Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

“Come with me,” I yell to be heard over the noise and mayhem, and start walking toward the house. Mansion. Whatever it is I’ve broken into. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

He’s so close now, his face becomes visible, broad cheekbones and a full mouth. He looms over me, his eyes glinting. Christ, the guy’s tall. Definitely the guy I saw jogging earlier.

He lets go of me, and I grab his hand. It’s big and callused, and I try very hard not to think about how that sends a thrill through me, how his sheer size and strength excites me. Not to think what a mistake this is.

Don’t talk to strangers. How basic is that? Don’t talk to them and don’t drag them home with you in a storm, in an abandoned house nobody seems to have been in for months. Jeez, at this point in my life, I should keep clear of any human, stranger or not. See my thoughts about my roommate from before.

Seriously, Ray.

But I don’t let go of his hand. I start walking toward the mansion, up the faint slope, feet sloshing through the sand, and he follows.

One thing’s for sure: this part wasn’t in today’s plan at all.

We stumble across the beach, and a dark shape looms over us. The mansion. There’s the entrance to the roofed terrace, promising safety from the elements.

A pity. I like the sting of the rain on my back and arms, the force of the wind that’s trying to knock me sideways. Sometimes I wish I could let it take me, tumble me, roll me over and do what it wants with me so that I can stop worrying about tomorrow.

I climb up the first step to the terrace, and he tugs on my hand. I half turn, and he grabs my hips, pulling me to him. Instinctively, I jerk back, coming short when his hands tighten.

“Who the hell are you?” he whispers, his voice deep and hoarse, resonating inside my bones. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m just… housesitting,” I whisper back, scared and excited, and how can you be so stupid, Ray? “Let go of me.”

I shove at him and climb further up, to the top step. The sensor above us activates, and light floods my face.

“You’re the one who caught me,” he says evenly, a splinter of something darker in his voice, and instead of running into the house and slamming the door shut, I turn around.

My lips part, my tongue curls against the roof of my mouth, and I stare. All the words are like, gone. Nothing to work with here. My throat dries up.

Good God, if he looked good from afar, he’s like a punch to the gut from up close. Gorgeous, with water drops gleaming on his lashes like diamonds, his dark hair plastered to his head and a light scruff darkening his jaw. His eyes are some shade of blue, washed out in the harsh light. With a thin scar running down one side of that ripped chest, black and red tattoos curling over his ribs, and his shorts clinging to his narrow hips, he’s…

Yeah, no words. My heart is hammering like I’ve run a hundred miles. Heat rises in my cheeks. My insides tighten and throb.

I think I’ve just fallen in instant and complete lust. All I want is to run my hands over those pecs and washboard stomach, over the scar, rub at the scruff on his jaw and bury my fingers into the soft hair at his nape. I want…

No. Hell no.

No way.

I back away, more from shock at my body’s reaction to him than from fear—he’s actually stepped back down, to the sand, and is turning away—when my wet feet slip from under me and I’m falling.

It’s one of those moments that seem to take forever to unfold, when in reality it’s only a split second. My backside hits the wooden boards and then my hands strike down, sending bolts of pain up my arms and shoulders.

“Fuck.” He’s suddenly crouched at my side, his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Figures that I’d come face-to-face with the sexiest man alive the moment I’m flat on my ass.

Okay, back up. This situation is twisting my brain. First I went out in the storm to save him, then pushed him away, and now... Now he’s asking if I’m okay.

I nod, because damn, his face is only inches from mine, his scent of musk and salt all around me, and the words are still a no-show. My brain has taken a vacation and hasn’t sent a postcard.

It only gets worse when he lifts a callused hand to my cheek and strokes back a wet tendril of hair clinging there. Crap, now I can’t even breathe, the air locked in my lungs, my skin prickling all over.

“Let’s get you up.” He takes my hands, and my palms sting where he grips them, but I couldn’t care less.

I let him pull me up, and we stand together, bodies flush, the wind ripping through us. It’s cold, but his body emanates heat and it seeps into me, right into my flesh and bones.

“You sure you’re okay?” He’s turned against the light now, and it gilds his hair and the outline of his shoulders. “Can I leave you alone?”