“What door?” he uttered, running his nose across her cheek.
“Behind you.”
Her skin was so damned soft. He knew it would be soft in other places, too. Her belly, her lower back, behind her knees, between her thighs…
“We’re here,” she continued almost painfully.
Fuck.
He eased back, his teeth grinding together, his entire body rigid with a hunger he knew he shouldn’t be encouraging. His cat was already scratching to get out, get at her, and the feline didn’t give a shit where it showed up and who it took out these days. With the way this female was staring at him—with longing and fear and sexual curiosity in her sleepy eyes—he wouldn’t be able to control the wild cat if it broke free.
“What now?” she whispered, her eyes drinking him in.
“We could take another ride,” he uttered. Goddammit. He was an idiot.
She nodded slightly.
“Or we could get off here.” He grinned. Dangerous, foolish, bastard.
His words, and their double meaning, weren’t lost on her, and she blushed furiously, prettily. He wondered if she grew pink all over when she was teased.
His eyes flicked up, past her blond bun, to see the open elevator and beveled glass door of the suite a few feet ahead. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to remove each one of those hundred or so buttons on her shirt, and stare, then touch, then feast on what was beneath. But he wasn’t going to be that big of a selfish prick. Even if he could keep his cat caged long enough to taste her, he could never be the male for her. He could never offer her a mating. And she was the kind of female who would not only require it, but who wholeheartedly deserved it.
He growled softly, grabbed her hand and her bag, and led her out of the elevator. Xavier had been right about two things: her intelligence and her starched collars. But besides that, the male didn’t know shit. This female was not only hot and sexy, but she was intriguing and innocent. And if Jean-Baptiste had been the male he was before, the one with unmarked skin, an optimistic attitude and a cat he could cage with only a thought, he would’ve dropped to his knees and asked Genevieve Burel to consider his imprint. Shit, maybe even consider him as a mate—and the only male who would ever be allowed to see and explore the soft, sexual playground she hid beneath all that fabric.
Chapter 4
Genevieve encircled the hotel suite’s sumptuous living room furniture for the fifth time, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Her skin was still humming from the elevator encounter with Jean-Baptiste, and her mind refused to drop the memory curtain on his face, his eyes, those lips. She didn’t understand what was happening to her, and why she didn’t seem capable of releasing it, forgetting it. He was gorgeous, yes. Had a body so long and heavy with muscle that she felt tiny and nondescript in comparison. He wore that dangerous, mysterious, don’t-get-too-close attitude like a second and very sexy skin. But she was a smart female. Logical and thoughtful. She had a job to do. A future to procure. A home and family to save and protect. And no male—not even the very captivating Jean-Baptiste—was going to get in the way of that.
No matter how much her body begged her to think otherwise.
“Dammit,” she grumbled, then yanked herself back to reality as the female on the other end of the line questioned her outburst. “No, no,” Genevieve said quickly. “Nothing to do with you. Everything’s fine, and I’ll be home in the morning. I promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Miss Burel,” came a sharp, masculine growl behind her.
Genevieve startled, jabbed at the off button.
“Canceling that hot date?” he continued.
“I told you, I don’t have a…” Her words died away, never to be found again, as she turned around and her eyes focused on the drool-worthy specimen before her.
Standing in the bedroom doorway, only a white towel wrapped around his lean hips, was Jean-Baptiste. Clearly he’d just come from the shower because his hair was wet and slicked back from his face, and a few water droplets clung to the heavily tattooed skin of his hard chest. Her gaze ate up every inch, every marking, every color. She’d seen the skull and tribal ink adorning his neck and collarbone, but beneath that, covering his broad shoulders and down both massive biceps, were two gold and black pumas baring their teeth. Artistic lines of green and blue seemed to move beneath their paws, like water and grass, like the bayou.
Her perusal continued inward. His pectorals were free of ink, but one nipple was pierced, and down at the very base of his ripped abdominals the word Pantera was scrawled in cat-scratch markings.
For one brief second, Genevieve nearly demanded he turn around. God, she wanted to see his back, wanted to see what kind of tattoos had been inked into his smooth, tanned, thickly muscled skin.
But then her sane mind returned.
“I thought that was my room,” she said, gesturing behind him.
“It is.”
“And my shower.”
He sniffed with irritation. “I have a bathtub.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“I don’t do bathtubs, Miss Burel.” His eyebrow lifted. “Unless I have company.”
She might have had her sane mind back, but her body was still completely and totally refusing her call for control. Her legs were doing that made-out-of-water thing again, and her skin was pulling tight around her muscles. She could do nothing to stop it. This strange, new compulsion to attack.
Lust and deep sexual interest had never played a part in her life. She’d been too busy with establishing her career and caring for her Grands. And lately, refusing to be angry with her parents for acting cowardly and taking off, leaving her to deal with the dying magic inside their home. Sure, she’d found males attractive. But wanting them? Needing to feel their skin? Taste their lips? Run her fingers through their hair as she growled and begged them for all things dirty?
Not until now.
Until Jean-Baptiste.
Her stomach clenched. This…this attraction, this lust, this hunger, this desire to run at him and lick her way down his throat, chest, abdominals, hipbones…
It was going to ruin her if she let it. Working alongside the elders required full focus, a vow of chastity, and a gold star with this mission. She could not allow herself to be swayed.
“So, who was that on the phone?” he demanded.
Genevieve started toward him. If she could just get past him, get into her bedroom and close the door…
“I was just letting my family know I’m all right.”
“They worry about you?”
“Of course.” She moved around the leather couch.
“You don’t seem like the kind of female who would make a parent worry.”
Unlike you, Mr. Baptiste. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”
His mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Yes, you do.”
She stopped before him, waited for him to move aside. But he didn’t. “You have very strong opinions about who I am, Mr. Baptiste. I’m curious to know where that comes from. Are you listening to rumors, or simply judging a book by its cover?”
He looked her up and down. “Which one would bother you more?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You should be sure, Miss Burel. Because one is understandable, the other is not.”
“And which one are you?” God, he smelled good. Like soap and hungry puma.
His eyes lifted to meet hers. “Let’s just say we all make judgments based on appearances.”
So, he’d heard rumors about her? Who the hell was talking about her? And what were they saying?