81 Continuation of the Evening
“What?” I blink in confusion, a wave of unease crawling up my spine.
“A dance,” Wayland says, rising from his seat and gallantly offering me his hand.
I hear the music grow slightly louder—just like the pounding of my heart. A wave of anxiety crashes over me, making the air feel heavy and my palms begin to sweat.
Oh, perfect, Alina. Embarrassing yourself already! Pull it together!
I wipe my hands on the fabric napkin and place mine in his. His palm is incredibly warm... no—he’s hot all over! As if I didn’t already know that.
And I feel every bit of it as the wolf pulls me closer by the hand, wrapping an arm tightly around my waist.
I don’t know where to look. I hate when he’s this close—because I like it. I become helpless in his arms, and that both irritates and upsets me.
The man moves slowly, confidently, leading our dance, and I follow his lead. His scent is dizzying, and I avert my eyes, trying not to get lost in his face. But the lack of space between us makes that almost impossible. I end up staring at his broad shoulders, the strong line of his neck, clearly visible beneath the slightly unbuttoned collar of his shirt.
Slowly, the alpha leans in toward my neck. I can hear the rapid beating of his heart as he breathes in the scent of my skin. I can’t speak, and I definitely can’t push him away. Giving in to the moment, I tilt my head back slightly, offering him more access—and the brunette traces his nose along the sensitive skin of my neck, up to my ear, and then back down to my collarbones.
It feels like some kind of enchantment has been cast on me—a spell of submission. My eyes flutter closed in bliss.
Being this close to the wolf unleashes a wave of desire I can’t even begin to control, simmering low in my belly. And as if that wasn’t enough, memories of our intimacy start creeping in—memories of what he can do with his hands, his lips, and… other parts of him.
The dance comes to an end, but we don’t move. We’re both breathing heavily, like we just ran a marathon instead of swaying to slow music. His grip on my waist tightens, grows more possessive, and then I hear it—his low, primal growl.
It’s like a bucket of ice water is dumped over me when I suddenly feel Wayland’s tongue glide across the old mark on my neck.
“What are you doing?!” I hiss, stunned and outraged, trying to push him away as horror fills me. There’s something wild in his eyes—something feral and unmistakably hungry.
“People are watching!” I add in a desperate whisper.
“What people, Alina?” he arches a brow, smirking, clearly amused—and clearly not letting go.
And that’s when reality pierces through the sweet, vanilla-scented haze. I blink and look around. The restaurant... it’s empty.
I had been so consumed—by my mission, by this dangerously charming man—I hadn’t even noticed.
We were alone.
A real, devastating hurricane was brewing inside me—and someone was about to face the storm.
“You planned this on purpose!” I snapped, still struggling to break free from the werewolf’s unyielding grip, but it was useless. “You didn’t care about my ideas or my suggestions! I worked so hard for nothing!” The realization hit my sluggish, dazed mind like a slap. “This was all a setup to trap me! You still can’t leave me alone! What, don’t you have enough lovers?! Any woman would gladly warm your bed! Just pay them and enjoy it! Hell, most would do it for free! So why are you so obsessed with me?!”
I kicked and thrashed in his arms, but it was like trying to fight a steel wall. Of course, he was a mountain compared to my small frame.
God, how badly I wanted to punch him right in that smug face. And he saw it—he saw every ounce of fury in my glare, which I refused to lower this time.
“It just so happens that I want you, Red. Not anyone else!” he growled against my lips. “And don’t you dare lie to me and say you don’t want me too. Your scent gives you away—there’s no mistaking your arousal, trust me!”
And before I could spit back a response, his mouth crashed against mine in a fierce, possessive kiss that stole my breath and left no room for protest.
But this kiss—if you could even call it that—felt nothing like affection. It was a battle. A clash of wills. A fight, not for dominance, but for truth, for pride, for the right to want without surrender.
Wayland wasn’t kissing me with tenderness—he was trying to break me, to silence my resistance, to bend me to his will with every press of his lips. But I wasn’t the type to give in so easily.
I bit his tongue, then his lips. He hissed and growled, but didn’t pull away—instead, he crushed me harder against his body, and oh, that body… There was no mistaking how ready he was to take things further. His arousal pressed against my stomach, sending dangerous waves of heat spiraling through my core.