to get me written up on charges of sexual harassment.”
God, his voice. His lips are right next to my ear. He’s not trying to seduce me, but, man oh man, just the words “sexual harassment” light my body up.
“Sorry.” My voice strangles a bit. “I didn’t mean to accuse you. What I meant was...thank you.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move, and I breathe into his firm hands, surrounding me, protecting me, keeping me safe. And all I can think is…damn. I thought a panic attack would be bad. Now I’m stuck in an elevator, wrapped in a total stranger’s arms. So. Very. Turned. On. It’s like my pussy is disconnected from my body. The rest of me is running around wringing my hands with worry, but my hooha thinks being manhandled by a stranger in a dark elevator is a good reason to get all excited.
“You should sit down.”
Apparently, I have no choice, because he lowers me to the ground with steady, inexorable pressure. Once there, he eases me against the wall, his firm, yet gentle hands maneuvering me like a doll. Sharp words dance on the tip of my tongue—I’m a grown ass woman, not Barbie—but sitting feels good. Despite his blunt caveman act, he’s taking care of me. I almost miss his hands on my sternum.
“Where’d you learn that?” I ask to distract myself from the fact I’m trapped in a tight rectangle of space with a guy who has no qualms about running his hands all over me. I am totally qualm-less about it, too, though I wish I could remember what he looks like. All I have is a vague impression of a rugged jaw and air of impatience. I was too focused on psyching myself up to ride the elevator to check him out.
“Years and years of terrifying women in dark places.”
Ah. A kindred spirit in dry wit. I like him even more. “Thanks,” I say after a moment.
He sits down next to me, his suit jacket brushing mine. “You’re still freaking out.”
“Yeah, but it’s better. Talking would help. Can we talk?”
“Okay.” He adopts a German accent to sound like Freud, “Ven did you first notice zee problem?”
~.~
Jackson
The beautiful human female’s laugh comes so hard, she almost chokes on it. She continues to giggle for a moment—somewhat hysterically. Little bubbles of laughter keep rising to the surface every time she tries to speak. Finally, she chokes out, “I meant talk to distract me—about something else.”
r />
I never joke—especially at work—but the leggy brunette in a short, tight skirt puts my body on alert in an all-too pleasurable way. It’s better now that I’m not touching her. When I did, the electricity between us set my skin on fire. The itch and burn of the change came upon me as fast as it does a pubescent teen just learning how to shift. I nearly shoved her legs apart, pulled that miniscule skirt up around her waist, and claimed her right there.
Actually, my wolf senses went haywire the moment she stepped onto the elevator. It was all I could do to keep quiet and study her. Her scent intoxicates me—like some exotic flower begging to be plucked, except decidedly human. None of it makes sense. There’s no reason I should be attracted to her, apart from the fact she’s gorgeous. I’ve never been attracted to a human before—hell, I’ve hardly ever been attracted to a she-wolf, even at the full moon.
To make it worse, she became aroused when I touched her—the scent of her nectar fills the confined space. For the first time in my life, my fangs sharpened, slick with serum, ready to sink into her flesh and forever mark her as mine.
But that is insane. I can’t mark a human—she wouldn’t survive it. This human—beautiful though she may be—can’t be my mate.
I look her over, at a distinct advantage because I can see in the dark and she can’t. She’s stunning in every way—long, shapely legs, an ass that fills her short skirt, and Batgirl tits. That is, she has a hot pink bat on the front of her shirt, right over a pair of perky tits. And something about that bat just throws me over the edge. Spunky little superhero, begging to be bested.
Guess that makes me the villain.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
I hesitate. “J.T.”
“I’m Kylie. I’m here for an interview, so I was nerved up to begin with.”
I don’t do friendly. I discourage my employees from engaging with me except to give me information in its most distilled format. But, for some reason, I don’t mind her feeble attempt at conversation. Which doesn’t mean I’ll bother answering.
I’m too busy convincing my wolf not to jump her.
She tries again. “What department are you in?”