Shane’s.
He turned his head and looked down at her. The scar next to his eyes almost seemed to move on its own in the firelight, and Greta felt like his blue eyes looked straight through her body and into her soul.
You’re drunk , she thought. Who the hell thinks things like that?
“Guess,” he said, his eyes crinkling with a half-smile.
“Fighting,” Greta said.
“You got it,” he said, then turned back toward the fire. He re-crossed his feet on the makeshift coffee table, and now their big toes were touching.
Greta’s heart skipped a beat, but she tried to play it cool.
“Believe it or not, I’ve actually mellowed out since then,” he went on. “Don’t tell any of the folks around here, but I saw a therapist for years for my anger management issues.”
Greta’s eyes widened. She was aware that humans thought therapy was pretty normal — and as far as she could tell, other shifters, too — but that sort of thing was nearly verboten with wolves. In wolf society, if you had a problem that was less serious than a broken bone, you sucked it up and got on with your life.
If you had a psychological problem, you were basically screwed. Greta had long suspected that if more wolves were in therapy, her bar would be a lot emptier.
“It helped?” she asked.
“It did,” answered Elliott, walking into the room balancing three dessert plates. His deep, beautiful voice made Greta’s bones hum. “That was the first bar fight he’d gotten into in almost three years. Nearly since we met.”
Elliott started to hand her the plate with the cheesecake on it, then hesitated, the plate halfway to her.
“Wait,” he said. “Close your eyes.”
Greta looked at him and bit her lip, letting her gaze travel from his head to his feet and back up.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I like to see what’s coming.
“Just cheesecake, I promise,” he said. He sat down on the hearth in front of the fireplace and cut a sliver of cheesecake off of his slice, scooping it onto his fork. “Come on,” he said with half a grin.
Greta sat forward on the couch, no longer leaning back.
“Why are you so gung-ho to feed me?” she asked. “I can feed myself just fine.”
“It’s better if you’re not looking,” Elliott said, his voice half-serious, half-teasing. “That way you can only focus on what’s happening to your tongue.”
Greta raised her eyebrows, and even though Elliott was backlit, she could have sworn he’d blushed. For her part, she felt warm all over, her core heating to near-molten levels.
Who’d have thought that Elliott Whiting would get me so hot and bothered someday? She wondered. He used to tuck his t-shirts into his jeans that he wore practically around his armpits.
To her right, she heard the sound of a fork against a plate, and looked over to see Shane already chowing down on cheesecake.
“I’m not waiting for you two,” he said. “This thing has been calling my name from the fridge all day.”
Greta felt her lips tugged into a smile.
“All right, fine,” she said, and closed her eyes, then opened her mouth.
Moments later, she felt the cool, creamy dessert slide between her lips, she closed her mouth around the fork before Elliott drew it back out.
“Was that so bad?” Elliott teased.
“Nnnggghh,” Greta said. For a moment, she couldn’t think about anything but the cheesecake in her mouth. It was perfectly creamy, with a texture that slid along her tongue, lighting up the taste buds all the way to the back of her mouth. The crust was crumbly in exactly the right way, and added a hint of spice and sweetness to the tart, tangy deliciousness of the cheesecake itself.
“This is amazing,” Greta said when she finally swallowed the mouthful. She didn’t open her eyes again, but savored the flavors, the feeling of the warmth from the fire on her skin, the light beyond her eyelids.
“Want another bite?” Elliott asked.
“Are you going to feed me the whole
He turned his head and looked down at her. The scar next to his eyes almost seemed to move on its own in the firelight, and Greta felt like his blue eyes looked straight through her body and into her soul.
You’re drunk , she thought. Who the hell thinks things like that?
“Guess,” he said, his eyes crinkling with a half-smile.
“Fighting,” Greta said.
“You got it,” he said, then turned back toward the fire. He re-crossed his feet on the makeshift coffee table, and now their big toes were touching.
Greta’s heart skipped a beat, but she tried to play it cool.
“Believe it or not, I’ve actually mellowed out since then,” he went on. “Don’t tell any of the folks around here, but I saw a therapist for years for my anger management issues.”
Greta’s eyes widened. She was aware that humans thought therapy was pretty normal — and as far as she could tell, other shifters, too — but that sort of thing was nearly verboten with wolves. In wolf society, if you had a problem that was less serious than a broken bone, you sucked it up and got on with your life.
If you had a psychological problem, you were basically screwed. Greta had long suspected that if more wolves were in therapy, her bar would be a lot emptier.
“It helped?” she asked.
“It did,” answered Elliott, walking into the room balancing three dessert plates. His deep, beautiful voice made Greta’s bones hum. “That was the first bar fight he’d gotten into in almost three years. Nearly since we met.”
Elliott started to hand her the plate with the cheesecake on it, then hesitated, the plate halfway to her.
“Wait,” he said. “Close your eyes.”
Greta looked at him and bit her lip, letting her gaze travel from his head to his feet and back up.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I like to see what’s coming.
“Just cheesecake, I promise,” he said. He sat down on the hearth in front of the fireplace and cut a sliver of cheesecake off of his slice, scooping it onto his fork. “Come on,” he said with half a grin.
Greta sat forward on the couch, no longer leaning back.
“Why are you so gung-ho to feed me?” she asked. “I can feed myself just fine.”
“It’s better if you’re not looking,” Elliott said, his voice half-serious, half-teasing. “That way you can only focus on what’s happening to your tongue.”
Greta raised her eyebrows, and even though Elliott was backlit, she could have sworn he’d blushed. For her part, she felt warm all over, her core heating to near-molten levels.
Who’d have thought that Elliott Whiting would get me so hot and bothered someday? She wondered. He used to tuck his t-shirts into his jeans that he wore practically around his armpits.
To her right, she heard the sound of a fork against a plate, and looked over to see Shane already chowing down on cheesecake.
“I’m not waiting for you two,” he said. “This thing has been calling my name from the fridge all day.”
Greta felt her lips tugged into a smile.
“All right, fine,” she said, and closed her eyes, then opened her mouth.
Moments later, she felt the cool, creamy dessert slide between her lips, she closed her mouth around the fork before Elliott drew it back out.
“Was that so bad?” Elliott teased.
“Nnnggghh,” Greta said. For a moment, she couldn’t think about anything but the cheesecake in her mouth. It was perfectly creamy, with a texture that slid along her tongue, lighting up the taste buds all the way to the back of her mouth. The crust was crumbly in exactly the right way, and added a hint of spice and sweetness to the tart, tangy deliciousness of the cheesecake itself.
“This is amazing,” Greta said when she finally swallowed the mouthful. She didn’t open her eyes again, but savored the flavors, the feeling of the warmth from the fire on her skin, the light beyond her eyelids.
“Want another bite?” Elliott asked.
“Are you going to feed me the whole
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