Gator

After I cede my bed to Poppy and mark her with my scent, I roam my island and then the bayou, drinking in the last remnants of the storm. Since the weather sucked, I don’t go too far. I run just enough to scratch the itch. My furry half? He wants to climb into bed beside her, wrap around her, hold her close. Me? I just run faster, wondering why the idea scares the shit out of me. Poppy’s just a female, and I enjoy screwing around as much as the next guy. She’s got tits and a pussy, and I’ve got the dick to make her happy. Sex isn’t complicated. But tonight I’m not sure of what I’m doing, and that’s a first. So I run until the storm finishes blowing itself out and the stars shine in the sky overhead.

Alone.

Just the way I like it.

When the rain eases off, however, I head back. I don’t need Poppy getting any crazy ideas about sneaking off and making her own way back to Baton Rouge. I’ve seen how she drives, after all, and she’d probably end up in London or Antarctica—in pieces. Not like she’s gonna make it far, seeing as how I left her more than a little tied up, but Poppy’s stubborn. She doesn’t quit.

I prowl into the bedroom still wearing my wolf form. Coming here like this is stupid because she knows the difference between wolves and dogs, and if she spots me, she’ll never let go of her wolf hunt. Should have thought of that when I ran her down earlier, but I couldn’t help myself. Fortunately, she’s asleep though when I come in, leaning against the radiator. She looks awkward and uncomfortable. Someone should pay for that, but I’m the only person here.

I shift and drag on some clothes because I’ve already pushed her far enough tonight. As much as I’d like to leave her tied up, I man up and unfasten her. The cuff’s left a red mark on her wrist, and I crouch down, brushing my mouth over the soft skin. I hurt her.

Fuck it.

I won’t do it again, not ever.

“Gator?” She mumbles my name as I ease her into my arms.

“Oui?” She’s not awake, not really, just drifting in that place in between dreams and daylight. She sort of leans-lurches, her arms sliding around my waist, and I freeze. She’s touching me. I wish to hell she were awake. That the soft glide of her skin over mine meant something. But it’s nothing, just an involuntary reaction of her to me.

She presses her face against my chest.

Her mouth rests over my heart, and I can feel each breath she takes against my skin.

I fuck. I don’t cuddle. But for her I might make an exception.

I take her down to the mattress carefully, grateful my brothers can’t see me. I can’t remember the last time I slept with someone for real. Sometimes, when the pack is out hunting, we shift and then den together, fur to fur, but that’s different. And there’s been more than one rumor too about the Breauxs. Those wolves share their females, or so the legends go (because Christ knows those wolves are legends). Heard a whisper once that Rafe’s mate let the entire pack into her bed, but that can’t possibly be true.

This cuddling shit should come with an instruction manual because once I’ve got her laid out on the mattress, I’m not sure what goes where. She’s boneless, sprawled out over me. Her belt buckle digs into me, so I undo her. Slide the jeans down her legs and toss them on the floor beside us until her soft legs are all tangled with mine and my face is buried in her hair.

I don’t expect to sleep, but I do. At some point, though, I wake up. Maybe because Poppy’s doing the same. Her breathing changes, hitches, as she realizes that she’s not alone. She stiffens, trying to ease away from me. Subtlety’s wasted on me, but she hasn’t figured that out yet. I’ve got my hand shoved up beneath her tank top, the flannel twisted up and around her. Poppy’s a messy sleeper. She tosses and turns. She throws a leg over me and smacks my cheek with her palm. She steals the sheets and then inches closer when the night cools down. Her borrowed briefs have rucked up around her cute little ass.

When she sits up cautiously, I keep my eyes shut and my body relaxed. Let her hit the bathroom alone too—I can just imagine what she’d have to say if I followed her in there. I’m bigger than she is, which means I could force her to let me in, but… That’s not what I want. Water runs and I hear the soft slap of her bare feet on the tiles. Drawers open. Close. Damned if I don’t feel something way too close to shame because I don’t have much to offer her.

When she’s done ransacking my shit, she comes back out. I know she’s looking at me, trying to decide if I’m still asleep, if she can slip past me and run free. Christ. I should let her go, but I’m not going to. Not today.

“Going somewhere, princess?” I ask without opening my eyes when she gets near the door.

She shrieks, and I can’t help grinning.

Fuck, she’s fun.

I open my eyes in time to catch the finger she stabs in my direction. “You suck.”

Also true.

“Come over here.” I pat the mattress. “I’ll show you just how true that is.”

Funny how I’m the one who jerked off in front of her—and all the fuck over her—but she’s the one who blushes bright red. It’s like her face just goes up in flames, the color lighting up her entire face.

“Pass,” she mutters.

“Offer stands.” I stand up and grab my pants from the floor. Since I’m bare-assed, her face gets even redder. Nice to know she can’t look away, though. Her gaze goes straight to my dick, who’s happy to stand up and greet her. “Come on.”

She gives me a suspicious little look, like she’s not sure if I’m telling her some kind of dirty joke or not. Whatever. I shackle her wrist gently with my fingers and tow her along after me.

“We’ve got a date, babe.”

And then, while she’s still spluttering and trying to figure out what to say, I give her the truth.

“Fang’s coming by with some stuff for you.”

Sure enough, when we get down to the dock, my brother’s waiting for us. He flashes us a downright wicked grin. Kinda feels like he knows exactly what I did last night, and now he’s trying to decide whom to give his shit to first. Whatever. I drop Poppy’s wrist and help Fang unload the boat. I’d texted a shopping list over last night. I don’t know if Fang put the girls at the clubhouse on it. It’s equally likely he broke into some random chick’s house and cleaned out her closet—or went straight to the source and picked up Poppy’s stuff. Or fuck, maybe he’s decided to play personal shopper himself. I don’t care.

Fang babbles on about the storm damage he saw between my place and Baton Rouge. The water’s risen even here and the winds have done a job on some of the trees. It’s better that she stayed with me. No telling what might have happened to her last night.

Poppy wanders up, playing shit casual. I think she intended to ask Fang for a ride back to town, but chickened out. Fang’s a big motherfucker, he’s wearing an MC patch, and he effortlessly tosses the bags of crap I told him to bring up onto the deck. Arms crossed over his chest, like it would just make his day if a fight or a brawl came up. Or sex. Fang’s fucking manic about going balls out one hundred percent of the time. That brother is the best in a fight, but he’s also a straight up killer and possibly a psychopath. He does what he wants and fuck the consequences. Right now, he looks like he’d like to do Poppy. We’d both like to take a bite out of her.

When he’s finished unloading, his gaze bounces between Poppy and me. “We taking her to the clubhouse?”

“No.”

He tries again. “Back to her place?”

I give him a hard look. “You want to shut the fuck up now?”

He grins. “Not particularly. You want me to keep guessing?”

“Poppy’s staying with me for a week,” I growl. Fucker practically falls off the boat laughing.

“You don’t like company,” he says, as if I could possibly forget that.

“Poppy’s hunting for wolves,” I remind him. “So she’s gonna use my place as her base camp.”

Fang laughs harder.

“You get my text about the cat?”

Fang sobers up quick, whips out his phone, and winks at Poppy. “Come on over here, sweetheart. Daddy’s got some questions for you.”

“Don’t make me kill you,” I growl.

Fucker just laughs harder, and Poppy practically speedwalks over to him. Guess he seems like the safer of her two choices right now.

He pats the dock. “Pull up a seat.”

So maybe I’m being unreasonable, but I don’t like the way she sits down onto the dock straight away. She doesn’t ask him why or give him any kind of shit—just drops down into some kind of complicated yoga position that has her ankles crossing and her knees bent. Fuck, she’s flexible. Gives me all kinds of ideas.

I stand there like the storm cloud hovering over their little patch of happy while Fang scrolls through about a million pictures of a fat black and white tuxedo cat. He’s apparently cleaned up the better part of the local Petco, and now Moo (which is a stupid name for a cat that’s not a bovine) owns an arsenal of cat toys, treats, and a bed the size of my Harley.

“Give me your number,” he says. “I’ll send you the pics, okay?”

Beaming, Poppy takes the phone from him, her fingers flying over the screen.

I don’t think he’s making a move on her, and it’s not like she’s exactly mine anyhow, but I can’t watch any more of this. She’s beautiful and sexy, and the way her face lights up and she watches you like you’re the center of the universe? Yeah. I can’t blame my brother for wanting more of that.

“Come on,” I snarl. “We’re heading back.”

Too bad I can’t steal some of that charm from Fang.

“But—” She bites her lower lip and shoots a look at Fang.

“I’m taking good care of Moo.” Fang slides his phone into his back pocket. “He’s blood, flesh of my flesh, my own adopted son. I’ll open a college savings account for him later this week, so you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Fang motions for her to stand up so she can follow me back to the house. She does, but she’s not in any hurry. Based on the looks she keeps aiming at the boat, she’d much rather be headed back to Baton Rouge but she’s not sure who’s the safer bet. Fang or me.

“We had a deal,” I remind her. Not like she doesn’t get something out of this, too. So I don’t need to be thinking about punching Fang in the face to encourage him to move along.

She makes a sound I can’t quite interpret. Okay. So I totally can. She’s not happy about her little deal with me, but I’m not gonna do a sales job on her. She stays or she doesn’t. I tell myself it’s all the same to me.

“Stay or go?” I cross my arms over my chest and stare at her like it’s no BFD. She’s not tied up (anymore). She’s free to go.

Judging from the look on her face, she’s giving it some serious thought.

“Is getting access to your land still part of the deal?” She gives me an overly sweet smile. Think she might be considering ways to push me into the water.

“Sure is, babe.”

Fang cough-snorts something from the boat. We both ignore him.

“Then you’ve still got yourself a guest,” she says, emphasizing the last word.

Nice to be needed, right? I turn and head back to the house. If she wants wolves, I’ll give her wolves. And if she changes her mind and decides she needs something else, maybe I’ll see what I can do about helping her out there, too.

Poppy

This scenario is fifty shades of wrong. Fifty squared or the millionth power or something equally wrong. Gator stomps his irritating, bossy way back to the house, leaving me to trail behind. Guess he just assumes I’m not going anywhere else. And he’s right, which is even more frustrating. I follow him up the path exactly like he wants.

The sound of Fang firing up the boat and getting the hell out of Dodge is a momentary distraction. There goes my opportunity to leave easily. And I should have taken it, carpe diem, screw whatever deal Gator thinks he has with me. I mean, the guy handcuffed me to the bed. It was straight out of some B grade movie. A movie that veered straight into porn territory when he came through that bathroom door, fisting his dick.

Of course, I liked that part.

Shit.

I totally have to stop thinking dirty thoughts about my kidnapper. Because that’s what he is, right? I mean, he all but dragged me here with his impossible choices. Do I really want to get involved with a guy like Gator?

Smart Me says it’s a firm no on that one.

Needy Me, Greedy Me, and Horny Me all have a different opinion, however. They think we should knock our big guy over, crawl on top of him, and jumpstart some reverse cowgirl action. Which might, quite honestly, be out of my league. My sexual expertise is both limited and vanilla—and there’s nothing vanilla about Gator. He’s double chocolate cherry pecan bourbon goodness. One of those flavors with about ten different exotic tastes, so that you never have to choose just one as long as you keep taking another bite.

I’m getting the sense, though, that Gator’s not a team player. Okay. Not that the man doesn’t value the notion of team—he’s clearly one hundred percent behind the other bikers in that motorcycle club of his—but he likes alone time.

A lot of alone time.