Nice tits, sweetheart

Nice tits, sweetheart


He's leaning casually against the railing, hands in his jacket pockets, watching me through the glass like he already knows I'm about to open the door for him. Like he's been waiting there patiently, knowing I'd eventually give in to curiosity and terrible judgment.

His hair's damp—like he's just showered or been caught in rain that somehow made him more attractive instead of bedraggled like it does to normal people. He smells faintly of rain and pine and something dangerous that makes my wolf sit up and beg.

The leather jacket fits him like it was tailored by angels with excellent taste in bad boys. Underneath, I can see the edge of a black t-shirt that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe and makes his shoulders look like they could bench press a small car.

My wolf perks up immediately, tail-wagging levels of excited. Mate, she practically purrs. Beautiful mate is here. Open door. Invite mate inside. Offer mate food and possibly virginity.

"No," I whisper to myself, gripping the knife tighter. "We are not doing this. You are in muffin pants, Julia. Muffin pants with cartoon faces. This is not seduction attire."

But my feet are already moving toward the door like they have their own agenda and don't care about my dignity or the state of my pajamas.

I open the door just enough to glare at him through the gap, keeping the knife behind my back like it's going to protect me from his supernatural charm and perfect bone structure.

"What part of 'stay away from me' did you not understand?" I demand, trying to sound threatening but probably just sounding like an angry chipmunk in sleepwear.

He smirks, and the expression transforms his entire face from dangerously beautiful to devastatingly gorgeous. His eyes drop to take in my ridiculous outfit, lingering on the cartoon muffins with what looks suspiciously like amusement.

"Nice pajamas, sweetheart."

Kill me now.

The endearment does things to my insides that should probably be illegal in several states. The way he says it—low and amused and somehow fond—makes my wolf practically roll over and show her belly.

I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hide the WORLD'S BEST GRANDMA logo that's probably visible through the thin fabric. "What do you want?"

He tilts his head, pretending to think about it while his eyes do another slow sweep of my appearance. "Honestly? To see you. But the view's even better than I imagined."

I'm about to snap back with something cutting and dignified when I realize where his gaze is lingering. Not on my face, which is probably flushed red with embarrassment. Not on my ridiculous muffin pants. On the bare strip of skin where my oversized t-shirt has ridden up, exposing my hip and the edge of my underwear.

Heat rushes up my neck and spreads across my cheeks like wildfire. I tug the shirt down frantically, trying to maintain some semblance of modesty. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" he asks innocently, but there's nothing innocent about the way his eyes darken or the slight rasp in his voice.

"Like you're thinking about... things," I stammer, because apparently vampire proximity turns my vocabulary into that of a stuttering middle schooler.

His smirk deepens, and I swear the temperature around us rises about ten degrees. "Sweetheart, I'm always thinking about things when it comes to you."

The way he says it—low and rough and full of implications that make my wolf whimper—sends heat pooling in places that definitely shouldn't be reacting to a vampire standing on my back porch while my parents are hunting rogues.

I should slam the door in his face.

I should yell at him to leave.

I should remember that he's supposed to be my mortal enemy and I'm supposed to be a good werewolf daughter who doesn't invite vampires into her house while wearing cartoon muffin pajamas.

But instead, I step aside and let him in, because apparently, I have the self-control of a moth near a bonfire and the survival instincts of a lemming with a death wish.

He walks past me, bringing the storm scent with him, and it's ridiculous how small my kitchen suddenly feels. Like his presence fills every available inch of space and makes the air thick and charged with something I can't name but definitely want more of.

"You're not supposed to be here," I say, leaning against the counter to put some distance between us before I do something really stupid like throw myself at him again.

"Neither are you," he says easily, turning to face me with that casual grace that makes everything he does look like a dance. "Thought you'd be out hunting rogues with the rest of your pack."

"House arrest," I mutter, setting the knife down on the counter and immediately regretting it because now I have no weapons and no dignity.

He grins like I've just told him the funniest thing in the world. "Your mom put you in time-out?"

"She's the Beta's mate," I snap, defensive about my family's authority even though I'm currently betraying everything they stand for. "It's more like supernatural prison."

"For what crime?" He's still grinning, and it's doing terrible things to my resolve.

"For... consorting with the enemy," I admit, then immediately want to take it back because it sounds way more dramatic than I intended.

"Consorting?" His eyebrows rise, and there's something wicked in his expression. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Before I can ask what he means by that, he shrugs out of his jacket, and I swear the universe hates me personally. The movement makes his t-shirt ride up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin and muscle that makes my mouth go dry.

His t-shirt clings to his chest in a way that should be illegal, outlining every plane and curve of muscle with scientific precision. I force my eyes to stay on his face, which is a mistake because he's watching me. Closely. Like he's memorizing every detail of my flustered expression.

"What?" I demand, trying to sound annoyed instead of desperately aroused.

"You've been avoiding me," he says, voice dropping to that low register that makes my wolf whimper. "Any particular reason why?"

I open my mouth to lie, to say something snarky and dismissive that will convince both of us that I'm not affected by his presence. But the image of him in the lake flashes behind my eyes—water dripping down his skin, moonlight turning him into something ethereal and dangerous and absolutely naked—and my face burns like someone just set it on fire.

"I haven't been—"

"Yes, you have." He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and my wolf practically rolls over in submission. "You saw me. You looked. And now you can't stop thinking about it."

I make a strangled sound that's supposed to be a scoff but comes out more like a dying animal. "Wow. Modest much?"

He smiles, slow and dangerous and full of dark promise. "Am I wrong?"

I hate that I can't say yes. I hate that he's absolutely right and we both know it.

I hate that I'm standing in my kitchen wearing cartoon muffin pajamas while having what might be the most sexually charged conversation of my life with a vampire who could probably kill me with his pinky finger but is instead looking at me like I'm something precious and delicious.

The silence between us goes heavy, charged with something that makes the air feel thick and electric. My heartbeat is loud in my ears, and I'm pretty sure he can hear it because vampire senses are just unfair like that.

Rowan's eyes drop to my mouth, and my breath catches in my throat. He takes another step forward, close enough that I can smell his shampoo and something uniquely him that makes my wolf pace restlessly.

"You're cute when you're flustered," he murmurs, and his voice is so low it's practically a rumble.

"I'm not flustered," I lie, which would be more convincing if my voice didn't crack like I'm going through puberty again.

His gaze sweeps over me again, deliberate and thorough, lingering on the cartoon muffins before traveling up to meet my eyes. "Sweetheart, you're wearing muffins. You're definitely flustered."

I want to laugh. I want to punch him. I want to grab him by that perfect black t-shirt and...

Yeah, that's the problem.

I clear my throat, stepping sideways toward the fridge just to get some air that isn't saturated with his presence. "If my parents come back and find you here—"

"They won't." His tone is certain, confident in a way that makes me nervous. "They'll be gone a while."

"How do you know that?" I ask, suspicion creeping into my voice.

He smiles, all teeth and dangerous charm. "I have my ways."

\---

For a second, I swear the room tilts sideways. Not because I'm fainting this time—though that's still a possibility—but because it's suddenly very, very obvious that I'm alone in the house with him.

Completely alone.

With a vampire who just admitted he somehow knows my parents' schedule and planned this visit accordingly.

And fate, the cruel matchmaker that it is, decided to make him look this good today while I'm wearing the pajama equivalent of a paper bag.

I grip the fridge handle just to keep my hands steady and my voice from shaking. "You should go."

"Should I?" He takes another step closer, and now there's barely three feet between us.

"Yes." But the word comes out breathless instead of firm.

"Tell me you don't want me here," he says softly, "and I'll go."

The words stick in my throat like peanut butter. I open my mouth, trying to force them out, but nothing comes.

Because the truth is, I do want him here. I want him here so badly it's like a physical ache, and that terrifies me more than his fangs or his supernatural strength or the fact that my family would literally kill him if they found him in our kitchen.

And he knows it.

I can see it in his eyes, the way they darken with satisfaction when I can't force the words out.

He moves past me then, just close enough that his arm brushes mine as he reaches for something on the counter. It's barely a touch, skin against skin for maybe half a second, but my whole body lights up like someone just plugged me into a live electrical socket.

Every nerve ending I have suddenly decides to throw a party, and the party's theme is "overwhelm Julia until she can't think straight."

"Thought so," he says softly, and there's satisfaction in his voice that makes my wolf whimper.

I swallow hard, trying to regain some semblance of control over my own body. "You're infuriating."

"You're adorable." The way he says it makes it sound like a compliment and a threat at the same time.

"I'm dangerous," I protest weakly, though it's hard to sound threatening while wearing cartoon breakfast foods.

"You're mine."

It's not even a growl. It's not possessive or aggressive. It's just... a fact. Like he's stating something as obvious as the sky being blue or water being wet.

But the certainty in his voice, the absolute conviction, makes something deep inside me respond with a resounding yes that I definitely didn't give permission for.

I should be terrified. I should be telling him to leave and never come back.

But instead, I'm thinking about how good he smells up close. How his voice curls around that word like it belongs to him. How my wolf is practically howling in agreement and doing backflips of joy.

The sound of distant howling outside breaks the moment like a bucket of cold water. Rowan glances toward the window, then back at me, and something in his expression shifts.

"I should go," he says finally, but there's something in his tone that sounds like for now rather than goodbye.

I manage a nod, not trusting my voice to come out as anything other than a squeak.

He steps toward the door, pauses with his hand on the handle, and looks back at me with that smirk that should be illegal in all fifty states and probably several foreign countries.

"Nice shirt, sweetheart."

I look down at the WORLD'S BEST GRANDMA logo stretched across my chest and feel my face flame red again.

"Shut up," I mutter, which only makes his grin widen.

Then he's gone, slipping out the back door like smoke, leaving me alone with my thundering heartbeat and the knowledge that I am completely, hopelessly, absolutely doomed.

And the worst part?

I'm pretty sure I like it.