Lycan Alpha Claim 3 by Tamara Rose Blodgett, Marata Eros Page A

looking for it to notice.
    Mick does.
    He holds my hand, his eyes pegging the proof of what happened. I try to take my hand out of his and he grips it, those dark eyes moving to mine.
    “Don't, Miss Mitchell.”
    “You don't have to do this, Mr. McKenna.”
    A dark auburn brow rises. “Do what?” He corrects me, “Mick.”
    I watch his eyes narrow with an intensity that changes how I breathe, and my palm grow warm in his. He waits for my answer while our flesh melds.
    “Feel guilty,” I answer. “I mean...” I indicate our surroundings by sweeping my free hand around the view. The floor moves underneath our feet as the cityscape minutely changes while we stare at each other.
    His eyes move to the chair behind me, and he releases my hand as he pulls out my chair. I'll look like an ass if I bolt. I don't think I've ever felt as contrary as I do in that moment.
    Mick looks at me as if he's sure I'll sit. What makes him that sure? Is it the money? Does everyone say yes to Jared McKenna? Did he just get flung into money right out of the cradle or is he self-made.
    Why does he own strip clubs? It doesn't seem to fit him somehow.
    He slides the chair in as I sit as if he's done it a thousand times before. I barely keep from sulking, thinking about the hundreds of women who have stared at those eyes, dreamed about what it could be like with him. That's the difference between them and me—I don't dream. I live it. Right now. Right here.
    Mick sits across from me and puts his elbows on the table. He knots his fingers and rests that full mouth against them. We say nothing as we look at each other. 
    He startles me with, “I don't feel guilty. Just so you know.”
    My face must show my surprise because he grins. I realize I kind of want him to feel guilty.
    I want someone to feel guilty.
    He says, “I know you weren't paying attention before you walked into the street. I couldn't have stopped. There was nothing I could have done differently.”
    I feel my brows furrow. “Then... why?” I stare at him, thinking he'll rush in with a good explanation, throw me a life raft. Instead, he lets me fumble around. “Then why take me out like this?”
    “I want to,” he says simply.
    Those brown eyes stare into mine, and I shift in my seat. What does he want from me? I don't reply but allow myself to stare back. I stare because I want to. My life sentence has given me a bravado that doesn't feel false. I take in everything without shame. Though we're formal, he hasn’t shaved. His hair is short on the sides and longish on the top. A natural wave sweeps it off a low forehead. The flame of his hair burns a deep bronze above eyes that are almost too large for a man's face.
    No female alive would mistake Jared McKenna for anything but male. His broad shoulders anchor our table, his biceps stretching the dark navy suit. His crisp white shirt is a blazing star beneath his dusky complexion. I think of how calloused those strong hands are.
    “You're blushing,” he comments softly, and I nod. Mick studies me and I don't look away. Still brave. Finally he lets his hands drop to the table draped in fine linen. “You don't seem embarrassed.”
    I shake my head. I’m not blushing from shame; it's the effect he has on me. I've never felt arousal, and now it's here to stay because of Mick.
    It's in the beating of my heart, the ache between my legs. My nipples are sharp pebbles beneath the lightweight material of my shimmery dress.
    It's all... and nothing.
    “Then what are you, Miss Mitchell?” Mick asks in soft inquiry.
    “I'm not a game to be conquered,” I say. Though I’m not being honest.
    Jared makes a purr of contentment deep in his throat and leans back. The waiter comes in and asks what I'd like to drink.
    “Whatever he’s having,” I reply. I know that McKenna has some agenda and is accustomed to seeing his pushed through.
    He orders a bottle of wine I've never heard of and smiles at me, the dimple in his chin