Nightwolf

The kitchen is huge and Wolf is leaning on the quartz-top island in the middle, the sleeves on his olive green Henley rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his massive forearms. But that’s not the only thing impressive in front of me. On the island is an elaborate spread; lit candles, an extravagant charcuterie board piled with juicy strawberries, grapes and fleshy figs, fresh cheeses, meats, different types of bread and crackers, spreads and jellies, all flanked by an array of hard liquor and vintage wines, the kind that Solon keeps locked in a cellar.

“What the hell? Did you do this?” I ask him.

He shoots me a sheepish grin. “I’m starting to think I should have. No, Emilio did this, the groundskeeper. Must have set it up right before we got here.”

I come over, looking for the juiciest strawberry on the board. Everything looks perfect and professional. “Looks like he was planning for a romantic weekend.”

I stick the strawberry in my mouth, sucking back the juice. Oh, it’s sweet.

Wolf watches my mouth intently, clears his throat. “Looks like.”

I meet his eyes for a moment and see a hint of a smile in them. Then he jerks his head toward the French doors at the side of the kitchen. “Did you see that?”

I finish the strawberry and go over, peering through the glass. There’s a deck outside that seems to stretch over the edge into nothing, a hot tub in the middle of it. The lights in it are on and the steam rises in the air invitingly into the night sky.

“Oh my god, I didn’t know he had a hot tub,” I practically whine, my hands against the glass in yearning. “I would have brought a bathing suit.”

“So?” Wolf says from behind me. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

I turn around to face him just in time to see him pulling his Henley over his head, his abs and chest and arms on full display.

I stop. Stare, in open-mouthed awe. I can’t help it.

He throws his shirt on the floor, then he removes his jeans until he’s just in a pair of gray boxer briefs and…

Oh my god.

Oh. My. God.

I’ve never seen Wolf in this state of undress before and oh my god is the correct phrase to keep muttering to myself because he truly looks like a god. Nordic, Roman, Greek, Chris Hemsworth, all of them are apt.

Somehow he looks even bigger and taller than he does with clothes on. His legs are long, the thighs that I felt earlier are massively muscled and powerful. A half-hard cock is clearly outlined in his briefs and if that’s not him in full capacity, then I may want to rethink about riding him because I think it would kill me when erect.

His waist is narrow, with those sharp Vs on his hips, like arrows pointing to his dangerous dick, his abs are rippled and defined without an ounce of fat, and his chest is this wide, hard expanse leading to impossibly rounded shoulders and thick biceps. You know all those ropey muscles around the neck and the arms and the shoulders that those insanely fit celebrities have? Yeah, he has them too. Except his don’t come from steroids and a diet of cod and broccoli.

“Close to what you imagined?” he asks with the cockiest grin.

I open my mouth and close it again, trying to find the words. “Better,” I admit, no use in denying it. “Much better.” I clear my throat. “But Wolf, you can’t just go around taking your clothes off like that without any warning. You could kill a woman dead, on the spot.”

A quick glance at his face shows that grin getting wider as he lets out a laugh. Then his eyes tighten, a heat flashing through them, as he focuses on me. “Then make it even. Take off your clothes,” he commands, his tone more serious than playful.

Mild horror runs through me. “I’m not taking off my clothes!” I shriek.

He grabs a bottle of red wine off the counter and two wine glasses, his mouth twisting with amusement. “Since when have you ever been bashful?”

“Since you took off your clothes! I can’t be almost naked next to you, a vampire, whose body has been blessed by some dark god. I’m just so terribly human.”

“Beautifully human,” he says, his voice going low. “Now strip down. Grab an extra bottle of wine. And come join me.”

Oh shit, is he trying to compel me? Because, as I watch his tight, rounded, gorgeous ass go through the doors and onto the deck, I’m already grabbing the hem of my shirt and lifting it over my head. I pause for a moment, my heart thundering against my ribcage, then think fuck it. I’m going for it.

I unzip my jeans, take off my socks, until I’m standing in the kitchen in just my bra and underwear. Thank god they match, black and lacey, though I’m starting to wish I wasn’t in a thong.