Just Like Animals
(Werelock Evolution #5)
Publication date: August 28th 2018
Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Romance
“Hot, humorous, and dirty in the best possible way. Amazingly well written. Highly recommend!!!” —Anna Zaires, New York Times bestselling author
For ten long years, I stayed away to protect her.
I thought I’d successfully subverted my wolf’s instincts where Bethany was concerned.
But when I saw her on that dance floor, my inner beast took over.
I told myself it would be just one dance. One dance and I’d let her go.
I didn’t mean to bite her.
Or f*ck her in the middle of a crowded dance club.
Or kidnap her… again.
NOTE: “Just Like Animals is a fast-paced dirty ride” (to quote a reviewer). The romance between the main couple is written to work as a standalone for readers new to the Werelock Evolution world. However, please note that this is book number 5 within the Werelock Evolution series, so it also continues elements of the overarching storyline for the world. 90k word, full-length novel. HEA with NO cheating.
“Sir, car’s out front.”
I nodded in acknowledgement, but my feet were rooted to the cement floor of the club, my eyes transfixed by the gyrating blonde, as I tried to determine if I was seeing things.
Nope. It was definitely her. And she was drunk off her ass. Of that there was little doubt. Yet she still displayed an enviable natural rhythm out on the dance floor—with that barely clothed, to-die-for body that I had found myself jerking off to in memory on more than one occasion over the past ten years. More times than was probably healthy given the fact she was strictly off-limits.
More than off-limits. She might as well have been taboo. Maybe that’s what made her so attractive? Or maybe I was just a masochist.
Her girlfriends appeared equally inebriated. Men surrounded her like vultures. Two of them were putting their hands on her. I took a step closer without thinking. Then another.
I rationalized that I just wanted to confirm it was really her, to see her up close … make certain she was okay and that she had a safe ride home. I told myself I had only pure intentions this time.
I’d checked up on her over the years and knew that she’d completed medical school and was now finishing her residency at UCSF Hospital. And that she was engaged. A fact that came back to me in a blinding flash when she flung her arm up in the air and the enormous rock on her finger caught the flare of the strobe light.
She was engaged to some big-deal society schmuck. Silicon Valley trust fund baby trash. I’d seen their cheesy engagement photo spread all over social media six months ago and had pegged the guy a class A douchebag at first sight.
She’d looked radiant in the photos. Better than I’d even remembered. And happy. So fucking happy. A fact I’d had conflicting feelings about at the time.
She didn’t look happy now, though. And once again, I felt conflicted over this observation.
Sure, she was grinning as if having the time of her life, throwing flirty bedroom eyes at the men dancing with her as if she hadn’t a care in the world. As if she wasn’t engaged to be married. But those eyes were red-rimmed and puffy beneath their well-applied makeup, and lined by dark circles. They looked more green than blue. She’d been crying hours earlier. I was sure of it.
My inner animal took over. Before I knew it, I’d nudged the guy at her back out of my way, my hands had encircled her tiny waist, and I was yanking her lush, round ass into the swiftly growing ache in my groin. Definitely a masochist. I delivered a mental push accompanied by a flash of yellow eyes to the asshole in front of her when he looked up to glare at me in protest. He did a double take and nearly tripped over his own feet trying to back away as quickly as possible.
I felt her body stiffen against me, a trickle of alarm tightening her muscles, a sliver of fear tainting her perfect scent. It only made her smell more edible. I groaned as my jean-encased cock swelled and lengthened against her ass, along with my canines. She attempted to pull away from me. And though it irritated me, at the same time I was quietly pleased. Impressed that even drunk she possessed strong survival instincts.
When I failed to release her, she tried to crane her head back to see who had taken hold of her and had scared off her dance partners, but I hauled her little body tighter in against mine to prevent it, my forearm crossing her chest, my palm caging her throat. I didn’t want her to recognize me.
Not yet. I wanted a moment between us where there was no history to get in the way. Where we could be two strangers dancing in a club, and I could pretend that I had a chance with her.
“Relax.” My thumb stroked back and forth over the rapid pulse beating in her neck. “One dance and I’ll let you go. Promise.”
I’d weighted my words with Alpha energy, and yet they sounded half-command, half-plea to my own ears. Regardless, they seemed to reassure her enough that the tension in her body dissipated. And soon that delicious body all but melted into mine as our hips began to move as one and my roaming hands took liberties they shouldn’t have. I couldn’t stop though. Not when I scented what it was doing to her. How wet she was getting beneath the scrap of material she was wearing.
She had one of those flimsy, strappy dresses on that looked and felt more like a form-fitting slip. Silvery pale grey in color and barely long enough to hit her upper thighs. My hands slid over the silky smooth material like they had every right to, feeling every hard ridge of muscle and soft mound of flesh that lay beneath. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and the temptation to explore her breasts—to feel those diamond-hard nipples through the thin fabric of her dress right there on the dance floor—was more than I had strength of will to resist in the moment. Not when all the blood in my brain had already rushed to my cock.
She was tall for a woman. Lean and fit but still curvy where it mattered most. And my God, those fuck-me legs! I remembered the first time I’d really noticed them. She had been fifteen and wearing a cheerleading uniform. And I’d never been able to look at her the same way since.
Those lean, muscular limbs looked about a mile long now in six-inch designer heels that she wore as comfortably as if she’d strutted out of the womb wearing them. I wanted to lick the length of those legs. I wanted to feel those toned thighs locked around my waist.
Clenching around my face.
Christ, I was a liar. There was no way I was letting her go after one dance.
She’d begun making those beautiful moan-y, breathy, I-need-to-come noises that only a woman can make, and I was close to losing my shit, debating whether to teleport us to privacy or sink my dick into her right there on the dance floor and worry about erasing the minds of onlookers later.
I looked down and saw that one of my hands was rubbing her upper thigh.
And it was wet.
Her thigh. Was. Wet.
I told myself it was only sweat from all of the dancing she’d done. And if I’d been human and unable to smell the difference, I might’ve convinced myself. But my other hand had wandered up under her dress from behind and was rhythmically squeezing and exploring the flesh of her thong-clad ass cheek, rubbing its way toward her hot, needy center—where she was dripping wet.
Fuck me, I needed to stop.
We needed to stop.
But instead, I brushed her hair aside with my chin until my mouth found her neck, kissing and sucking her perfect skin. She moaned and arched into me, and then she rubbed her ass up and down along the length of my erection.
I’d been so wrong before. The girl possessed no survival instincts whatsoever.
None at all.
Because she drew my hand that was on the front of her thigh straight up under her dress to her soaked pussy, and she came against my fingers before I had time to register what was even happening.
My mind blanked, retreating to a dark, desperate, possessive place where there was only the sound of her erratic, panting breaths, her frantic heartbeat, and the sensation of her fluttering, wet clit pressed against my fingers, her cum soaking my palm as I sank my canines into her neck.
Hettie Ivers is an accidental romance author who likes to escape the stress of her workweek with a good dirty book–preferably one that’s also funny.
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