What’s New Pussycat(14)

There was nothing wrong with two people making love for nothing more than the sheer delight in connecting on a physical level. If she’d have met him any other way, likely she would have made her intentions quite clear from the start.

“You’re right. I don’t know you. But I believe you. I know curses, and this one’s a doozie. Curses are just one of many things I despise about being paranormal. Consider it a favor from one supernatural survivalist to another. There are plenty of people who deserve to end up dead. You just don’t seem like one of them. And you’re not exactly ugly,” she tacked on. Hopefully, that explanation was enough.

Derrick paused, his expression said he had more he wanted to ask, but if he did, he kept it to himself. “Okay, so you stay here until the full moon. Come and go as you please. You save my ass on the full moon, and we call it over. You go home to Manhattan. I go back to my life. No harm, no foul.”

“Protection. We also use protection. No catdogs running around.”

He barked another one of those laughs. “Catdogs?”

“Me being half cat and you being half werewolf sorta equals half cat, half dog. I don’t know how our cycles would mesh, and I don’t want to know.”

He nodded. “Aha. Okay, so protection—the best there is.”

Martine held out her hand with a smile. “Deal?”

“You’re on.” Derrick took her outstretched hand, closing his long fingers over hers and squeezing.

And when he did, something happened. Something peculiar and new. Something that felt far too right. Far too good.

Far too much like that one thing she’d been told through movies and books to look for all her life but could never quite nail down.

And that was complete bullshit.

* * *

Derrick watched Martine eat her spaghetti Bolognese with relish from across the table as if it were her last meal, and wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

Well, Derrick, a gorgeous woman with a body right out of a painting by Rubens has just agreed to have sex with you so you won’t die.

Yay! Cheers from the crowd.

As if that weren’t enough, this beautiful, savvy, amazing carrot peeler also agreed to go away forever and never ask anything of you when all’s said and done—ever.

More cheers from the crowd. Maybe even some swaying and a lone Bic lighter held up in your honor.

I don’t know what you’d call it, Derrick, but for someone like you, who didn’t want a life mate, the rest of us would call this a big win. A coup. Score. Jackpot. Don’t question it, just roll with it.

When he’d come around the corner of his bedroom door to find Martine stretching on his bed, her limbs long, her hips full, parts of him that had no business having such a vigorous reaction had sprung to action. Her creamy skin in the setting sun, her amazing hair falling to the middle of her back in thick black layers, her eyes fringed with thick dark lashes—all of it made his groin tighten painfully.

Under normal circumstances, that wasn’t like him. It usually took a little more than just a quick glance of a naked woman to fire him up.

He hadn’t stopped much to think about what her human form would look like, being so caught up bemoaning the fact that he had a life mate, but well, wow.

As life mates went, Martine was undoubtedly a jackpot.

And she wanted the same thing he did. Out.

So throughout watching her eat two full plates of spaghetti, a half loaf of garlic bread, and sharing almost two bottles of wine with him while Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played in the background, he patted himself on his back at his good luck.

Martine Brooks was gorgeous, intelligent, and she didn’t want anything from him.

“You have a good appetite. It’s nice to see,” he commented, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

She grinned at him, her pretty pink lips full and lush, tipping upward, leaving dimples on either side of her mouth. “I love to eat. So count yourself lucky you’re not dating me—because I’m not one of those girls who picks at a salad and declares she’s full up to her eyeballs after a leaf of lettuce. I love food. That was delicious, by the way.”

While they’d cooked, he’d stolen glimpses of her as they’d moved in sync in the kitchen. While she’d diced, peeled, sautéed, he’d stolen some more.

Damn she was good-looking, and well versed in the kitchen. He also found himself wondering more than their bargain allowed. Like, why did she want to stay here until the mate was done? Why wouldn’t she just go home to Manhattan and return on the full moon?

But he’d promised not to ask questions, and he wouldn’t. If he didn’t ask, he couldn’t get involved; if he didn’t get involved, he didn’t have to deal with all the emotions involvement brought.