Wolf's Heart: Bayou Wolves #3 Read online

  Wolf’s

  Heart

  ANNE MARSH

  JACE

  Cute as a button and sex on a stick shouldn’t go together. Kind of like peanut butter and jelly with chocolate—either on its own is fucking great, but sticking them together is all kinds of wrong. The little werewolf parked on the other side of the desk somehow manages to be both cute and sexy at the same time. She makes me want to lick her. Makes me want to wrap her tight in my arms, hold her close, and get inside her every way I can.

  Keelie Sue Berard doesn’t want my feelings.

  I’ve seen her at the Breed’s clubhouse—seven times—and can’t name one single time when she hasn’t been trying to fade into the background. Keelie Sue doesn’t like drawing attention to herself, but I can’t look away from her.

  The cute part is the way she’s piled her hair on top of her head in some kind of messy twist anchored with a number two pencil. Wayward strands escape their captivity to brush around her cheeks, and I fight the urge to pet the soft skin beneath the curls. Lunging over the desk isn’t nice, and I’m trying to turn over a new leaf where Keelie Sue is concerned.

  Sort of.

  Sex on a stick is where her blouse comes in. She must be going for office professional or some shit, because the blouse is a plain, utilitarian white. Kind of isn’t the best color for her because it makes her look pale, but it’s made out of some sort of silky fabric that clings to her boobs. Better yet, the front dips into a modest vee with a big-ass bow that plants right over the soft, sweet place between her breasts. Not that I can see more than the three inches of throat she’s exposed, but I have a filthy imagination and I’ve spent way too much time mentally stripping Keelie Sue naked. Clearly, she has no idea that she’s starring in my fantasies, because she proses on (and on) about receipts and P&Ls, waving a second pencil at the endless columns of numbers marching across her computer screen.

  Fucking numbers.

  Thirty-two years old and I can take apart a wolf with my bare hands, make him wish he’s dead twice over and force him to acknowledge my domination. Instead, I’m sitting on an office chair, getting a lesson in first grade arithmetic. My inadequacies when it comes to adding and subtracting are one of several reasons why my challenging for Alpha seems like one of the worst fucking ideas I’ve had all year.

  I already have a pack, and I’m number two wolf there. My brother is Alpha, and he rocks the leadership position. He sent me to infiltrate the Breed and get close to the top wolves. As far as I know, the Breed are the only wolf pack that is also a motorcycle club—and they get up to twice as much shit because of it. Still, accepting a permanent place in the Breed pack feels like cheating on Cruz. Wolves move on, form their own packs or take their own territory, but Cruz and I are family and family matters.

  “Any questions?” Keelie Sue’s gaze darts away from the numbers on her screen, meets my own eyes briefly, then drops submissively. Apparently our lesson on the economics of running a ten-bay garage is over. Thank God.

  “Got a couple,” I drawl.

  I drop my own gaze from Keelie Sue’s pretty eyelashes (since she never lets me look at her for long, that’s my usual view) to her throat. The pulse there beats fast and hard. I make her nervous.

  Kind of want to change that.

  If I become her Alpha, I’ll be in charge of protecting her. Of making sure she has everything she needs and that she stays safe. Part of me—the part straining against my zipper—has definite ideas about how to accomplish that.

  “Okay,” she says, sounding more than a little scared.

  Honestly, I’m not sure what has her panties in a twist. She’s good at her job. I, on the other hand, am the moron who can’t add—or remember to complete his paperwork. Who knew that running a werewolf pack came with forms? Fucking sucks, to be honest. I’m better suited to playing number two and bad cop.

  Since she’s already made her feelings for me clear—I’m the big bad wolf come to eat her up—I’m not feeling the incentive to behave. I shove out of my chair, stroll around her desk, and stop when my thighs bump against the back of her chair. She squeaks, and my dick gets harder. Not nice, but true. She’s cute when she’s flustered. She also turns this intriguing shade of pink that makes me wonder how far her blush extends… and that brings me back to my mental happy place of unbuttoning her blouse, stretching her out on her desk, and replacing all this boring-as-fuck paperwork with a little worshipping of Keelie Sue’s sweet body and a whole lot of hot, nasty sex.

  I set my hands on the back of her chair and let my fingers brush her shoulders. I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric, and she smells good. Like flowers and sunlight, or something poetic like that. All I know is that I want to lick her from head to foot. Or from bottom to top—I’m flexible.

  She sucks in a breath. Lets it out. See? That’s cute right there, the way she tries to get control of herself. “Mr. Jones?”

  I lean in closer, my mouth brushing her ear. Little pink pearls dangle from the lobe, and I tug gently. With my teeth. Isn’t as if I can stop being a wolf, even for her. “When you call a guy Mister, you put ideas in his head.”

  “Really?” Her voice comes out a little shaky, but I don’t think she minds my present position too much. Her body kind of melts into mine just a little, the straight line of her spine relaxing.

  “Uh-huh,” I growl and lick where I bit. “You got fantasies, Keelie Sue? Because I’ve got a few.” I decide her little squeak means tell me more, big guy and since I feel downright helpful, I adjust my erection and tell her exactly what I’m thinking. “You call me mister and I start imagining I’m the boss in this office and you’ve been a bad, bad girl. Since you need to learn a lesson and I’m a giver, I’m gonna ease up that pretty skirt of yours and pull down your panties. Maybe I just look at you a bit, until you’re wiggling and wanting more, and then I spank your butt pink.”

  Her face turns crimson, her hands clenching against the fabric of her skirt, working the neat lines into something less pristine. I’ve wrinkled her, and I love it.

  “You think it’s gonna hurt?” I brush my mouth against her ear, drinking in her shaky inhalation. “You’re wrong. It may sting a little, but you’re gonna love it. It’s gonna feel so good you’ll be arching up into my hand, wriggling like a little cat instead of the wolf you are. And then when we’re perfectly clear about who’s in charge in this office, I’ll make you feel even better, and that’s gonna take me kissing everywhere I spanked. So if you don’t want me bringing those fantasies to life, maybe you should think about calling me Jace.”

  She hesitates, like she actually has to think about it, or maybe she’s imagining me putting her over my knee and paddling her butt, because the sweetest scent of arousal teases me. Keelie Sue likes something about me all right, and her like makes me want to get closer. Hell, just let me get my fingers on her creaming pussy and I’ll make her feel right about all this. About me.

  “Jace,” she whispers finally. The way she says my name tells me plenty. She’ll call me whatever I want because I’m dominant and because, yeah, I turn her on. I want to push her, to chase her and drive myself in deep while she comes around me, milking my dick. Since that isn’t happening, I need to get my shit together. The chase is fun, but I’m not into rape.

  “See? That isn’t so hard.” I abandon the back of the chair and curl my fingers around her shoulders.

  I have zero idea why I want to fuck her so badly. Sure, she’s gorgeous and she has nice tits, but there are plenty of females with the same assets just waiting for me to walk into the clubhouse and pick them. It makes me sound like a cocksucking bastard thinking that, but those women and me? We know the sex is a transaction. They le
t me use their bodies, and I let them leverage my place in the club to get whatever it is they want. Power, revenge, drugs, a little cold hard cash… I understand those rules.

  Keelie Sue, however, isn’t in the rulebook.

  Hell, she isn’t in my league at all, and I’ll be the first to admit it.

  She’s nice, she’s smart, and the only thing I have to offer is dirty sex. If her daddy wasn’t Big Red, she wouldn’t get within a mile of the club. I might see her when I’m out riding and I might admire her rack, her ass, or her pretty face, but I’d keep on riding. I damned certain wouldn’t stroke my fingers over the soft skin of her throat. Not the way I’m doing now.

  “You had a question?” Her fingers flex on her thighs, and she stares down at them.

  Yeah. I have a question all right, but I need to do this right. “What’s it take for a wolf to get a date with you?”

  KEELIE SUE

  I’m an accountant. Not a porn star or even reasonably sexy. The guys who come sniffing around me do so because dating the pack Alpha’s daughter is generally considered the fast track to promotion. Provided, of course, you have the Alpha’s permission. Otherwise, it’s more of a death sentence. Guys don’t want me for me—but apparently I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, and in this alternate universe, adding and subtracting is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Or maybe Jace is just that bored.

  It’s possible. I haven’t met a wolf who enjoys paperwork—which is why I’m usually safe in my office.

  He rubs his fingers against the side of my throat lightly, the gesture strangely unthreatening. It’s not like I haven’t spent my life around male werewolves—hello, my father is Alpha and I can shift—but this… is different. I expected Jace to be bossy, and sex is an excellent way to put a female in her place. The whole underneath-the-guy-and-taking-orders thing makes it clear who’s in charge, and Jace is one hundred percent dominant. If he wasn’t, my dad wouldn’t try so hard to make him commit to our pack.

  His fingers move, stroking my skin.

  And it isn’t bad.

  It really, really isn’t. He’s careful and while he’s in my space, he isn’t exactly a ravaging beast. If he didn’t make me so nervous, I might enjoy the simple touch. Wolves love touching, and my wolf misses the casual skin-to-skin contact of friends and lovers. She’s drinking this up.

  Long-term, however, I doubt he’ll be content to brush the pads of his fingertips over the few inches of exposed skin on my throat. He’ll want more, and he’s out of my league. He’s a brutal enforcer and a lethal fighter, and I’m safest far, far away from him. The little spark of pleasure from the way he touches me is fantastic, but doing anything more is like French-kissing a powder keg. Jace won’t mean to hurt me, but guys like him—let’s just say that our relationship only has two possible endings. Either he walks out my door and I get on with my life, or he hurts me.

  “Keelie Sue?” He says my name in a deep, raspy voice, and I actually get wet on the spot. That’s never happened before, and I don’t know whether I should be mortified or do a happy dance around my office. Apparently I’m not totally screwed up by my sex life. Yay, me.

  “What?” I ask him, trying to sort out what I feel. I don’t really want to have sex with him, so I need to be careful. I’m just the accountant who’s filled him in on how the pack’s profit margins work and where he needs to step up his game. Jace is truly terrible with paperwork. I don’t know if he just can’t be bothered or if he has some other, larger problem, but the receipts he brought me make no sense. He’s supposed to purchase parts for the pack-run garage, but the receipts don’t match the cash outlays, and he spent more than he took out. So he’s not thieving—and honestly, theft is the last thing I’d expect from him anyhow, like the zombie apocalypse and/or my dad inviting me to retire to a blissfully pack-free Bora Bora—but I have no clue what he’s up to.

  “I’m asking you out on a date,” he tells me, sounding amused. Somehow, impossibly, he moves closer, and his leg brushes my arm. I fight the urge to leap out of my chair. It’s not like I can go anywhere—and male wolves love to chase. If I bolt, he might decide I’m his new favorite squeaky toy.

  Most wolves break their toys.

  “Uh,” I say, sounding as inarticulate as I feel. Approximately a million questions run through my head, starting with Why do you really want to do this? And Did my dad approve? I’m not stupid enough to date without parental approval, even if I am twenty-one. That’s yet another drawback to being the Alpha’s daughter.

  He steps back and spins me around in my chair so that I face him. My new position is no improvement, because now I can’t possibly ignore just how much of Jace there is—including the very impressive bulge in his jeans. Apparently numbers do indeed turn him on. I guess there’s no accounting for taste. Heh.

  He eyes me, his face giving away nothing. Then he nods as if he’s come to a decision and crouches down so that he’s on eye level with me. Carefully he places his hands flat and loose on his thighs. Without him looming over me I feel less trapped, and my wolf relaxes.

  “I’m not gonna eat you up,” he growls, and the words sound almost… affectionate? I have to be hallucinating. Next I’ll be expecting candy hearts and roses when most werewolves are more likely to bring me a fresh, hot kill and then press for sex.

  After a hunt, when their blood is up, that’s when it’s most dangerous to be a pack female. Mating is usually a permanent relationship, and my dad is all for it if he gets to pick the pairs, but casual sex is also a given. I don’t like hookups, and I try to avoid the clubhouse whenever I can, especially when the pack has been hunting, but there were a few nights when I failed…

  A big finger taps me lightly on the nose, and my wolf whines.

  “You gonna come back to me?” Jace doesn’t sound pissed about my daydreaming. In fact, he seems more amused than anything. I guess it’s good he has a sense of humor.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask, figuring that’s my safest response.

  He ducks his own head so he can look into my eyes. “I’m thinking about kissing you. You want a test run, Keelie Sue? See how our date could end?”

  A downright sinful smile curves his gorgeous mouth, softening the harsh lines of his face. I drop my gaze and stare at the tribal tattoos inked into his forearms. He has a playful side, and it’s unexpected. I feel his sigh brush over my skin, and my answer flies out of my mouth before I can think it through. I blame my wolf. “Yes. Please.”

  “I like the way you say please,” he says roughly and then he leans forward. His mouth captures mine, his tongue stroking carefully along the crease of my lips. He presses lightly, and I obey his unspoken command and open up for him. He makes a harsher, hungrier noise, a primitive sound that thrills me as much as it frightens me.

  He kisses me and I lean into him, deepening the connection in the one place we touch. His tongue explores me, and I’m startled to discover that I like this kiss. He moves closer, edging between my knees and planting his hands on either side of my hips. His thumbs trace a little pattern on my hips, soothing and yet feeding my hunger for him. Sweet and gentle aren’t words I’ve ever even thought about in the same sentence as Jace. But he is.

  This is crazy.

  I have my dad’s favorite wolf between my knees, my body straining toward his, and I wouldn’t mind taking this further. Jace has to know it, too. He can smell my arousal—there’s no hiding it. But… anyone could walk in, and word would get straight back to my dad. I don’t think he’ll mind, but I can’t afford to take the chance. Worse, if my dad likes the idea of my hooking up with Jace, he’ll give us his blessing and that will be the end of my single status and any hope of freedom.

  I jerk back. “We need to stop,” I whisper, doing my best to ignore the delicious, needy ache in my pussy. I want what I can’t have, but I’m used to that. “This isn’t a good idea.”

  He strokes his thumb over my hip in a lazy, warm circle. “Let me.”

  It would be so, so
easy to let him, and I’d enjoy every wicked minute.

  “No.” I hold my breath, waiting for the explosion. For the anger.

  Jace gives me a speculative look, then shoves to his feet and strides to the door. “Think about that date,” he says.

  A few seconds later I hear the sound of a bike’s pipes tearing away.

  KEELIE SUE

  Shoot. A party rocks the clubhouse tonight. A sea of Harleys fills the parking lot outside the warehouse the Breed claimed years ago as their property. Three prospects—two humans, one wolf—patrol the lines of bikes, keeping an eye on things. As if anyone in this rundown, shit-out-of-luck neighborhood would be dumb enough to touch so much as a hubcap belonging to the Breed. My father’s motorcycle club has reigned supreme here for the past five years, controlling the flow of illegal arms, dirty money, and even more illegal drugs in and out of this portion of Baton Rouge.

  The Breed’s home turf in Baton Rouge is part warehouse, part fortified bunker. When the werewolf club isn’t terrorizing Baton Rouge in lupine form, the members ride Harleys and rule over the local human gangs in two-legged form. Either way, the men inside the clubhouse are bad news. They drink, they fight, and they run an illegal arms and drug trade that spilled into the streets months ago.

  There isn’t much Big Red won’t do—or order someone else to do. When I can, I keep my head down and stay out of things. Walking away isn’t an option. Big Red is a mean bastard, and being his daughter doesn’t give me a free pass. I’m his weapon, his negotiating chip, and when he’s had too much to drink and his day hasn’t gone according to plan, I’m his punching bag. If I wasn’t a wolf and therefore a quick healer, I’d be dead by now. I also negotiated six months ago for my own apartment, and the separate space helps too.

  Tonight, however, looks like a bargaining chip kind of night. He ordered me to show up at the clubhouse and then sent over clothes like I was his own personal Barbie doll. The command wardrobe means I’m not in my usual uniform of business skirt and blouse. Good thing I know how to ignore what I can’t change, because I’ve traded sensible pumps and nylons for three-inch stilettos and fishnet stockings. My leather miniskirt barely covers my butt, and the tank top is low enough to show more than a hint of the red Victoria’s Secret hiding beneath. I look like one of the pass-arounds the MC members fuck and forget. Yay, me. The forget part works for me, but the fuck? Not so much.