Cry Wolf (Wolves of Angels Rest #7)(2)

“Those things’ll kill you,” he said.

Oh, he had the kind of voice she loved, like a soulful tenor sax pitched low, echoing just a little in the darkness.

Seduced by the sound of his voice, it took her a second to decide his line wasn’t that original either. Oh well. Cover songs could get standing ovations too.

Ignoring the initial spark of nervousness, she sauntered toward him. Should she try her little girl lost routine? Or was he more into a bad girl looking for the right man? She usually had a better read on a guy by now.

She tilted her head so her shellacked curls slid across her shoulders. Even three hours under stage lights couldn’t melt her. “Only live once, right?” By all means, continue on with the clichés. And to think she’d once gotten a shiny award for best new singer-songwriter.

“No lighter,” he said with a shrug.

She settled back on her heels. Well, that took the fun out of their witty repartee. She slid the cigarette into the nearly empty pack in her purse. “Too bad.”

“You shouldn’t oughta be asking strangers to light your fire.”

She hadn’t felt this lit up in a long time. Some inexplicable mix of insta-attraction and annoyance at his attitude. Maybe it was just that he hadn’t seemed to recognize her yet. Come to think of it, that was probably what attracted her and annoyed her.

She put her hand on her sequined denim hip. From the audience, the spangled jeans looked awesome, but up close they were maybe a little gaudy, especially since wardrobe had to accommodate her ass and had put in a triangle panel of only sequins, like a bedazzled thong on the outside of her jeans.

The zipper, however, worked juuust fiiiiine.

She gave him an even more insolent once-over than he’d given her. “Nobody’s supposed to be back here except employees. And you’re not wearing your name tag.”

He crossed his big arms over his chest. Was he flexing for her, or where those corded muscles always so tight? “I don’t work for anybody except myself. And I go where I want.” He looked her over again, and this time his sharp gaze lingered on her breasts. “Besides, where’s your name tag?”

Damn, she was just thinking how she needed some time being unknown, and yet here she was practically trying to tell him who she was.

“I’m Wil,” she said. “Who are you?”

“Diesel.”

Shee-it, and she thought her name was ridiculous. “Well, hey there, Diesel who goes where he wants. Where are you going tonight?”

She almost laughed at his visible double take as his arms fell loosely to his sides. Her jumping out of the doorway hadn’t startled him, but the implication she was thinking of jumping his bones had him running scared.

She didn’t laugh, but she did smirk.

His eyes narrowed again. His face was all-American enough to make him the hero in one of her music videos. He had the right handsomely rough-hewn features—straight nose, hard jaw, lean cheeks. But his dark hair, dark eyes, and black T-shirt made him just a little too menacing. Too bad for his music video heartthrob career—DOA—but just right for her.

With one long stride, he covered the empty space between them and wrapped his arm at the small of her back, yanking her up against his broad chest. The move jolted the smirk right off her face. She gasped and flattened her hands on his pecs to push a little room between them.

He stared down at her. “I guess I’m coming right over here,” he said in that low voice.

“Whoa, cowboy.” Under the thin cotton of his shirt, his skin was hot, so hot she curled her fingers. “I don’t know what you think—”

“I think you like playing with fire.”

She tossed her head back. “And you think you’re all that?”

“I know it.”

“Lotta talk,” she murmured.

“You’re right. Don’t know what came over me. Guess just as pretty as you are, you shocked all these words right outta me.”

“Maybe shut up now,” she suggested.

Before the last breath left her lips, his mouth came down hard on hers.

She’d kissed—lots—but this… This was something else. He devoured her, his mouth working over hers like he had to have all of her at once. His parting lips jacked her open, and then his tongue was tangling with hers, roaming every crevice of her mouth like he’d left his car keys and a hundred dollar bill in there somewhere.

She gasped and sucked down a breath of him, clear and wild as the night sky over the Vegas desert.

But somehow every bit as far away.

And she wanted him closer.

A brief flash of shame at her own stale cigarette breath—not to mention groping this stranger—almost withered her intentions. But then he dropped one hand to her ass and squeezed her up against his crotch.

The thick bulge behind his fly pressed into her belly, and she moaned. Oh god, one kiss and he wanted her. Wanted her so bad she was surprised his black jeans hadn’t split across the front like her sequined ones had almost split down the back.

Up on her tiptoes, she writhed against him shamelessly, reveling in the simple, mindless heat. This was how music used to come to her: in a flash and strong enough to knock her boots off. She needed that again.

But as she twined her arms up behind his head, he let her go and grabbed her wrists. She dropped back a step. Good thing her boots had heels or she might’ve gone over backward at the abrupt release.