She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. Well, wasn't that mature, she thought. She should have just settled for a left hook to the groin.
She clasped her fist and raised it, then lowered it again.
"Why stop pulling punches now?" he growled.
Sam sniffed. "I believe in keeping something in reserve."
"Come on, Sam, don't be mad at me."
"Mad? Oh, I'm not mad. I'm howling furious. Or I would be howling if I were one of your kind. You should be horsewhipped," she stated emphatically, then hesitated a moment and corrected, "wolf-whipped, for all the secrets you've kept from me. And now you say you care? What a dog you are."
She was wound up and going strong. "How can I ever trust you? First you pretend to be Prince of the Playbats. Well, you really are a Prince, just not Prince Varinksi, who happens to be your cousin. Later I think you're a wolfish competitor, my arch business rival. Now I find out you're a werewolf, pretending to be human, who once pretended to be a vampire. Just what will I find out next?"
When Nic opened his mouth to defend himself, Sam sliced her hand through the air. "Don't answer. I know what you are—a first-rate jerk!"
Nic thought for a minute she might punch him, but she didn't. He didn't know why he found this ranting and raving fascinating, but he did. He didn't know why he liked these violent tendencies in her, but he did. Probably it was due to his werewolf DNA. "Come on, Sammy, you're making a mountain out of a mothball."
"That's a molehill!" she shrieked. "Trust is not a molehill!"
"You know you can trust me, even with your life. I only pretended to be something I'm not because of the business situation. But that won't happen anymore. You know all my secrets," he swore, his gray eyes smoldering with sincerity and concern. "Honestly, I'm telling you the truth and nothing but the truth now."
He looked so good, standing there half-naked. He smelled so good, too, with his woodsy, musky scent. She weakened. "I might trust you now and then."
Nic smiled.
Annoyed, Sam added one final thought. "But you'll just have to guess when. Maybe I'll trust you tomorrow, maybe next year. Maybe the year 2075. Of course, I'll be dead by then, but you might still be around—alive and licking."
Eyes darkening in anger, Nic cursed. Why was she not more forgiving? It seemed he would have to crawl, something a Strakhov just did not do. "I know what you want, Sam. You want me to crawl on my hands and knees and beg your forgiveness."
"In human form," she agreed. Somehow, a begging werewolf would use its puppy dog eyes and she'd cave in and rain kisses all over his handsome snout.
Pride always went before a fall. Nic fell. Dropping to his knees, his expression taut with disapproval at what he was doing, he said, "I'm truly sorry, Sam, for hurting you, for lying to you, and for not telling you about my heritage. And that is the whole truth."
"You wouldn't know the truth if it bit you on the behind," she grumped.
Controlling his anger, Nic explained, "I meant to tell you sooner about my heritage, but I wanted to wait until you had forgiven me for all the other stuff. Stuff you had every right to be angry about." He nuzzled her hand. "You've got me down on my knees, and you can have me eating out of your hand if you just whistle, Sam. I'm yours—beast and all."
Sam almost gave up, gave in; the man had too much animal appeal. But then, that was the nature of this beast. With willpower she didn't know she possessed, she backed away, maintaining her dignity. "Get up, Nic. I'll accept your apologies, but I won't forgive you."
Nic was on his feet in less than a second, accepting her challenge. He moved quickly, gracefully, and caught both her hands and forced them around behind her back. He hauled her resisting body against his own, took swift advantage. "Whistle for me, Sam—whistle because you're going to be mine."
Lowering his head, he kissed her long and hard, a ruthless kiss. It was a kiss of possession that devoured her, tasted and lastly cherished her. He had been too long without her, and the wolf in him had finally recognized its mate.
Sam didn't want to respond, but she couldn't help herself. He tasted of the richness of the earth and dark pleasure. His arms were strong and warm against her, holding her to him, pinning her. She could feel his desire, which increased her own. She was ready and able.
Unfortunately, she wasn't quite willing. Making a monumental effort, she pulled away from his questing lips. "It's too much, Nic. I need time to think. I… You hurt me bad."
Glancing down at the huge bulge straining the zipper of his jeans, he remarked, "I'm hurting myself. How do you expect me to get any sleep?"
She grinned impishly. "You could try counting sheep. If you don't eat them first." And then she walked out of his hotel room, trying to feel proud of her self-control.
Who's That Knocking at My Door?
Twenty minutes later, Sam had showered and was pacing her hotel room. Her hormones in overdrive, her overactive imagination had Nic buck naked and cavorting upon her hotel bed. It was an appealing image.
So, he had crawled and begged for forgiveness. Well, maybe not begged, Sam admitted, but he had asked for her to forgive him and had been on his knees. To have a werewolf prince on his knees—what more could a Paranormalbuster want?
Tapping her fingers on the headboard of the bed, she considered the situation. Could she understand why Nic had kept his heritage a secret? Sure, if she were totally honest with herself. She also believed he would have told her sooner or later. So why she was pacing in her room when she could be making love to the Russian werewolf of her dreams? Quickly she made her decision. Who was she going to call?
Nic stepped out of a long, cold shower, his body still aching with lust. The phone rang, and he grumpily picked it up. A long sharp whistle pierced his eardrums.
Sam!
After grabbing his jeans, he made it to her room in less than three seconds. Pounding hard, he found himself grinning like a fool. She had forgiven him! Hadn't she?
Behind the door, Sam wore a sneaky smile. She wasn't a dumb broad with spaghetti for brains; she knew exactly who was knocking on her door. The big bad wolf, of course, and he could come and be as bad as he wanted—provided he was bad with her. For his loving, she was a piggy, and she was ready to see him huff, puff, and get down to the blowing.
Sliding back the bolt and dropping her towel, she grinned. Werewolves sure could move fast when they needed to.
As the door flew open, Nic charged inside. His nostrils flared. He scented his prey and her spicy arousal, and his gray eyes shimmered with barely suppressed passion. He worshipped her body with those eyes.
Sam lost herself in those swirling gray depths. This man was a beast—wasn't she lucky? She could feel the tips of her nipples tingling, longed to have him bite and suckle them. The flesh puckered with white-hot heat, and she felt the area between her thighs grow damp. Parting her mouth in an open invitation, the tip of her tongue snaked out, wetting her lips.
Nic swept her into his arms, kicking the door shut and then dropping Sam onto the hotel's bed with a big bounce. The minute he had heard her whistle, he had gone into heat… werewolf mating mode, needing to possess Sam completely. He needed to mark her as his for all time. All others needed to know and beware.
Desire made Sam's eyes heavy as she stared up at her wolfman. He growled, looking like he was going to gobble her up—and now that she knew he was a werewolf, that was a distinct possibility. Thinking fast, she decided to keep still, to wait to see just what he decided to gobble.