What’s New Pussycat(11)

Pulling herself upward, she leaned back on her elbows. “Well, if what I’m hearing is correct, I’m the answer to all your death-sex needs.”

Derrick barked a laugh, rich and throaty, that slithered through her body with a tingling vibration. “That’s the word on the street.”

“You werewolves are some edgy bunch with this Russian Roulette sex, huh?” she asked, enjoying the fact that she had a leg by letting it swing off the side of the bed.

“We have our moments.”

“So what happens from here, Derrick?” Because if he didn’t know, she had some ideas.

He swished a finger around in her general vicinity. “You put some clothes on and we talk about this like adults. Dressed adults.”

She grinned at him. In the midst of all this upheaval, his obvious discomfort made her snicker. Uncomfortable was precious on him. “But I don’t have any clothes.”

He finally entered the room, his feet padding along the carpeted floor toward a dresser. His lean fingers dug around in a drawer, pulling out a flannel shirt and some boxer-briefs and tossing them to the bed.

“Socks, too? If it’s not too much trouble, please?”

Derrick responded by opening another drawer and rooting around until he came up with a pair of white socks, dropping them on the bed as he headed for the door. “I’ll meet you out in the living room so we can talk,” he said, totally avoiding even a glance in her direction.

She let the blanket fall away the moment he was gone, hopping off the bed and trying her feet back out for size. It had been too damn long since she’d walked erect. But her joy was tempered by the fact that she didn’t know how long she could sustain her human form.

Scooping up Derrick’s clothes, she went straight for the bathroom to assess herself in the mirror. Dropping the clothes on the vanity, she leaned forward and gave herself a critical once-over.

Thinner. She looked a bit thinner than she had before Escobar—being held hostage was the best diet ever. Holding up a strand of her hair to the light above the sink, she eyed it critically, noting the frayed ends. Her dark hair was dull, and in desperate need of a wash and trim. A mani/pedi wouldn’t kill her, either.

Her legs, however? If she didn’t shave them soon, it wouldn’t be much longer until Sasquatch welcomed her to the fold.

But all in all, no worse for the wear. All of those things would have to wait for now. For now, she was only interested in settling this issue and making a deal with Derrick the Werewolf.

Slipping Derrick’s shirt over her head and rolling up the sleeves, she tied her hair into a knot on top of her head, threw on his boxer-briefs and socks, and made her way toward the living room.

Her nap had brought with it a plan.

One she was going to put into motion ASAP. It was bold. It was maybe even a little crass, but if the overall vibe she was picking up from Derrick was correct, he didn’t want the mate thing any more than she did.

Derrick’s socks flopped as Martine walked, trying to hold up his boxer-briefs so they wouldn’t slide down over her hips. She found him in the kitchen, his hair gleaming under the recessed lighting, his broad back to her as he cut something on the cutting board at the kitchen’s island.

She swung around the granite countertop, stopping in front of him. He didn’t even look up at her as he chopped a stalk of celery. She put her hand on his tan one, thwarting his motion. “I’m Martine Brooks, and I’m from Manhattan. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, but I was stuck.”

And that was all she planned to tell him. The less Derrick knew about her situation, the better. For everyone involved.

He lifted his eyes, pinning her with his gaze. “Good to know. Hello, Martine Brooks,” he responded before his lashes swept his cheeks and he returned to the celery.

Martine grabbed a piece of celery and popped it in her mouth, savoring the taste of real food. “So, let’s talk about this—about your curse.”

He stopped chopping. “So you did understand everything I said?”

“Every sex-or-die word,” she joked, forcing her eyes away from his thickly muscled chest.

He laughed again, that deep rumble that made her toes curl and her stomach feel like butterfly wings were tickling her from the inside out. “Good. I was worried we’d have to start all over, and you have to admit, the subject is a little awkward.”

Leaning in, she examined some carrots he had on the sideboard. “You mean the sex?”

“Yeah, I mean the sex. How many guys do you know tell you they have to have sex with you or die?”

Martine winked at him, tucking her chin into her shoulder, her talent for flirting alive and well. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”