Free What a Werewolf Wants (San Francisco Wolf Pack) by Kristin Miller Page A

her lip to quiet the screams. When her rocking slowed, she planted her hands on the wall over his shoulder, pinning him in place.
    “Tell me you brought a condom,” she rasped out.
    Actually, he hadn’t. Werewolves couldn’t pass diseases, and males couldn’t procreate unless the female was in heat. But she didn’t know that.
    Cursing himself, he shook his head.
    “That’s okay. I told you I can do other things with my mouth.” She licked her lips, causing him physical pain. “It’s time to show you.”
    Rather than dropping to her knees, she unstraddled his lap and stood over him, bending at the waist. Unable to tear his eyes away from her curves, he lifted his hips and jerked down his underwear, releasing his swollen and throbbing shaft.
    She eyed him hungrily as she bent over. “You’re huge,” she said, her voice low. “In case you can’t understand what I’m saying when my mouth’s full later.”
    The woman was a dream.
    And then her lips circled his cock. Wet heat enveloped him. He jerked. Sucked in a breath. Tightened from balls to bone. She moved over him, working her hand in circles around the base of his shaft.
    Now—finally now —he knew the definition of ecstasy.
    But it was the vision of her that made him seize.
    She was bent over him. Hair falling over her face. Breasts bobbing as she licked him from base to tip and back down again. Nipples drawn to tight buds. Her sweet wet mouth engulfing him.
    Mine.
    Pinching his eyes closed to emblazon the memory of her only heightened the sensations, drawing him dangerously close to the edge. He tapped her on the shoulder.
    Universal sign.
    She worked her hand over him. Flicked her tongue out over his tip.
    Good… God.
    Gripping her shoulders to pull her away, he sucked in a clipped breath. At the last second, she pulled back and guided his cock between her breasts. Sensation overload. Between the scent of her arousal, the wine and rain, and the dim light dancing over the perfect curves of her body, he pitched over the edge. As he cried her name, she gasped, crushing her mouth to his to silence him. But it was too late to care. Nothing mattered but this. Lost in her, he emptied himself onto her gloriously soft breasts.
    “You’re a goddess,” he said, struggling to formulate words that’d string together into a sentence. “Has anyone ever told you that before?”
    She shook her head and straddled his middle again.
    Leaning to his side, he snatched his shirt from the floor and gently wiped her breasts. Tiny droplets of red and blue paint had somehow transferred from her hands to her hair, her face, and her chest.
    Was the paint all over him, too?
    As he cleaned her up, he lost his breath. She was soft and warm, gentle and deliciously sweet. He’d be honored to be the one who’d get to hold her this way forever. He couldn’t get used to this, though. Getting involved on a physical level was fine, but at some point this would have to end. When she looked at him now, her gaze was full of desire and longing. The last thing he wanted was for that to flip to horror.
    The door jerked open, and Josie covered her breasts with a squeal. Ryder gripped her hips tight over him to hide his exposed groin. Through the blinding light of the entry, Carrie’s silhouette came into view.
    “Oh my God.” Carrie’s voice was staccato. Panicked. “Josie? Ryder?”
    “It’s—not what you think,” Josie fumbled.
    “You were supposed to paint the canvas,” Carrie fumed. “Not each other.”
    Josie ran a hand through her hair as if that’d help. “If you give me a minute to…dismount…I can explain.”
    Dismount.
    Heh.
    He hid his belting laugh with a cough.
    As Carrie mumbled something shocked and unintelligible, the bimbo reporter Liza marched from the winery space out the front door. But not before glancing their way and giving a high-flying thumbs-up.
    “Mortifying.” Josie smacked her forehead.
    And a strange tickle in Ryder’s nose made him