Pack Mistress #3 (Quick 'n' Dirty Erotic Paranormal Romance) Read Free Page B

and don’t need to get
away. Although I guess now, maybe I should think about … no—let’s
talk more about your sexy, art-loving beast. Tell me how he asked
you out?”
    Sally lifted her eyebrows at me. I nodded to
indicate that I really wanted to hear more about her new guy, to
not talk about my own obvious issues. “We got to talking about the
local art scene and he mentioned that we should go together to
explore the galleries on Las Olas in Fort Lauderdale.” She smiled,
as if remembering the moment.
    I ate my salad in silence, lost in thought
trying to remember the last time anyone had taken me anywhere. To
dinner, to a gallery, heck, even to the beach. No memories of any
such thing. I felt a small stab of jealousy that some hot guy had
showered this attention on Sally.
    Unfortunately, this day was becoming as
uncomfortable as the one that preceded it. I was suddenly exhausted
and ready to put an end to the outing. We finished up, paid for
dinner, and said our goodbyes.
    At home, I clumsily unlocked my doors and
wrangled my bags inside. After putting away my new assortment of
lingerie, I showered and got ready for bed.
    I turned off my ringer, locked all the doors,
and opened the smallest window in my home. It was still large
enough for a thin man to fit through, but it had a screen and I
promised myself that I’d close it before going to sleep. But I
wasn’t going to let pack pressure stop me from the serenade of
cicadas, frogs and birds in the swamp on a cool, damp Florida
night.
    I was settling into a romance novel when I
heard a quiet, rapid tapping on my door. Grumbling something about
Grand Central Station, I rose and pulled on a short, silky robe
over my satin nightie. When I opened the door, a tall, lean man in
a baseball cap with a hoodie pulled over it stood before me. He
rushed in and slammed me into the wall, and as he kicked the door
shut behind him, I heard something metal clanking. I took a deep
breath to smell my aggressor and as the scent of sage and burning
wood entered my nose I whispered, “R. W.?” Just as I felt my hands
being pulled behind me and the cold metal of handcuffs clasping
each wrist.
    “Yes, little wolf. Glad I didn’t have to blow
your house down to get in.”
    “I think you’re mixing your metaphors.”
    “Then it’s a good thing I’m not here about
metaphors.”
    “How did you find me?”
    “You smell like clean air and lilacs. I could
follow your scent anywhere.”
    That answered that. It also made my knees
weak, but I tried to ignore this side effect.
    He left me leaning against the wall, my arms
trapped behind me, as he wandered to the back of my house toward my
studio. I followed behind him, having some difficulty balancing.
When I got to the studio after him, he was crouched in front of my
pile of paintings, flipping through them and evaluating each with a
critical look on his face. Any arousal I may have felt left me and
was replaced by an artist’s insecurity and fear.
    “You definitely have talent. Your
perspectives are off and some of your angles are wrong, but the
basics—the ability—is there.”
    “Okay …”
    “The worst thing you’re doing is putting a
barrier between your work and the viewer.”
    I stumbled closer and looked at the painting
he was staring at. “What do you mean?”
    He pointed at the canvas, “You see how in
this part of the work it seems as though the viewer is looking at
something through your eyes? That’s good, but then, right below
that, you’ve thrown in part of your head, which takes the viewer
out. It’s jarring and unpleasant. I want to know that I’m getting a
glimpse of your point of view—which is the most powerful thing an
artist has to share.”
    I thought for a moment and realized he might
be right.
    “It’s too intimate,” I said, quietly.
    He stood and faced me. “What do you
mean?”
    I looked up at him, then looked away. I
wanted to share my thoughts with him, but it was making me so raw,
I