Page 39 of Bewitching the Wolf

I sigh, dig into my pocket and bring out my vape. I put it in her palm.

Her little hand remains open. “And the spare.”

“I don’t have⁠—”

“You always have a spare. And the back-up extra spare, too.”

I roll my eyes. How well she fucking knows me.

I dig into the body of my rucksack and bring out the spare. She waits, and with a huff I unzip the front pocket and grab the extra spare. Reluctantly, I put them into her outstretched hand.

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Hide them.”

I watch morosely as she flounces off into her own room.

How the fuck am I going to survive the weekend with an angry little wixen who’s clearly relishing torturing me?

Worse, angry Tippy is actually one hell of a turn-on.

I feel my wolf panting gently, low in my belly.

My fucking dick obligingly wakes up—and my knot with it.

I try to ignore it, but it throbs so much that’s pretty much impossible. I hear Tippy in the kitchen, banging cupboards and clanking pans.

So damn close.

I remember her face when she stared at my pecs, the fleeting look of desire. Perhaps the burden of longing isn’t mine alone to fight.

I think of Otis telling me he couldn’t fight his attraction to Clem. That maybe my wolf intuition wasn’t so off the mark.

What if I just stopped fighting these feelings?

And let my wolf take charge?

What then?

CHAPTER 11

TIPPY

Stupid, stupid wixen.

Yep, that’s me.

Why did I think this would be remotely do-able?

We haven’t got through an hour together, and already Jax and I are scrapping. Puffing out our chests like a couple of fighting hens. Except clearly, he’s the wolf; I’m the hen.

And you know what wolves do to hens, right?

I’m not coping with his proximity. Especially when he stands there bare-chested in front of me, and dares to flex those amazing pecs and biceps.

How dare he be so brazen?

Well, you did barge in on him.