Page 68 of Shifted Desire

Max: Claire keeps pestering me about it.

Max: They’re going to spend the whole time grilling me about the wedding and arguing over seating charts and their bridesmaid dresses, and I’m thinking I might find an excuse not to go if you won’t be there.

I should be happy that my brother wants to see me, but a surge of agitation rises in me. Here I am, sobbing in the shower and wishing my emotionally off-limits boss was the one texting me, and he’s complaining about wedding prep.

Sam: Wow, must be really hard for you, having people care about this huge life event of yours, and getting to marry the woman of your dreams.

I turn off text notifications, not wanting to deal with whatever Max’s reply is to my snippy message, and shove my phone away, cocooning myself under the blanket with a shaky exhale.

Gods, I’m such a bitch. No wonder I’m the only one in the family still alone. Who would ever want to be with someone like me?

25

I should’ve asked her to come over. She practically handed me the opportunity on a platter, and I blew it.

If I hadn’t hesitated, I could have Samantha in my bed right now, her scent soaking into the sheets and her limbs tangled with mine in the aftermath of a good, hard fucking. She could be teasing me about something I said or did, her husky laughter filling the room as I scowled in response.

Instead, it’s silent and cold, and the synthetic blueberry scone scent flowing from the diffuser makes my nose itch because it’s not right. It’s not her.

If she’d ever wear some fucking panties, I could steal them from her to tuck into my pillow so I could soothe my curse enough to sleep without grumbling about her not being here.

I pull out my phone and am seconds away from texting her to wear some tomorrow, but come to my senses before I press send.

I’m not going to be pathetic enough to bother her in the middle of the night with my dumb request, no matter how much my wolf would like me to. Especially not when she’s clearly unhappy with me and how possessive I’m acting.

I know I need to cool it on the whole “you’re mine” thing, and I understand why she set that boundary. At least I do logically. But all my instincts tell me I should’ve yanked her from her car after she threw the cash at me, tossed her over my shoulder, and hauled her back to my loft to show her how much she belongs to me.

Yeah, that would’ve pissed her off, but maybe it would’ve been better. At least then I wouldn’t be worrying about what she’s thinking, because I could ask her directly. She’d be evasive and flippant at first, but I could work the answers out of her. Make her admit that she likes spending time with me. Get her to confess that she wanted to come over tonight and that she feels our connection too.

My stomach lurches at the thought.

What am I even on about?

There can’t be a connection. There isn’t a connection.

My wolf wants her, and she’s fun to be around, but that’s it. That’s all there is and can ever be, because it’s bad enough that I’m fucking my best friend’s daughter, but if I fall for her? If I had feelings for the woman over twenty years younger than me who self-professes that she’s allergic to commitment and told me from the start that this is only sex and her helping me out?

I’d truly be the stupidest man ever to walk the earth.

That, or the biggest masochist in existence.

After a night of fitful sleep, where I dream about Samantha coming over to my place to mock me for being stupid enough to think she’d want to spend more time with me, then morphing into my father who berates me for losing control as I start to shift, the last thing I want to do is go into work.

It takes all my willpower not to nod off as people drone on in meetings about things that I should probably contribute to but can’t find the will to care about. The only thing keeping me awake at all is knowing that Samantha is at her desk outside my office, wearing what can only be described as a dress meant to torture me with how it clings to her curves, the little slit at the back of the skirt practically a guide for me to rip it off of her body.

I’m tired and distracted, which is why I don’t notice right away how terrible of a mood she’s in until she comes into my office between meetings and sets down my coffee so hard it sloshes over the side of the mug and onto a stack of papers. Instead of scrambling to clean it up like she normally would or apologizing, she just mutters, “here’s your coffee,” and turns to leave.

“Samantha.” I speak her name in a sharp command that has her freezing in place.

She looks back at me. “What?”

“Come here.”

Despite whatever is bothering her, she doesn’t hesitate for more than a second, returning to my desk, even as she glares at me.

I glance down at the coffee seeping into the papers. “You made a mess.”

“Oh. Sorry.” There’s no apology in her tone, nor does she make any move to clean it up.