How to Flirt with A Naked Werewolf by Molly Harper

rough hands under my jacket, pulling me tight against him. My hands threaded into his hair, soft and silken against my fingertips. His hands, the very fingers I’d obsessed over, were impossibly gentle as they cupped the curve of my jaw. The tip of his tongue traced the line of my lower lip, then swept tentatively across it. I sighed and wondered how it had taken us so long to get here. Why couldn’t I have spent the last few months like this, wrapped in his arms, drinking in the warm, spicy scent of him?
    Oh, wait. Cooper was a complete dick to me, that’s why. He’d been rude, sarcastic, and hurtful, for no reason. And he didn’t like me. He’d made that much clear. He was kissing me now because I was one of few available females within a hundred miles and he caught me at my weakest. He was using me to scratch an itch.
    With a snarl, I raised my knee with lightning speed, right into Cooper’s now-bulging zipper. I slid out of his embrace and stood panting beside him as he leaned against the wall for support while his crotch recovered.
    “What the hell ?” he grunted.
    “You don’t get to kiss me,” I told him. Embarrassment and confusion had hot tears pricking at my eyes. “I do not mess around with men who don’t even like me. Just stop screwing with my head, Cooper. Leave me alone.”
    Cooper took in my face, the quiver in my lip, the heaving of my chest as I fought to catch my breath. He leaned closer, running the tip of his nose along my throat as he inhaled deeply.
    Forgetting his own pain, his brows furrowed as his warm fingers brushed along the turtleneck I was wearing. He pulled the collar down, revealing the ugly yellow shadows of healing bruises. I slapped at his hands, pushing myself away from him.
    “Don’t pretend you give a shit,” I spat. “You’ve made it very plain how you feel about me. It’s mutual. Stay away from me, and I will sure the hell stay away from you.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said, his face paling to an ashen gray. “I didn’t know.”
    Cooper backed away into a shadow, the blue-green eyes trained on mine, glinting out at me. The same blue-green eyes that had shone through the dark alley, zeroed in on Teague.
    Even I am ashamed of how long it took me to connect Cooper with the wolf. My brain just couldn’t seem to keep pace with the information. So many little tumblers fell into place. The eyes. Cooper’s living so far away from town. His frequent “hunting trips.” The ridiculous amount of meat in his grocery cart.
    I looked back at him, mouth gaping, breath ragged. His expression shifted moment to moment, from anger to shame to some unreadable mix of fear and relief. I pursed my lips to say something, but he darted out of the alley on soundless feet.
    I leaned against the wall, sliding into a sitting position. I ran over every conversation, every exchange I’d had with Cooper. Someone in the alley kept saying, “Cooper is the wolf . . . the wolf is Cooper . . .” It took me a couple of repetitions to realize it was me.
    The rational side of my brain had a hard time catching up to my rampant disbelief. I mean, it made sense on a certain level. The man had too much general pissiness to fit into one corporeal form.
    I leaned against the wall, grateful for any distraction that drew me out of my panicky remembrances of the alleyway. So if werewolves were real, what was next? Ghosts? Chupacabra? Would I run into Sasquatch if I strayed too far from my cabin?
    Teague’s death scene took on a new character in my mind’s eye. Cooper had bitten Teague, ripped into him, and made him bleed. Teague made it to his truck but was either too seriously injured or too freaked out to drive safely. Cooper had contributed to Teague’s crashing into the ravine and dying a horrible death. I searched my soul and couldn’t find it within me to be disgusted or frightened by that. John Teague was a bad man who did vile things to defenseless women out of no other motivation than greed. The