Gator

Poppy takes off running.

Best. Fucking. Game. EVER.

My wolf’s hot on her heels, chasing her down, close enough to nip at her cute, disobedient ass. She runs as all-out as she does everything else, legs pumping, arms moving, and for a moment I run with her, instincts dominating the man’s need to be a gentleman and back the fuck off.

I know what she sees when she turns her head because I let her see it. See me. I’m two hundred pounds of muscled, brindle-colored lupine, and I’m closing on her fast. My eyes glow in the moonlight, and there’s no mistaking me for anything but the predator I am. I throw back my head and howl, letting all the joy, rage, and fuckery hang in the air.

She’s downwind, and I flood my senses with her with each breath I take. She’s nervous. I can smell the fear scent, but there’s something else, too. A wild, bright curiosity. She wants to know me. Even as she runs, part of her is thinking about stopping. About coming back.

My paws chew up the ground, closing the distance between us. Even in wolf form, I know who I am. I’m Gator. I’m the wolf. I’m both. Grass blurs beneath my feet, the pounding rhythm echoing the beat in my blood. In other places. I want to drive into Poppy, push inside her fast and hard. Make her scream my name as she comes.

But I’m a beast. A legend. I’m the bad guy in the stories people tell about wolves and humans. And even though I haven’t ripped anyone apart, I fucking hate it. I want to be something, someone, more. Instead, I drive her back toward the house. And as soon as her feet hit the porch, her hands reaching for the door, I step sideways into the plant cover and shift back. A handful of seconds later, I’ve grabbed my jeans from the porch where I shucked them, and I’m storming after her.

Poppy

I slam the door shut behind me, fingers searching frantically for the lock. Not that I think a lock is going to do me much good—Gator’s house is full of windows. Lots and lots of super fragile, freaking windows. If that… creature chasing me wants in, all it has to do is throw itself against the glass. It’ll be in here in a heartbeat.

Which totally explains why I promptly drop to the floor and shove my face against the small glass panels to the left of the doorframe and look out. The moon is lighting up the garden, painting everything white and silver. It’s a fairyland out there, each flower, each leaf, outlined in otherworldly detail.

As is the wolf.

I knew there were wolves in the bayou. This one is gorgeous. He’s a big boy, larger than any male I’ve seen before. His fur is a blend of brown, gold, and white, with a thick ruff that my fingers itch to sink into. He stops on the path, and I swear his gaze holds mine. And then he disappears, sliding into the bushes and out of sight. Maybe I’ve dreamed it?

I stand up and wander through the rooms at the front of the house, peering out the window for more wolf sightings. Or for proof that I’m not completely insane and engaged in wishful thinking. Because if there were wolves on Gator’s private island, he’d know, right?

I’m lost in thought, which has to be why I don’t hear him coming up behind me. Strong arms come down on either side of me, caging me in place. He seems to have lost most of his clothes because his arms are bare, and his chest feels like a furnace. I’m sure I’m not supposed to lean back against him.

“You went outside,” he snarls into my ear.

“Um, yeah?” I try to duck underneath his arm, but he moves with me, keeping me pinned. I’m not sure I like this game.

“I told you not to run.”

“To be fair, you just negotiated for me staying here for a week,” I point out. “You didn’t mention that I’d lost outside privileges.”

Shit.

Needling him probably isn’t smart, is it?

“No running,” he whispers—and then he goddamned nips my ear.

“Hey—” I jerk away from him as far as the glass in front of me allows, which isn’t far at all.

He grunts and swings me up into his arms. And then he’s taking the stairs two at a time, hauling me with him as effortlessly as if I weighed nothing. For a stunned second, I let him hold me. He’s a big guy, and it’s nice to know that all those doughnuts I mainlined while working on my grant proposal aren’t acting like an anchor weighing Gator down, but he just can’t manhandle me.

Okay. He totally can.

I plant my hands against his chest and shove. As protests go, it’s not an effective one.

“Put me down?” Crap. It comes out as a question, too.

Gator grunts and moves faster. We clear the stairs despite my wriggling, head down the hall, and end up back in the bedroom I was in earlier today. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be anywhere near a bed with this guy.

Almost sure.

He kicks the mattress over toward the window and the old-fashioned radiator. And then he proves that he’s no southern gentleman because he tips me out of his arms. I bounce, and when I come up, he’s got my wrist in one hand and in the other…

He has handcuffs.

Who the fuck owns honest-to-God handcuffs? Not that he seems like the kind of guy who’d have a pair of purple-fur-lined play cuffs, but you never know.

“No,” I snap.

“Oui,” he snarls right back.

“This was not part of our deal.” The metal clicks into place, and he promptly fastens the other end around the radiator beneath the window.

“This way you won’t run off.”

My jaw drops. “I didn’t say you could tie me up!”

“You agreed to stay.” He folds muscled arms over an equally muscled chest and glares at me. And while I’m not disputing the general facts of the case, he’s overlooked an important detail.

“On the island,” I emphasize. “Nothing was negotiated about my staying in your bedroom—or feeding your need for kink.” I rattle the handcuffs, but all he does is grunt.

“Off,” I demand.

All he does is turn around and head out the door.

Leaving me handcuffed to the radiator and sprawled out on his bed. I’m not sure what to think. Or do. How did I end up like this?