Jodi Redford: Cat Scratch Fever

“Exactly how long were you standing there checking things out?”

Long enough. Again, something she didn’t need to be apprised of. “Babe, I’m going to lay it out for you straight. You took the risk. If you don’t want to advertise an entertaining show, keep the self-lovin’ to the bedroom.”

Lilly’s chest lifted with a sharp intake of breath. Damn, was she trying to kill him?

“I wasn’t giving you a show. Furthermore, your logic is ridiculous.”

“It is what it is. Which happens to be right.”

Dante swore he detected steam funneling from the top of Lilly’s head. “Let me see if I’m clear on this. In your book, any private acts carried on outside the sanctity of the bedroom are fair game for prying eyes, even if uninvited?”

Of course he didn’t think that. “Yep.”

He expected her to argue. Or slap him. Storm out of his house, at the very least. Instead, she remained stubbornly planted in place. For several tense, awkward moments they glared each other down. Finally she averted her gaze and blew out a peeved breath. “The least you could do is apologize, you know.”

“For what?”

A dangerous growl crept from her throat. “For spying on me!”

“Aw shit. Are we back to that again?” He tossed up his arms. “Damn it, woman, I told you that wasn’t what I was fuckin’ doing.”

“You could have been a gentleman and left once you realized what was going on.”

Yeah, he could have. Too bad he wasn’t a gentleman. “Will it make you feel better if I apologize?”

She hesitated. “Probably not.”

Hell, he’d never understand the female race. “Then what’s the damn point of me saying it?” He tweaked the bridge of his nose. “It won’t miraculously change what happened. You did what you did, I saw what I saw. Let’s be adults about this and leave it be.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who was caught with their pants down.”

Shit and damnation. This argument was gonna be the death of him. “What do you want me to do? Drop my drawers so we’ll be even?”

She stared at him for a long moment before her lips curved upward in a cagey smile. “Okay.”

He blinked. “Okay what?”

She nodded toward his lap. “Unzip your jeans, wolfman. Time to settle the score.”

Lilly tried without success to smother a grin as Dante fell off his chair and thudded flat on his gorgeous tush. His dark eyebrows slashing into a menacing V, he grasped the table’s edge and hauled himself upright. “Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind?”

She tried a casual shrug before answering. “Not at all.”

Dante plowed his hands through his shaggy black hair. “You damn well are if you think I’m gonna whip my junk out and jack off in front of you.”

“Why, is there some kind of performance anxiety you’re dealing with? Or maybe you realize you’re wrong about the whole issue.”

Those whiskey-colored eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “What do you mean by performance anxiety?”

Of course he would fixate on that. Typical. “Some guys feel inadequate about the size of their… junk .” She offered a vague twirl of her fingers. “I’m just saying.”

His stare burned into her, hot enough to singe her eyebrows. “The size of my junk is fine. Better than fine.”

She gestured dismissively with her hand. “I’m sure it is. Probably gets mistaken daily for a bratwurst. Which makes those family picnics a bit dicey, eh?”

The expression on Dante’s face was too delicious for words. Want to see a pissed-off werewolf? Start baiting him about the size of his wiener.

His hand dropped to the worn buckle of his belt. “Ready? Or do you want to nuke some popcorn first before the show starts?”

Lilly blinked when the meaning behind his sarcasm registered. Holy crap. Never in a million years did she figure he’d call her bluff. “Um…no…I’m good. If you are.”

Dante’s lips curled, revealing the glint of white incisors again. “I’m going to leave that assessment for you to make, baby.”

Sweet mother of whiskers. A curl of heat flamed low in her belly, and she swallowed hard. “On second thought, we don’t have to do this now. I am kind of putting you on the spot.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

Easier said than done when her internal temperature just skyrocketed by a hundred degrees. “Really, Dante, it’s not—” Further protest stalled in her throat when he popped the hasp free on his buckle. Fascinated, she watched those strong, tanned fingers grasp the zipper and tug it down. One notch at a time. “Why are you moving so damn slow?”

“Impatient?”

“No, but I could have gone to a movie and filed my taxes in the amount of time it’s taking you to unzip.”

“Movie? Thought I was the only show interestin’ you at the moment.” His molasses drawl laid the tease on extra thick. Releasing his zipper, he stripped from his flannel shirt, revealing a crisp white T-shirt molded over acres of sculpted muscle.

Okay, this was getting weird. The idea of Dante—her sworn enemy—flirting while he prepared to masturbate for her could be material for a Twilight Zone episode. He shoved his jeans down around his hips, and suddenly she didn’t give a fig about the bizarre left turn her day had taken. It seemed Dante preferred going commando. And her crack about the bratwurst couldn’t have been more on the dollar. He wasn’t even fully erect, which made it all the more impressive.

His hand started to close around his thick shaft but stopped. “This would be a lot easier with some lube.”

Her gaze stayed riveted on his hovering hand. “Sorry, I’m fresh out.”

“No, but you’ve got the next best thing. Saliva. Care to lick me?”

Jerking her head up, she met his wicked grin. The heat riding low in her pelvis burst into an inferno. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from groaning at the sensation—at his suggestion. Her attention dropped to his straining erection.

“Baby, I was referring to my hand. But if you’ve got a better place in mind, don’t let me dissuade you.”

How could she be both aroused and irritated at the same time? Oh yeah, it was Dante standing in front of her with the mother of all woodies. Enough said. He extended his hand, palm up, and she glared at it. “There’s no way I’m licking—”

“Ah, so you do prefer the other. Can’t say I blame ya.” He stepped closer, bobbing that magnificent erection, and she grabbed his hand. Her teeth scraped his palm, and she swore he trembled. Good, she didn’t like the idea of being the only one affected.

“Get it good and wet for me.”

Oh God. The bastard was killing her with his double entendres and husky voice. Closing her eyes, she swirled her tongue. For one taboo moment, she imagined it wasn’t rough calluses she glided over. She glanced at Dante from beneath her eyelashes. His face resembled a mask of barely restrained lust. Dark, hooded gaze and flared nostrils. Flush riding high on his cheekbones. The sight of him shouldn’t have provoked her clit to throb with need, but it did. Realizing she straddled dangerously close to the red zone, she dropped his hand and scooted backward. He snagged the hem of his T-shirt with his other hand and dragged it over his chest before whipping it off.

The saliva freely pooling in her mouth seconds ago instantly dried. If there was such a thing as a citation for outrageous abuse of gorgeousness, Dante Morgan would be swimming in them. Bronzed skin stretched over his wide, muscular shoulders and chest. A sprinkling of dark hair covered his firm pectorals and arrowed farther south, marching in a narrow line down his chiseled abs. For a werewolf, he was surprisingly light in the fur department. She’d always assumed they were…well…hairy. In or out of the wolf suit.