I can see he wants to know more, but I’m standing before him in four-inch pumps, breasts bare, nipples erect, wearing only black silk panties and stockings. The glamour affects my physical beauty in that my true face is hidden. But my body is untouched. Breasts, hips, legs are of a level of perfection only a Siren can possess.
The questions die on his lips. The humidity here at the beach makes my long, dark hair wave. It’s loose now, past my shoulders, partially covering my breasts.
Zack reaches out and picks up a strand. “I love your hair down.” He begins to curl it around his finger, reeling me in. “You should wear it like this more often. In fact, this entire outfit meets with my approval.”
I can’t help smiling, more comfortable in my skin than in silk and lace. “Oh yeah?”
He looks me straight in the eye. “Yeah.”
I reach for his top shirt button and slide it back through the hole. “You wouldn’t find it . . . distracting?”
“Me? No. You know me. I’m all about the mission. Eye on the ball.”
I’m on the last button now. “You’d be more convincing if you weren’t looking at my breasts.”
“Which are amazing.” As if to punctuate the statement, he palms one, feeling the weight of it, squeezing gently. “Why do you insist on hiding them?”
“You mean I should take a page from television and wear low-cut blouses and spike heels on the job?”
“Works for me.”
I interrupt his reverie when I step back to slide his shirt off his shoulders. Before he can express disappointment that I’ve moved out of reach, I do two things that are guaranteed to leave a man speechless. I reach for the button on his trousers and I drop to my knees.
I give Zack a little shove and he falls back to sit on the edge of the bed, hands braced behind him. His chest is broad and well muscled. A light carpet of hair starts below his neck, fans out across his pecs, then narrows under his ribs. My eyes follow the happy trail until it disappears into the waistband of his slacks. Zack Armstrong is one gorgeous man.
I make short order of removing his shoes and socks. Then I set my hands on his knees and run them over his thighs. I subtly brush the zipper with the backs of my fingers. His hips rise off the bed.
“You’re killing me here.”
I deliberately take my time lowering his zipper, letting the tension build. For a moment I hold my breath. Then I draw him into my hand. He’s long, hard, and surprisingly thick. I stroke him, palm open and flat. He smells of testosterone, citrus, and spice. The scent is as complicated as the man himself. Clean. Mysterious. Sexy.
“I want to feel your mouth on me,” he says.
I oblige, giving him a firm squeeze before leaning forward and offering him my tongue, sliding him between my lips.
His hand goes to the back of my head. “Christ, Emma.”
I take him deep. My mouth and tongue quickly develop a nice rhythm. Both his hands tangle in my hair. Zack guides me firmly yet gently. I can tell by his breathing he’s getting close. His grip tightens suddenly and he gasps.
“Emma, stop!”
The request is entirely unexpected. I sit back, releasing him. The instant I do, he pulls me up. His mouth devours mine. The kiss is demanding, insistent. A growl emanates from somewhere deep within his chest, low, primal. My eyes fly open and I pull back from him. The flash of light blue I saw Wednesday night in his normally brown eyes is there again. Before I have time to even fully register it, he’s stripped his trousers off and deposited me on his bed.
“Zack—” I place my hand in the center of his chest. He’s hovering over me, six foot three of tall, dark, and dangerous.
“If you don’t want this to happen, now would be a good time to say so.”
“Your eyes, they’ve changed.”
Zack lowers his head and nuzzles my cheek. “My wolf likes you,” he whispers. I feel the pulse of his warm breath against my neck. “But don’t worry. I’m in control, not the beast. I don’t let it have free rein. Not ever. That’s what the cage is for.” As he says the words, one hand travels down, passing my hip, gliding over the top of my thigh, then snaking its way into my panties.
His fingers separate my folds and delve into the wetness. My hips lift off the mattress, wanting more.
“Take everything off.” My voice is rough with want.
Zack doesn’t need to be asked twice.
He peppers hot, openmouthed kisses across my collarbone, through the valley between my breasts, and over my stomach. I shiver with anticipation as he hooks his fingers into my panties and lowers them down my silk-covered legs. The shoes come off next. He tosses them over his shoulder and they land on the floor with a clunk. Then he rolls the stockings off, taking the time to shake and smooth each one out before dropping them off the edge of the bed.
He lifts one of my legs into the air and kisses the inside of my ankle. I find myself grinning.
Zack notices. “You’re smiling.”
“I’m happy,” I confess. It’s true.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
I worry my glamour is fading. That in the moment I’ve somehow become careless. But I don’t hold on to the concern very long. Zack’s climbing up the length of my body. He’s hard and ready and in position.
He kisses my nose, then reaches into the drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a condom.
“We don’t need it. I can’t conceive.” As a werewolf, Zack isn’t susceptible to human disease; the process of shape-shifting cures all ills. But he can procreate. I take the condom from him and toss it aside. “Hey, didn’t you say something about me being in control?”
Zack grins. “You want to take control?”
We roll.
He places his hands on my waist. “I’m all yours, baby.”
I’m flying once again. As I did long ago when I had my real wings. Zack and I soar, together. Higher and higher, until the real world is far below. Until no one in it or of it can touch us.
• • •
I wake up in Zack’s house, in Zack’s bed. His arm is draped over my waist. His hand cups my breast. I feel as if I’ve run a marathon. My body is sore, but I’m exhilarated. Zack is as unpredictable and versatile a lover as he is a man, as skilled at hard and fast as he is at slow and easy. The clock on the nightstand says six. We can’t have been asleep more than three hours.
I gently lift his arm and roll over. The lines of his face are smoothed in sleep. His beard has grown thicker during the night. I’m tempted to trace the outline of his lips, to kiss his generous mouth. A pull of desire makes me clench my thighs together and I feel myself getting wet again. But there’s also the sting of rash burn from his stubble on the inside of my thighs. What I really need is a shower.
I place a soft kiss on Zack’s shoulder before slipping out of bed. He stirs and I slip the pillow I’d been sleeping on under his arm. He doesn’t waken, snuggling the pillow against his cheek as if still holding me.
Smiling, I pad across the thick carpet to the bathroom.
It’s an homage to luxury—marble floors, expensive tile, mirrors, and glass. I stand stock-still for a moment in wonder. Zack’s bathroom is about the size of my bedroom and living room combined. The sunken tub is long and deep; I imagine even Zack can stretch out in it. The shower at the far end has three showerheads and would easily accommodate a family of five. Just as I’d reached the conclusion I could spend the rest of my life living in Zack’s bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the long mirror lining the wall behind the sinks.
My hand is trembling as I lift it to touch my face. It’s been centuries since I’ve seen myself like this. My skin is radiant, my hair shining like the finest lacquer. It cascades down my back and over my shoulders in soft waves. My lips are swollen, bruised red from too many kisses. My eyes, bright with lingering desire, begin to tear, clouding my vision and threatening to spill. I haven’t purposefully given up the glamour. I’m not even purposefully lowering it enough to display a hint of my real self. Yet I’m effulgent, glowing.
My heart soars free for one fabulous blissful moment.
Then reality comes crashing down.
There’s only one possible explanation. I’m falling in love with Zack. And he’s falling in love with me. Despite
