Free Hidden Dragons by Emma Holly

channel of Rick’s spine. His wolf-enhanced hearing told him the guard’s announcement was met with silence. After two heartbeats, it ended.
    “Lupone?” said a muffled but familiar voice.
    The effect this had was ridiculous. Waves of chills chased each other along Rick’s vertebrae. His cock throbbed, his jeans front stretched enough for a couple socks to be stuffed inside. The sudden roaring in his ears prevented him from deciphering Snow White’s next comment.
    Fortunately, the guard heard it. “She’ll see you,” he said to Rick. “The residence’s elevator is at the end of the hall behind me. Just press the ‘P’ button.”
    Exiting the private elevator was disorienting. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. The Maycee penthouse wasn’t some modern loft; it was a mansion in the sky. The floor his worn running shoes landed on was marble, the walls to this—antechamber, he had to call it—paneled in impossibly beautiful tigerwood. Two exquisite Chinese vases, both as tall as he was, both valuable antiques, flanked either side of the residence’s double door.
    Shit , he thought, hitching his jacket straight on his shoulders. He was so out of his depth here.
    He jabbed the bell before he lost his nerve.
    Then he braced himself to see Cass.
    “Coming,” she said from behind the door.
    A second later, she opened it.
    He wasn’t prepared. All the time in the world and all the sensible intentions couldn’t have accomplished that. Rick was no faerie groupie—never had been and never would be. Fae beauty was too cold for a hot-blooded wolf like him, too arm’s length and elitist. Cass, though . . . Cass married vulnerable human sweetness with faerie perfection. Yes, she had the reserve all faeries did—the effortless air of being a notch or two better. Despite this, Cass’s soft blue eyes invited a man to drown; they didn’t demand it. Cass was almost real enough to believe in.
    She was dressed in the fancy sweats rich people were fond of. Hers were navy with a white zipper. Helpless not to admire how they hugged her figure, his gaze traveled down her and up again. Her wavy black hair was wet. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed shorter than in high school.
    “Sorry,” she said, her hand going to it. “I’d just gotten out of the pool when Security called.”
    She sounded nervous. Her velvety cheeks were pink.
    “Actually, I’m sorry for intruding.” He was proud of how steadily the words came out. He was not going to think about her swimming, possibly in nothing but her shimmery faerie skin. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Rick Lupone, Detective Lupone now. We went to school together at North Heights. I’m working on a case, and your name came up.”
    He’d decided this was how he’d put it, rather than make himself seem crazy from the start.
    “Oh.” Her graceful hand, every bit as slender and tantalizing as he remembered, slid from her hair to her throat. “I . . . um . . . I do remember you, as it happens. Won’t you come in?”
    ~
    Rick Lupone was at her door. Given how recently she’d been thinking of him, that was too weird for words. And he wanted to talk to her about a case. What on earth could she know that would help him?
    She was somewhat stunned by the fact that he knew who she was—unless he remembered because he’d looked her up in preparation for coming here.
    “Would you like coffee?” she asked. “Or soda?”
    He shook his head. She reminded herself this wasn’t a social call. God, he looked good. He’d been tall in high school. Now he had to be six foot four—every inch of it honed muscle. His beautiful green eyes were as kind as she remembered, his dark brown hair as thick and shiny. Werewolves aged slower than humans, so of course it would be. He did seem a little older. More solid. More . . . rooted somehow. His chest was broader. His shoulders too. She started to feel heated between the legs.
    “Could I take your jacket?” she