Deep Dark Secret

He looked from me to my empty stool, which was still wobbling from my sudden exit, and his eyes widened. Over the island, a hanging rack of copper pots was swaying, creating a jangling symphony of metal against metal.

“How did you…?”

“I’m pretty fast when I need to be.”

“But…”

The oven mitts were on the marble countertop next to the stove, and I shoved them into his hands. “You might want to remember those next time.”

A squeak from the kitchen door made us both look up. Dominick Alvarez stood in the open door, arms crossed over his chest, his blond hair flattened on one side and sticking up at the back like he’d just rolled out of bed. He was glowering at us with a serious, disapproving expression that was belied by the mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

He couldn’t have appeared more different from his brother. In fact, he could have easily been mistaken for Lucas’s brother instead of Desmond’s.

“I can’t leave you two alone for a night?” he scolded.

“Lucas can’t cook.”

“I could have told you that.”

The wolf king glowered at us, but with the haze of gray smoke clouding the room, the evidence was stacked against him. He didn’t argue.

Dominick came into the kitchen and, with one hand on either side of my waist, moved me away from the oven. He relieved Lucas of the oven mitts, then placed the charred remains of our dinner on the counter. It had once been a lovely roast, but now it was a blackened hunk of beef that didn’t resemble anything more than a funeral pyre.

“Sit,” the royal bodyguard insisted, and both Lucas and I did as we were told, perching side by side at the island.

For the next half hour, Dominick proved Grace Alvarez didn’t raise any slackers when it came to kitchen prowess. The short werewolf navigated the room with ease and confidence, mixing sauce and braising meat like he could do it in his sleep. A smirk of approval painted my lips when I watched him barely touch our steaks to the pan before declaring them perfect.

He set two plates in front of us, each with a large steak in red wine sauce and a side of whiskey-glazed baby potatoes. The kitchen no longer smelled of smoke and frustration, and even Lucas was smiling and laughing as Dominick told us a story about how badly his little sister Penny had once burned a batch of chocolate-chip cookies.

When all was said and done, Dominick placed a fraternal kiss on the top of my head and slipped out of the kitchen like a culinary ghost.

“Why, Lucas,” I declared dramatically. “I didn’t know you were so skilled in the kitchen.”

“I don’t like to brag.” He was cutting into his steak, fighting a grin. “But I’m skilled in a lot of other ways too.”

Those words, and the heated glance that followed, made me shiver.

I looked back at my meal, suddenly engrossed in the food. “Let’s eat.”

One of the perks of dating a billionaire was access to the most unprecedented views of the city.

I love New York more than any place in the world. Everything from the dirty sidewalks of Chinatown to the clean white lines of the Museum of Modern Art warmed my heart and made me smile. It was a city I normally saw from the ground floor looking up, so when I got to look at it from eighty floors overhead, it was like being in heaven and gazing down at the earth.

Having never seen the city in daylight, I wondered if it could match the magic of a Manhattan night. With all the lights and the sinewy lines of white and red traffic, could it possibly look as beautiful in the sun?

Lucas’s reflection in the window gave away his approach, but I acted surprised when he came up behind me and handed me a glass of red wine.

“I love this room.” Since Lucas and I had begun dating last year, I’d had a chance to see every room in his three-story penthouse in Rain Hotel. The massive lounge on the third floor was by far my favorite. The couches were black microsuede, and there was a stocked bar on the back wall. But it was the view I liked best. A full wall of floor-to-ceiling windows provided a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the city.

When the lights in the room were turned off, it was like nothing stood between us and the city.

Wait, when did he turn the lights off?

Warm breath puffed against my neck, reigniting the shivers I’d felt at dinner. His nose traced the line of my jaw, his mouth skimming against my throat making goose bumps explode all over my body. When Lucas looped his arms around my waist, pulling me close to him, the heat of his body was surprising. Since I was always an average temperature, the presence of a werewolf was like standing next to an open flame. I was used to Desmond, but Lucas felt different somehow.

He nipped my earlobe, and I took a big swallow of the wine he’d given me.

“This is great. Cabernet?” The moment I said it I knew I was babbling like an idiot. Of course it wasn’t a cabernet; I could have figured that out on my own just from the taste.

“Pinot noir,” he whispered against my skin. The name of a wine had never sounded so sensual.

Damn my fickle libido. A familiar hot tingle was stealing through me, turning to molten heat under the surface of my skin. Everywhere he touched me—and his hands were roaming now—felt like I was being burned. Only it wasn’t unpleasant. It was never unpleasant when Lucas touched me.

Which was why I tried to avoid it.

I understood perfectly well that my soul-bond with him made me respond to him as a mate. But I was living with Desmond, I loved Desmond, and where I came from it meant something to be in love. The problem with the bond was that my metaphysical connection to Lucas was actually stronger than my connection to Desmond. So although my emotional attachment to the wolf lieutenant was deeper, my bond to Lucas was almost overpowering. It had overshadowed the secondary bond altogether the first time I met the two of them.

When I was in close quarters with Lucas—with his hands all over me and his voice so intoxicating in my ear—the bond fought to squash reason. Sure, you love Desmond, it said, but this is right too.

According to Lucas it was right for me to love them both. But I think he still wanted me to love him more. And I think it was driving him crazy knowing I was having sex with Desmond but still hadn’t shared that part of myself with him. Most men would be pretty frustrated waiting almost a year to bed their girlfriend. I can’t imagine it made it easier to know I was getting satisfaction somewhere else, while Lucas got none.

At least I hoped he wasn’t finding his satisfaction somewhere else.

The thread of possessive jealousy in that thought fed the building desire, and when Lucas kissed my shoulder blade, I shuddered.

“Lucas…”

He found the hem of my shirt, his smooth palms ducking under the loose cotton. Skin-to-skin contact was too much. I let out a gasp, startled by the burst of liquid heat rippling outwards from his fingers.

“We can—”

“Shhh,” he urged, inching closer, pushing us nearer to the window. I put a palm up, still holding the wineglass in my other hand, and the coolness of the window made the fiery presence of his body that much hotter.

He was taller than me by a head, so he was forced to stoop as he kissed me. I think the extra distance between our upper bodies was the only thing keeping me sane. Then my shirt was up as high as my bra, and sanity was a fleeting memory.

I turned towards him and met his wandering mouth with a scorching kiss. Pressed against him like this I couldn’t ignore his growing hardness, and my mind swam with the possibilities. I growled into his mouth, biting his lower lip, and he responded by edging his knee in between my legs. Knowing Lucas’s make-out style as well as I did, he was on the verge of picking me up. I guess tall guys don’t love getting a crick in their neck when they have short girlfriends.

I saved him the trouble and shoved him backwards. He fell off the raised platform by the windows and onto one of the large couches, but a firm grip on my shirt meant he took me with him. Lucas landed on his back, and I was straddling him, still holding a half-full glass of wine, which I’d miraculously saved on our way down.

I sipped the drink and tried to act nonchalant, but he was using his new position to his advantage. Lifting me so I was poised over his hips instead of his stomach, he let out a groan as I shifted my balance.

“Sorry,” I whispered, putting my glass down on the coffee table.

“I’ll show you sorry,” he growled, seizing a handful of my hair and pulling me closer, kissing me with naked, ferocious hunger that brought the heat between us to a fever pitch. He tugged at my shirt and instructed, “Off.”

I complied, tugging the shirt over my head and tossing it away. It caught the wineglass, knocking the drink over and sopping up the remains. Well, at least I’d ruined a shirt with something other than blood for once. Ignoring the mess, I returned my attention to Lucas, licking his jaw. His stubble made it feel like I was licking sandpaper, but the sensation wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

The distinctive flavor of cinnamon unique to him flooded my mouth, and combined with the remnants of the pinot noir, it was a heady, dark blend that made me think of Middle Eastern spice bazaars and old spells Grandmere warned me about.

He spread his wide palms across my stomach, moving them upwards until he was cupping my breasts. A masculine smirk played at his lips, and he got harder, his erection straining against the thin knit of my black tights. My yellow eyelet skirt had already been bunched around my hips.

When he reached to unclasp my bra, I froze. The new tension was obvious to him, because he stopped immediately, his hands coming back around to the front like he was saying, Here they are. No funny business, I promise.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“It’s okay.” His voice was raspy and thick with lust.

“It’s just that—”

“Secret, I get it.” His hands fell to my thighs and, as if acting of their own volition, slid under my skirt. When I didn’t stop him, he moved closer to my inner thigh, and one thumb grazed the damp fabric between my legs.

I groaned.