The Strip by Heather Killough-Walden, Gildart Jackson Page A

to her before he brought her completely over.
    Now was not the time.
    Charlie moaned behind his hand as more heat and moisture gathered between her legs. Even Lucas visually tensed at the sound, watching with wonder as she closed her eyes against the mounting pleasure. Caige was a wolf and also an alpha, and he was definitely not immune to the blatantly sexual image that Charlie currently presented.
    Lucas stood, undoubtedly wanting to remove himself from the situation as quickly as possible. He moved toward the door and, with one last glance at his leader and his leader’s chosen mate, he left them alone, closing the door securely behind him.
    Malcolm removed his hand from Claire’s mouth and gazed at her through the tops of his now all-black eyes. As if she could sense that he was drawing her attention back to him, her eyes fluttered open.
    “You are mine, Charlie.”
    “What have you done to me?” she asked breathlessly.
    “I’ve marked you as my own. It can’t be reversed and you can’t fight it. So, I suggest you surrender to it, luv. And let it be.”
    He could feel that she would have instinctively fought against such a claim had she not been under the submissive effects of his mark. She was a tough girl, and he got the sense that she wasn’t new to the notion of fighting. But an alpha’s mark was inexorable.
    Still, she managed to narrow her gaze just a little. “You’re not human,” she accused. It was impressive that she had come to the conclusion so quickly. It was even more impressive that she accepted it so readily. But that was a female-born for you.
    “What the hell are you?” she ground out as another vicious wave of invasive pleasure threatened to make her climax right then and there.
    He smiled, flashing fangs. Her eyes widened, her breath catching.
    “I’m a werewolf,” he told her. “And so are you.”

Chapter Five, The Marked Card
    Charlie stared, wide-eyed, at the man who pinned her to her chair.
    Almost everything about him was straight out of a gothic horror movie. He was an erotic nightmare. From his strikingly handsome face and sculpted build to his all-pupil eyes and glistening fangs, to the aura around him that made her feel like a chocolate bar in a locked cage with a starving man, he was danger incarnate.
    He could be the devil. It would make perfect sense.
    Devil or not, she wanted him to rip off her clothes and take her on the floor, right then and there, in that room. And that realization absolutely, unequivocally terrified Charlie.
    Chemically speaking, terror is the sudden and rapid influx of adrenaline and cortisol into one’s bloodstream. Claire St.James now had so much adrenaline and cortisol running through her veins, there was little room for anything else.
    There was no room in her well-honed body for emotion. No room in her instinct-reverted brain for rational thought. Three hard years of intense training slammed into place, ruthlessly knocking away everything else that futilely scrambled for prime real-estate within her brain.
    The only thing she could do was what she had been taught to do for three years. In one fluid movement, she reached up, fast as lightning, and grasped both sides of Cole’s head. At the same time, she reared back and gained momentum. A split second later, she was slamming the thick of her skull into Malcolm’s face and knocking him entirely off the chair in which she sat.
    Without waiting to see what the full effect of her action was upon the man and without stopping to see whether he would get up to follow, Charlie vaulted out of the chair and raced to the door. She didn’t stop there, grasping the handle and flinging it open as she rushed out into the main lobby and straight for the front door.
    * * * *
    Lucas Caige watched Charlie leave the parlor, her long strawberry blonde locks flying out behind her as she headed full-steam into the chaos of the city beyond. He considered trying to stop her, but this was not his fight. And Malcolm