Gator

I let myself stare all I want as we head down to the dock. I’m gonna have the bluest balls of any wolf, but right now? Totally fucking worth it. I swear I heard a heavenly chorus start pounding out the hallelujahs when Poppy came down my stairs.

This big bad wolf’s gonna eat her up.

So maybe I’m being unrealistic about the amount of self-control I possess, but I wasn’t ready for what I saw. She’s fucking gorgeous. The kind of face you see on the Jumbotron in Times Square. Or maybe it’s more of a shock because we’ve spent the last hour talking, and I’ve been moving in on her, touching her, and I had no idea she was hiding all this beneath that layer of mud. She’s still short and fuckably curvy, but now dark hair tumbles out of a messy braid making her look like she just rolled out of bed. I immediately want to roll her back and mess her up some more. Maybe it’s the way she keeps sneaking quick peeks at me from beneath all that hair. It’s like she’s almost-but-not-quite hiding, and it makes the predator in me want to chase her. Just for the sheer pleasure of hunting—and catching—her. Fuck, I’d love to catch her, and it’s not because she has cheekbones for miles and all that soft, sweet skin. I liked her better before. Not that what she looks like should count for so much, but she’s beautiful, and beauty doesn’t hook up with the beast.

That’s not how this fairytale is going to go.

At first Poppy sort of bobs along in my wake, but turns out she’s easily distracted. She starts and stops, veering left and then right to look at shit. At one point, she downright coos over some kind of fucking iris flower. When I offer to cut it for her, she looks at me like I’ve just suggested going on a bear hunt for Winnie the Pooh to turn his honey-fed ass into a couple of steaks.

Whatever.

Since I’m the one with a boat and she’s the one in need of a ride, she’ll have to work with me. I latch onto her elbow and haul her close to me. The walk from my house to the dock isn’t all that long, and I plan to take advantage of it. Poppy smells like Irish Spring with notes of something sweeter and more her. Shoving my face in her hair and threading my fingers through the drying strands shouldn’t seem so appealing, right? She sort of bounces into my side when I tug, and I anchor her in place with an arm. I’m not sure she’s warmed up all the way from her dip in the bayou. Her skin’s cool and pebbled when my fingers dip beneath the cuff of her flannel shirt and skate over her pulse.

She makes a startled sound. I look down, checking on her. She’s staring up at me, eyes wide and startled. It’s fucking cute, but I guess she’s not used to walking arm in arm with a wolf (not that she knows what I am, but still). I can’t bring myself to let her go, but I do ease up my grip, hoping she’ll just go along with it. She’s the perfect armful.

Bringing her here was a terrible idea—not sure why I fucking did it, if we’re being honest. Kinda undoes all the scaring I did if I fish her out and make it better. I’ll have to find another way to run her out of my bayou. She’s a biologist and way too curious, so she’ll be back. Again and again. If I take another stab at that honesty thing, I have to admit I don’t mind that idea as much as I should. She’s fuckhot and funny and having her here hasn’t been bad at all. Of course, it’s been less than hour, so I’d likely change my mind if she stuck around any longer.

She’s got that whole perfect face thing going on for her. A dark mane of hair explodes around her face as it dries, thick tendrils escaping from a loose braid. The stuff’s long enough to hit her tits, which I’d really like to see. She’s got the kind of face you find on models, all interesting angles and lines. My fingers itch to trace her cheek, down the smooth skin, and over her jaw. Shove my thumb between those pretty pink lips until she bites me—or sucks me like a fucking wet dream. Her shirt bunches and gaps with each step, flashing me the freckles on her throat and shoulders. Jace is gonna pay for this because right now I’m totally down for a dirty game of connect-the-dots with my reluctant guest.

She cleans up well, but despite my borrowed belt, she has to hitch up my jeans every couple of steps. She makes the cutest fucking Raggedy Andy ever. She twists her head, looking at the arm I’ve got wrapped around her shoulders. I’d like to see her try and shift me.

“Gator?”

“Oui?”

“Thanks for the ride,” she blurts out. The rhythmic slap of water on wood means we’re almost to the dock. For one ridiculous moment I consider scooping her up and taking her back to my place. Or we could go on walkabout around the island. It’s not big, but it would take an hour and I think she’d like it. I’ve got more flowers and plants—she clearly digs that shit.

“No problem,” I growl. I’m a fucking model of restraint today. Not that she’s gonna appreciate it. “Not like you can stay here.”

She blinks quickly. “You’re not going into business as a Four Seasons?”

She says the words lightly, but there’s another note of something beneath the joke. But subtext isn’t something I do—any more than I do subtlety or people. I pick up the pace because she needs to go. I need my island to myself.

Her fingers brush my cheek. My scarred cheek.

“What happened?” she asks.

“You’re the biologist. You tell me.” Shit. Am I supposed to know that’s what she does for a living? Maybe she told me, or maybe she assumes I inferred as much from that wolf study she told me all about because she doesn’t seem surprised. She just kind of nods and then goes back to studying my face. She runs her fingers over the thick, ropey skin as if she’s measuring something.

“Alligator,” she says softly. “That must have been bad.”

“I’m here. It’s not. Came out the winner in that one.”

When we reach my boat, when I let her go, then I’ll remember that I’m a werewolf and she’s accidentally stumbled across my kind. I need to stay far, far away from her wolf-hunting, wolf-loving self. Not show her exactly what she’s been missing in the bayou.

Or what I’ve been missing.

My pack has changed some in the last year. A few of my brothers have mated, settled down with some good women, and I should be happy for them. And maybe I am, but I also kinda wish that it hadn’t happened. Makes me a fucking small-minded loser, but I don’t have to share that crap with anyone. The girls mean the world to my brothers, so I’d die for them. That’s my bottom line. It doesn’t matter that they’ve taken up so much space that there just might not be room for me. I’ll ride and I’ll keep an eye out.

I’m getting the sense that Poppy isn’t so different from me in that respect. That she doesn’t quite fit in, either. She’s too smart, too pretty, too filter-less. Possibly too busy fucking her boss—even I know that’s not a wise career move. Plus, Christ, when she opens her mouth, you don’t know what’s gonna come out. She’s downright awful in the people-fucking-skills department.

I think I like her.

We pad out onto the dock, my arm draped around her shoulders, our hips bumping each other with each step. She keeps trying to adjust her stride so we don’t slide against each other, but I won’t let her. Playing with her is too much fun.

As soon as we reach the boat, she grabs for her pack, trying to drag it off my shoulder. As if she could possibly move me.

“I’ve got it,” I say gruffly.

“I can do it.” Her fingers scrabble at my shoulder again. So fucking cute.

“You got a problem with accepting help?” I slide the strap down my arm and let it dangle from my fingers. It’s like playing with a wolf pup.

“I can handle my own shit. I don’t need rescuing.” Her chin comes up, and she meets my gaze head on. I can respect that, even if it pisses me off that she puts herself in danger. And teaching her a few survival skills would give me something to do besides stand guard and watch the lucky brothers enjoying their happily-ever-afters.

Rewind.

She’s going into the boat. The boat’s going to Baton Rouge. And I’m coming back here. Alone. That’s how this plan works. I may have borrowed her company and then let her borrow my shower, but I’m giving her back. She’s not a stray kitten I could keep—and even if she were, wolves don’t adopt felines. The world doesn’t fucking work that way.

When I look up, however, I have to reassess. Poppy’s so hot in my clothes that I’ve been focused on watching her move instead of keeping my eyes open. There’s one of those crazy-ass come-out-of-nowhere storms brewing just over the horizon. My wolf keens silently, fur rising. I’m gonna have to rethink today’s plan.

“Storm’s coming.”

She looks up at the sky. It still looks normal, kinda cloudy but there’s a hint of sun peeking through. She pats her ass, probably looking for her cell phone so she can double-check my shit. But I know it’s the truth. Not like I can tell her it’s because I’m hardwired into the werewolf weather channel, but it’s still true. There’s a motherfucker of a surprise storm brewing fast and way too close.

“Looks fine to me.” She shrugs off my hold and jumps down into the boat. That’s fine. I can get her out easily enough.

I double-check the sky instinctively. This part, this small sliver above us? Yeah. There’s no problem there. But my wolf’s fur ruffles, tension washing through him. We both know what’s coming. The clouds moving in fast, the rain pelting down and tearing up the smooth surface of the bayou. Probably, it’s fine. If I open up the motor, we’ll probably reach Baton Rouge before the worst of the rain. I could hang at the clubhouse until the storm passes.

But what if I’m wrong? What if we’re halfway there and then the rain hits hard? She’ll be unprotected. Not safe.

“Out.” I hold my hand down to her.

We’ll both stay here. It’s the best solution.

She scans the boat, making no move to take the hand I’m offering. “Have we sprung a leak?”

“There’s a storm. We’re staying here.”

Her feet shift on the deck. “I need to go back.”

The sky’s already purpling up way off on the horizon, the thick, humid air pulling at my skin and making me twitch.

This is stupid.

This is dangerous. “Back inside.”

She’s not getting hurt on my watch.