Last Wolf Watching. Rhyannon Byrd
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getting the hint about Michaela wanting to be left alone. No, he knew better. He hated him because the bastard had had her. Didnât matter that Brody had no intention of letting himself fall victim to her considerable charms. He still hated every man whoâd ever known the sweetness of her mouth, the softness of her skin. Whoâd ever pressed his lips beneath the fragile edge of her jaw, drawing her delicate, milky-white flesh against his teeth, and marked her as he thrust himself into the slick, hot depths of her body.
Something ugly and vile and vicious ripped at his insides with the thought, and he realized with a silent snarl of frustration that hate was too light a word for his reaction. No, what he felt was deeper than hate, deeper than jealousy. It was something primal, visceral. Something base and primeval, bleeding both from the possessive nature of the beast and the man.
Irritated by the track of his thoughts, he ripped his gaze away from her soul-deep blue eyes and stared at the human. He stood just beyond the soft glow of the porch light, but Brodyâs keen vision allowed him to see clearly. His gut twisted as he took in the guyâs appearance. He was tall and broad, on the lean side, not bulky. And he wasâ¦pretty, for Godâs sake. Cover model handsome, with thick brown hair and crystal blue eyes, features as even and perfect as a Hollywood sex symbol.
Brody wondered how a guy like that got down and dirty in the sack. Ross Holland looked like the stiff-lipped type who probably folded his clothes and brushed his teeth, rolling his socks up neatly in his shoes before he slid beneath designer sheets, every hair in place as he flashed his signature smile. If that was the kind of man Michaela Doucet went for, Brody figured heâd probably scare her half to death with nothing more than a kiss. Because once he had her mouth, it wouldnât be sweet and easy and polished. It wouldnât be pretty or refined. His beast was too hungry for thatâtoo focused on wanting this one wild, willful woman.
What it would be was raw. Consuming. Taking and drawing and demanding from her everything that he could take from the erotic slide of his tongue against hers, from the warm, lush sweetness of her inner mouth. And there was no damn way it would stop there. Brody couldnât imagine touching her and not losing himself to the animal craving lurking beneath his skin, the hunger of his beast letting loose in a vicious, violent taking. Which was why he needed to get the fact that it was never going to happen through his thick skull, there and then.
Never. Going. To. Happen.
âPlease, Brody,â she whispered, cutting into his private lecture. Her fingers grasped his arm tighter, and he could feel the tremor that moved through her, the slight vibration of emotion echoing against his bare skin. It was pathetic, how her simple touch unmanned him. âIâ¦I canât handle any more fighting tonight. Wait here and Iâll get rid of him, okay?â
He ground his jaw, furious with himself and her and the entire goddamn world, but finally nodded, jerking his chin toward her door. âGo on, then.â
âThanks,â she whispered with a shivery smile, turning quickly to climb out of the truck, while he leaned back in his seat, feeling like an idiot.
It went against every instinct he possessed to let her get out and walk toward another man. But as Brody watched her approach the porch, Holland moving into the light as they spoke, he reminded himself that no matter how he looked at it, it wasnât his right to dictate her personal life. No, that was a privilege that went beyond bodyguard, into emotional territory that was none of his business. It sucked, but he had to face the facts.
Despite how badly he wanted her, Michaela Doucet wasnâtâand would never beâhis woman.
Chapter 5
Rubbing at his gritty eyes as he leaned against the back wall of Michaelaâs Muse, Brody took another deep gulp of coffee, wondering if heâd ever had a worse nightâs sleep. It had been hellâno, worse than hellâbeing tortured with the slow burn of temptation.
After Michaela had climbed out of his truck last night, it hadnât taken her long to get rid of the ex. Heâd hated letting her handle the jerk on her own, but heâd known it was for the best. The guy had met her on the steps, and theyâd talked for no more than a minute, the humanâs pale eyes cutting from Michaela to his truck again and again, narrowed with suspicious jealousy. Just when heâd had enough and was reaching for his door handle, the bastard had turned and stalked away from her, heading to his car and screeching down the street in what heâd probably thought was a macho display of speed, which had just made him look ridiculous. Brody had grabbed the bag he always kept in his backseat then and met her on the porch.
Unwilling to let her out of his sight, heâd planned on taking the floor in her bedroom for the night, but sheâd surprised him, once heâd made his intentions clear, with a spare bedroom that housed a pair of twin beds. Thinking about it now, he almost laughed, knowing they must have looked like something out of an episode of I Love Lucy. The corner of his mouth kicked up at the thought, and he shook his head.
With everything he had on his plateâthe hunt for the rogues and the search for a way to bring Drake down, trying to find the psychotic maniac responsible for killing the blond humans, and his duty to keep Michaela safeâhe didnât know why he kept having this bizarre urge to grin. It wasnât like him, damn it, and he didnât like it, same as he hadnât liked the way heâd relaxed around her during the drive into the city, before heâd realized what was happening.
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