...I’m so in trouble.

As my vision adjusts to the light, I see him lying next to me, on his side, propped up on an elbow, and obviously unclad except for a black satin sheet pulled over his lower half. I also see we’re in a big bed in a large, lavishly furnished room, and I’m wearing nothing but the same sheet he is.

What I don’t see is how I’m going to survive even another five minutes without jumping his bodacious bod and screwing him to the mattress—or demanding that he screw me. Giving or receiving, it’s all the same, whoever does what to whom. I’m not choosy. Just suddenly hot and horny, painfully hard. And painfully in love. But then I have been since the second I first laid eyes on Hunter Steele. Werewolves have an inbred sense that tells us when we meet our life-mate. By some unfathomable, unfunny cosmic joke, mine happens to be him.

This is why I tried to ditch Hunter outside Turnville, while we wore fur. I’ve no defense against him when we’re naked and human.

God help me, it’s been nearly two months since we’ve physically bonded. Two months that feel like centuries. The sight of him now makes me salivate. Long, strong limbs, narrow hips and broad shoulders. A solid chest dusted with downy, dark curls that taper to a vee at the edge of the sheet, an arrow pointing to a satin-covered mound of masculine meat—the outline of a thick, juicy cock.

My gaze slides back up his torso to a stubborn jaw…sensuous mouth…amber eyes that promise savage, sultry sex. Irresistible. He looks and smells like a feast.

And I’m starving.

He knows it.

While I watch, a predatory grin curls his lips. A soft velvet rumble, feral and feline, rasps my ears—nonverbal but saying much. Catman without mercy. His scent fills me like a drug, a tantalizing musk. All spicy warmth. All male. The mere sound of him, the husky purr of his voice, speeds my pulse, boils my blood. His handsome face is burned into my brain, always with me wherever I go, even when I try to escape him.

Yeah, I’ve got it bad.

“I keep telling you that you love me.” The grin waxes wicked, and he sidles closer under the sheet, not quite close enough to touch, but enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Anticipation shivers up and down my spine.

Hunter stretches out a hand. Fingertips, feathery as moth wings, blistering as branding irons, trace over my biceps and pectorals—seduction that seems subtle and is anything but. I’m dry tinder, and he’s a torch. The pad of his thumb grazes my nipples, and I blaze into flames.

For the record, I’m still angry, fuming mad at him for always winning—and myself for letting him. Yet passion and rage are both fiery emotions. Sometimes only a hairline’s difference separates the two.

I’m pathetic, is what I am—hopeless, doomed—tied body, mind, and soul to a man who doesn’t have it in him to love me the way I love him.

At the moment, I don’t fucking care. I just want to fuck. This is how it always goes with Hunter and me. We fight like cats and dogs. Big surprise. But toss us in bed, and we hump like rabbits.

“Right. So let’s get hopping,” he taunts. “You can hate yourself in the morning.”

“I hate you now,” I snarl, fist a hand in his hair, and drag his head down to mine.

“Yeah, I can tell,” he growls as our mouths collide in an explosive kiss that dynamites my brain and shoots sizzling shrapnel into my groin.

Firebombed!

Electricity crackles, frying my circuits. The air clouds with smoke. My balls tighten, and my cock swells big as a bazooka.

Hunter’s seems more like a cannon. He rolls over me, like a tank, heavy and hard, grinding me into the mattress, rubbing our rods together. Both well primed and fully loaded. Ready, aim—

“Fire too soon, and I’ll slap you from here to next Sunday.” He pushes up slightly, eyes blazing. “Why do you always think in battle imagery when we fuck? Haven’t you heard of ‘make love, not war’?”

“With you, what’s the difference?” I zap back.