Blue Moon Brides: The Complete Series (60 page)

“This dress go in a washin’ machine,
shug
?”

She laughed, a low, husky sound that did things to his dick that were positively illegal. Or downright heavenly, depending on how his night ended. “You’d do better to ask me if I care. You do whatever you want to this dress as long as I’m still decent to walk across the casino floor.”

That sounded like permission to him. Pressing her back against the cool glass, he upended the champagne, pouring the pale liquid down her body, over those pretty breasts and her stomach.
Lower.

“Hold the bottle,” he demanded roughly.

“Luc.” His name was part shiver, part moan, but she did what he asked. Her fingers closed around the bottle and he got to work, tugging her hem up.

“Keep your dress up.”

She hesitated, but then she did it and hell…those were the
prettiest panties he’d ever seen. A teeny-tiny scrap of something silky with rows of soft ruffles over her center. He reached up and guided her hand, upending the bottle so the champagne hit her right where she burned.

He leaned in and kissed her on her clit through the damp silk. She muffled her shriek with the back of her hand, but he didn’t want her holding back. Not with him.

“Cold,” she sighed.

“Not for long.” Not if he did this right. He wanted to mark her in ways both human and beast, wanted to line up with her in front of a preacher and give her all the words he’d never dreamed of speaking.
His
. Blue moon or no blue moon, she’d be his—and he’d be hers. Part of him recognized that she wasn’t Fate’s party favor. He had to earn her, not take.

“Marry me,” she said, like she’d read his mind. “And you can have whatever you
wan’
from me.”

And he’d thought about it, been so tempted to let her sweep him off to one of the many twenty-four hour chapels dotting Vegas. Instead, he’d carried her back to her hotel suite and they’d…had sex. Holy. Jesus. The way he’d stripped her down to her skin and laid her out on the bed. His mouth finishing her while he fucked her with his fingers. Strong hands flipping her over, baring her neck and biting, the erotic sting sending her over the edge again as he took her from behind. A shared shower that had heated her right back up again…

Then he’d slipped out of her bed and gone back to the bayou, because that way she was free to go about her own life. And if he’d wondered how she could have filled up the last ten years, if those years had been an empty hole for him, that was his problem. Not hers. He was an animal at heart and, even then, he’d known she deserved better.

~*~

Ten years was plenty of water under the bridge. He’d walked. She’d run. And now…he wasn’t sure how to get their relationship back on track or if she’d even consider it. Despite her encounter with the wolf pack, Gianna didn’t seem overly shaken. She slid her heels off right by the front door, like stepping on the clean floor with her outdoor wear was sacrosanct. Naturally, that had Luc looking down at his own shitkickers. Hell, he should probably do the same thing. His rubber soles and black leather weren’t the pretty bits Gianna had been sporting, but it wasn’t like he was housebroken, so he left them on. Since it was hard to be the big, scary Alpha in sock feet, she’d have to deal with dirty floors.

She didn’t seem to notice, though, picking up her heels like they were her babies, turning them over and inspecting them. He had no idea for what. Dirt? Blood? Wolf parts?

Clearly, she saw him looking, because she set the shoes on a chair. “They’re Manolo Blahniks,” she said, like that explained everything.

Color him clueless, because he and his brothers didn’t name their shoes. “Call them whatever you want.”

She made a face. “That’s a brand.”

More proof she was too good for him. He was outdoor camping with an outhouse while she was Four Seasons material.

While she babied her shoes and turned on a light, he prowled around her place. The living room was an explosion of white, pink and gold, with honest-to-God floor-to-ceiling windows and a fancy sofa parked in front of a fireplace decorated with curlicues and white vases. Definitely the kind of place magazines liked to photograph. Apparently, people did live in them. Not everything was perfect, however, because she had stacks of books and magazines bristling with Post-It notes on every table surface. Her lair. Her scent touched every piece in the house.

He inhaled. Gianna’s place smelled like lemon furniture polish, artificial apples and cinnamon. Nice enough, but nothing like the gritty scents of the bayou. His camp there was no Macy’s perfume counter.

Shit.
Say something civilized. “You have a nice place.”

Understatement. Before he’d come to the bayou, he’d wasted decades navigating the French court. He’d visited palatial country palaces and spent quality time in the decadent homes of Paris. He’d never thought about those things, but Gianna’s home reminded him of those long-vanished palaces. She was classy. Gorgeous.

Oui.
He was definitely out of his league with her. He’d never been on board with the whole blue moon fated mate gig, although clearly fate had been more than kind to his brothers. Their mates were fine women and females of worth, and he’d be proud to lay down his life for each and every one of them. Looking at Gianna, remembering what she’d tasted like, felt like, coming apart beneath his touch, he had a sneaking suspicion that he’d go even further for her.

“I like nice things.” She shrugged like it was no big deal, and wandered over to the window to stare at the slice of garden outside. Small spotlights lit up a collection of those formal topiary things surrounded by a boatload of roses and white flowers. He’d never understood why people settled for a night garden and never being home during the daylight hours. She pushed the window open and the scent of night-blooming jasmine flooded the room.

She’d worn a perfume that smelled like jasmine ten years ago. He got hard just breathing in those flowers in her garden, which was ridiculous. Sure, mating with her had been the finest sexual experience of his life. He could admit that much—and it had to be the only reason why he wanted another taste now, right?

As she turned to look at him, he wondered if she felt the same at all.

“We’re not married,” she said, sounding relieved.

Nope. She was on a completely different page from him when it came to their relationship. In fact, she was done with the book and ready to put it back on the shelf, while he was just ready to get started…reading.

Mine.
No way he’d let go of her now. He’d hung on to the possibility she represented when he’d let her leave him in Vegas. Dropping regular deposits into her checking account had been one more way of satisfying the wolf’s need to provide and the man’s desire to hang on it. He’d known she’d been looking for him—the private investigators she’d set on his trail were proof enough—and he’d evaded. Marital
chase me, catch me
. Or pure stubbornness on his part.

He didn’t want to let her go. Worse, he wanted
her
to want to hang onto
him
and the chances of that happening were about one in a million.

“Your offer isn’t still good?” Stall for time. Find out what she
really
wanted. “You propose to me and then chase me for years to tell me to fuck off?”

She took a step back, putting critical distance between them, and faced him down like he was a hostile witness in her goddamned courtroom. Two could play at that game. He deliberately dropped onto her fancy white sofa, enjoying the irritated flicker of her eyes that betrayed her dislike of his move. Nope, because she wanted him gone. Gone from her house. Gone from her life. Instead, here he was, ass parked on her furniture and staying put.

She pursed her lips. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You got another?” He crossed one booted foot over another. He drew the line at using her fancy little table as a footrest. He didn’t want to mark it up none—just make sure she understood who was in charge here.

“It’s time for me to move on with my life. Date. Get married.”

His wolf growled, not liking the thought of his female hooking up with another male. His more human side, however, was stupidly pleased that she’d waited for him. For the wrong reasons, sure, but no one else had been touching her and that was good.

“You saved yourself for me.”

She inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening on the window frame.
Oui.
She didn’t like that mental image, but too bad.

“I wasn’t waiting for
you
,” she said, like she was talking about the garbage man or the contractor who fixed her plumbing. “There was every chance that I’d gotten married in a drunken fit. That means I play by the rules. That’s how it works.”

“No cheatin’.”

“Absolutely not.”

He admired her sense of honor, but they played by different rules. The thing was, he’d touched other females, but only fleetingly and only as part of his Pack. How would she react to that if he fronted with her and told her the truth? They’d been fine women, giving women, but they hadn’t been Gianna. Truth was, only Gianna was Gianna.

Which made him feel fucking stupid but it was still true.

Unfortunately, his little mate was a lawyer with superb instincts for blood in the water. She went for the jugular. “Would you have cheated on me?”

He counter-attacked. “You didn’t look at any other male, but you didn’t think about takin’ him into your bed?”

Her blush, that teasing flush of pink on her cheekbones, gave her away, as did the little hitch in her breathing. He didn’t share and that made him a possessive bastard. Wolves shared, but only to pleasure their mates.

She raised her chin and stared him down. “I’m ready to settle down. To get married and have kids.”

He patted the sofa beside him. “Come right on over here.”

She shook her head, not done with her explanation. “Not with
you
.”

Right. Because he didn’t even merit a spot on her list of potential mates. His mate wasn’t talking about sharing—she was planning on cutting him out of her life entirely. He had no intention of going quietly into that good night. A male couldn’t hold a woman who didn’t want to be held. The blue moon was a beacon—not a mandate. That was one of the reasons he’d let her run from him in Vegas. He might be an animal at heart, but he’d be a goddamned fucking human when it counted most.

Disappointment lanced through him. Stupid, because he’d known he’d have to give her back. That one day, he’d really and truly have to let her go. A piece of paper and a few words in front of a justice of peace didn’t begin to cover what he felt for her.

He looked at her. “You don’ remember anything you like about Vegas?”

~*~

She remembered too much.

Or not enough.

God, she had no idea which was true. Around Luc, everything got crazy mixed-up so fast. She pressed her cheek against the cool glass, staring out into the garden.

“Come here,
shug
,” he ordered in the rough-tender voice that had haunted her dreams. Of course she looked over.
Stupid
. He’d sprawled on her couch like some kind of werewolf pasha and, when he eyes met his, he patted the cushion beside him. She wasn’t his pet. His toy.

His
woman
.

But the heat building inside her demanded attention and it had been so damned long. Wanting a lover was perfectly natural. He was here. He was temporarily hers. Why not make use of him? Her logic sucked, but it had been one of those days and she was ready for it to end on a happy note. Somehow, without conscious thought, her feet took her right over to the man on the couch.

Her knees bumped against the silky fabric, inches from his. “If we’d been married, I would have wanted a divorce.” She put the words out there. The thing had to be said. Tonight she might be in the market for a lover, but tomorrow she still wanted to move on with her life. This non-thing between them had to be resolved.

He nodded, linking his fingers gently around her wrist. “I hear you.”

Not agreement, but it was enough. He tugged and she landed on the couch beside him, the whole world freezing and slowing. No, not freezing.
Burning.
Every part of her was on fire around this man.

In no rush, he brushed a finger down her throat. She’d left her jacket in her car and had undone the top button of her blouse in deference to the warmth she’d worked up walking. The callused pad of his fingers moved down the open space, over her traitorous pulse, her collarbone.

“I missed you,” he growled.

Had he? Then he should have come knocking, should have looked her up. He trailed his finger lower, flicking open her topmost button, tracing the valley between her breasts where she was sweat-slicked and soft. Her skin gave beneath his touch and she arched up just a little.

“This have a name too?” The hoarse rasp of his voice was a lifeline in a sea of sensations.