Jodi Redford - Cat Scratch Fever

His hand moved to his cock, distracting her.

Hoo boy, here we go. She’d never actually seen a guy pleasure himself. The voyeuristic opportunity made her feel kind of dirty—in a good way. Which made her feel a teensy bit bad for giving him a hard time for spying on her. Did that make her a hypocrite? Not that she was going to make him stop. He obviously needed to do something to appease that bad boy. Yep, this was strictly her being beneficent.

Dante’s palm kissed over the swollen head of his cock, and a forbidden thrill fluttered in her belly. She glanced up and locked stares with him, nearly combusting from the hot intensity in his brown-and-gold-flecked irises.

“Watch me.” His gruff command drew her attention back to the thick shaft in his fist. She concentrated on the firm way he stroked his cock. Who said the Discovery Channel was the only place you could learn something new and interesting?

A small teardrop of fluid wept from the slit in the plum-shaped cap. Roving his fist upward, he mingled her saliva with the fluid. It was the hottest thing she’d ever seen.

“Baby, you like this? ’Cause I sure as hell liked watching you play with your pretty little sweet spot.”

Hearing his admission increased the ache between her thighs. She was tempted to relieve it right in front of him. Well, he had said he enjoyed watching her. But this wasn’t about mutual satisfaction—it was about making a point. “Will you quit talking and get the show on the road? It’s not like I’ve got all day.”

“You are one bossy broad.”

“Thanks for the compliment.” She leaned back in her seat and tapped her foot. Dante grinned at her silent challenge before getting down to business. Biting her bottom lip, she focused on the lazy, enticing drag of his fist. “You’re darn good at that.”

“That your way of asking if I beat off a lot?”

“Well, I did notice you have an inordinate amount of calluses on your palm.”

He chuckled the same instant the front door slammed. They both stared at each other. Before Dante could release his grip on his cock, Foster Morgan stormed into the kitchen.

“Why is that woman’s car…?” Foster’s irate voice trailed off. Shock held his craggy features immobilized.

Awkward. Lilly jerked to her feet, almost toppling her chair in the process. In direct contrast, Dante calmly dragged his pants up and tucked his dick away. He left his jeans unzipped—wise considering the state of his erection.

“Ever heard of knocking, old man?”

Fury flashed across Foster’s face. He stepped the rest of the way into the kitchen, his stocky frame rigid beneath his leather jacket. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Don’t believe that’s any of your business.” Dante reached for his flannel shirt and casually shrugged it on, effectively concealing his tented jeans.

Lilly observed the tense interplay between father and son, wondering how Dante could act so cool when she was about ready to leap out of her skin. Maybe it was some weird werewolf thing that they didn’t feel guilty at getting caught slapping the salami at the dining-room table.

She inched farther away from her seat. “Um, Dante, maybe we should finish this later.” Those coal-black brows of his lifted, and she coughed. “The conversation, I mean. Okay?” She glanced between the two males staring at her intently. “All righty then. I’ll just see myself out.”

Her boot heels barely touched the floor as she streaked toward the exit. At the last second she remembered her coat and grabbed it from the antler rack. Not wanting to waste precious time trying to struggle into the damn thing, she scrunched the coat over her shoulder and slipped outside. By the time she hopped into her Escape— boy, there’s an appropriate name —her teeth were chattering so hard from the cold, it sounded like a castanet troupe was practicing in her mouth.

“Great, now my body decides to lose the hot flashes.”

Dante turned his back on his father and stalked to the sink. Squirting a few drops of liquid soap into his palm, he nudged the faucet on. The entire time he was lathering up, he felt the heat of Foster’s scrutiny lasering into his skull.

“Do you have something going on with that woman?”

Swiping the dishrag from the counter, Dante dried his hands. “I’ll say it again—it’s none of your business.”

An angry sputter tumbled from Foster. “It damn well is. You’re my son. I won’t have you cavorting with loose women. Particularly a lynchat.” He spit out the last word as if it were rancid. “You’re the next head alpha in line. It’s high time you start acting like it.”

Dante pivoted, granting his father a narrow-eyed stare. “Why don’t we cut through the bullshit? What you really mean is I need to start obeying your demands and accept Anna Gifford’s mate-bond proposal.”

A spark of hope homesteaded Foster’s face. “Are you ready to consider it?”

Permanently shackle himself to that scheming wolf bitch? “Hell no.”

Foster stormed forward and pummeled his fist onto the island’s granite top. One precariously perched orange toppled from the bowl of fruit and rolled toward the counter’s beveled edge. “Do you have any idea the trouble I’ve gone to trying to make this match happen?”

“I never asked you to do any of it.” Dante grabbed the orange, his grip so fierce it was a miracle juice and pulp didn’t spray between his knuckles. “In fact, I distinctly recall plenty of times I’ve told you to knock it the hell off.”

“For once, think of someone other than yourself. The entire pack would benefit from this merger.”

The caged wolf inside Dante strained at its bindings. Tempting as it was to give his inner beast full rein, he tempered the urge. Didn’t stop him from flashing his incisors in warning though. “Don’t throw duty in my face, old man. I care more about the pack than you ever will. That’s why I’ll never allow your unholy merger to take place. You and I both know the only ones benefitting from it would be you and the Giffords.”

It was no secret that Foster’s sole reason for wanting the merger was the nice chunk of change that Lewis Gifford was ready to dole out in exchange for sealing his place amongst the more powerful Morgan pack ranks. Unlike Dante, Foster didn’t feel any responsibility to honor the excommunication decree that Silas Morgan issued against Lewis and his brethren decades ago, after it was discovered that Lewis was engaged in shady business dealings that would reflect poorly upon the pack. Dante was prepared to do everything in his power to uphold his grandfather’s wishes and ensure that the Gifford’s seedy taint didn’t touch the pack again, but with each passing day, Foster pushed harder and harder to undermine Dante’s determination.

As if he’d read Dante’s mind, Foster gave a knowing smile. “You can only hold out so long. Sooner or later, you have to decide which is more important—your personal pride or the pack.” Calculation gleamed in Foster’s eyes. “I’m giving you exactly one week to meet your mate-bond requirement. If you don’t, I’m assigning a new head alpha.” Snapping up the collar of his jacket, he strode from the kitchen.

Dante waited until he heard the front door slam before he hurtled the orange. It cracked through the drywall behind the dining-room table. “Shit.” Thunking his elbows onto the island’s granite top, he buried his face in his hands. No matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise, he could no longer ignore it—his balls were in the wringer.

Swaddled within her three layers of clothing, Lilly stood on the uppermost step of the porch and gave the snowflakes pirouetting from the sky a wary eye. Sure, the stuff was pretty to look at—from inside a toasty warm cabin while she threw back some hot toddies. She started to inch backward, toward the doorway, but a phantom voice entered her head, mocking her. Wimp. What’s a little snow?