Moon Glamour by Aimee Easterling (books to read to be successful TXT) 📕

trailed broad fingers down my chin, my neck, pausing when he reached the barrier of my clothing. His voice was even deeper than usual, desire rolling over me, as he growled: “I’ve wanted to undress you ever since you sent those girls hunting for naked statues.”

“You knew?” I wasn’t sure which was more seductive. Tank’s hands sliding down to my belly, barely grazing the skin as he suited actions to words, peeling away my clothing. Or the fact he’d been familiar enough with the museum to understand my art-history joke.

He hummed an affirmative, reaching behind me. I expected his hand to cup me somewhere interesting, but it didn’t. So I twisted sideways, saw what he was aiming for.

My fingers landed on top of his fingers, bringing us chest to chest. I breathed my admonition into his collarbone. “No.”

“You don’t want the light off?”

“If you’re shy,” I told him, “you’ll have to get over it. I want to see my prize.”

“Your prize?” His face twisted into a smile that sent a tremor through me. Not a tremor of fear, though. A tremor of heat.

Then his hands were cupping those more interesting places. Light and color and emotion cascaded over and through me.

There was nothing cold and static about Tank now. He was the opposite of the statues I’d sent those teenagers hunting. Fire and motion. Seduction and heat.

“A masterpiece,” I murmured.

“You are,” he agreed. “We are.”

It was the last word either of us managed before we lost ourselves in the creation of something more tangible than art.

HOURS LATER, I WOKE to find Tank’s index finger stroking my bare shoulder. Remembered heat suffused me. Tingles slid all the way down to my toes.

But Tank didn’t take it up a notch. Not this time. Instead, he breathed into my ear. “Tell me about your family.”

“My family?” I pulled back a few inches so I could peer into his face.

The train clacked past a lone streetlight. The glow flickered across his scars, one streak then gone. Despite my best intentions to keep my fingers to myself, they rose to trace the uniqueness of Tank.

He didn’t flinch back the way he had the first time I touched him there. Instead, he leaned into my hand while replying. “I want to understand all of you. Where you came from. Where you’re going.”

It had been days since Tank had admitted to ripping apart his own face for the sake of his pack. During that time, I’d shared the barest of tidbits about my own heritage. And yet, Tank hadn’t asked until he thought I was ready.

Patience—another asset to add to his long list of appealing traits.

And he was right. My defenses had been ripped away along with my clothing. So I told him. The good parts, most of which centered around a single mom who took me to art museums. Who berated security guards for trying to shoo me into the children’s section. “My daughter knows how to behave,” Mom had promised as I peered up at a Vermeer, nose inches from the painted canvas. The implication, not voiced but heard by all involved: “I’m not so sure I can say the same about you.”

“Your mother sounds like a firecracker.”

Over Tank’s shoulder, the first hint of dawn softened the horizon. Soon, it would be morning and this perfect interlude would be over. Soon, I’d be sending Tank into battle without me. My stomach lurched.

“And your father?” Tank continued, drawing me back to our shared moment.

This part I was less proud of. But he deserved to hear it. So I took a deep breath and went on.

“When Mom died, I tracked down my dad to ask for his help with Harper. I didn’t expect much. I mean, I was conceived during a one-night stand. Ace had no intention of becoming a parent. Still, I’d hoped he’d accept responsibility on paper at least.”

Tank’s hand slid over my skin, warm, supportive. I closed my eyes and finished the story.

“Ace wouldn’t even speak with me when I went to find him. His alpha—Rowan—had laid down the law.”

Tank’s jaw muscles clenched beneath my fingers. The hand on my spine tensed. “Your father’s an asshole,” he rumbled. “You’re better off without him.”

“He’s a pack wolf,” I corrected, even though I didn’t entirely believe that. Had seen inklings that there might be different ways of being part of a pack.

“We’re not all like that,” Tank promised, his huge hand rising to cradle my skull.

He drew me closer, his breath fluttering across my forehead. “When all of this is over,” he promised, “I’m bringing you back to meet my alpha. You’ll like him. You’ll like everyone in my clan.”

There was no question there, but I answered anyway. “That sounds good,” I murmured. Then I leaned the rest of the way in for what felt like our first and last kiss.

WE WAITED FOR JASMINE in a crowded food court. A neutral location, close enough to the car we’d rented so we could make a run for it if she ratted us out to her brother. Plenty public so she wouldn’t worry we’d take her hostage and use her as a pawn.

But the flaw in my plan became apparent as people whirled around us. A quarter of them were the right age and gender to be Jasmine...and I didn’t know her well enough to recognize her in a crowd.

Tank, to my dismay, didn’t recall meeting her. Of course not—she’d been a limpet stuck to my side during the few hours he’d been in residence. Tank and I, in contrast, had been kept far apart by our minders. I was about to suggest we give up when a voice rose above the clatter of plastic food trays.

“Athena.”

I turned to the woman whose face was unfamiliar but whose voice was unforgettable. “Jasmine.”

She nodded, all business. Ignored Tank’s extended hand and continued to speak to me. “There’s no time for pleasantries. They expect me back in two hours.”

And we were over a hundred miles away from