His to Claim by Paris Brandon

Author:Paris Brandon [Brandon, Paris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Decadent Publishing, LLC.
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

J.D. couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but what he lacked in skill, he made up for with enthusiasm. He apparently knew the only song with lyrics on the Dracula soundtrack and had been trying to entice her to return to the shower for the past five minutes.

“Come into these arms again,” he burbled, but Bree resisted the temptation. After round two in her bed this afternoon, J.D. had filled in the blanks about what had happened the night Ray had sent him away.

Beneath the revelation his father hadn’t been a coward, she’d sensed he’d been trying to let go of his anger over the bitter betrayal he’d endured after finding out his dad had let him believe he’d been dead for the past twelve years.

Pulling her robe tighter, she set about making a couple of sandwiches and plating them with a few potato chips. The extent of her domestic goddess routine expended, she laughed at J.D.’s improvised lyrics. They’d begun to sound more like dirty limericks. Bree’s wolf snorted and rolled onto her back.

All wolves sensed the spirit of the one who called to them, and most of the time knew better than the human in whose skin they resided, who they belonged with. She’d instantly recognized the primal heat between them, and it had been a revelation.

He continued to murder the lyrics, and she had no doubt he’d bleed for her, as she now knew she’d do for him. Why not consent to his claiming? He’d asked again before he’d headed for the shower, and she’d seen a flash of confusion behind his cocky grin when she’d fumbled for an excuse.

She’d distracted him by washing each crease and dimple he possessed with a warm washcloth followed by her tongue. He’d happily returned the favor, exploring as if he’d never tasted her before.

He finally gave up trying to convince her to play, and shut off the tap. His voice could have used the accompaniment of cascading water, but then she might not have heard the inventive curse word or the truck door slam—slam being the operative word.

She counted to five, and the bathroom and front door opened simultaneously.

“Come—” J.D. stopped singing. He had a towel around his lean hips, and water still beaded his bronzed chest. His leering grin vanished at the sight of her cousin’s snarl.

Gunnar had always been larger than life, but she’d been spared his legendary temper because she’d never done anything to warrant it. Until now. He’d planted his large booted feet in the middle of her living room and didn’t look inclined to move. His long blond hair flowed over the olive-drab T-shirt stretched across his muscular chest. His jeans had a rip at one knee, totally out of character, and probably a recent occurrence. She recognized the fighting stance accompanied by his doubled fists and snarl.

J.D. made it across the room in seconds. Beside her, his low growl reverberated against her ear.

Crap.

“J.D. this is my cousin, Gunnar. Gunnar, this is—”

“I know who he is.

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