Page 9 of If The Shoe Fits (A Howlin’ Good Fairytale Retelling #2)

chapter eight

W ulfy looks at me like I’m about to be his next favorite chew toy. His eyes are glittering gold with his beast, and the steady rumble in his chest is doing filthy things to my imagination, not to mention ruining my panties.

“Talk? Why talk when we can do other things?” he says and licks a trail from my chest to my chin.

“What? No, no. Really, we must talk. You don’t want to do this.”

“Oh, yes, I do. I’ve been wanting to do this for months now,” he growls.

“No, you really haven’t! You don’t like me. Good gravy, you don’t even look at me when we’re in the same place!” I shout and try to get some space between us.

But really, he’s more octopus than Wolf. His big hands caress my body over my clothes, and I can’t help but react.

“Now I know that’s a lie. Honey, I can’t stop looking at you. Sexy, beautiful little Witch. Dying for you,” he growls.

“Oh my Goddess,” I moan as he kisses me deeper, only stopping to sniff my neck.

“Tell me, Sweet, are you overcome with passion, too? I mean, why are you here in my office right now?” he asks.

He presses his mouth to mine, tongue delving between my lips, kissing me like he can’t help himself. I try to stop kissing him back, really, I do.

But, oh hell, I am only human.

Sorta.

“Don’t you remember?” I ask, panting as his big hands slide down my back.

“Remember? Remember what? Christ, your body is fucking perfect,” he says, molding his fingers to my hips, then moving them down further until he is squeezing my ass over my skirt.

The air is ripe with urgency. The need to spread my legs and have him inside me is so strong, it’s like every cell in my body is working towards that singular goal.

He flexes his hips, rubbing the steel rod I feel beneath his slacks against my stomach.

Holy hell .

The man is huge.

“Try to think. You must know why I am here,” I say, gasping as he starts to lift the fabric.

“I remember the first moment I saw you, my tongue going dry, and my heart racing. You smell like sweet apple cider and fresh baked rosemary bread. Goddess, I want you so badly,” he murmurs, licking my neck and biting down, but not hard enough to break skin.

I’m halfway gone.

Intoxicated by his touch.

But this isn’t right. I just know something is wrong.

I push against his chest again, and I feel his responding growl, but he is a good man, and he loosens his hold.

“Okay, something happened in the last ten minutes. We need to figure it out,” I say and push a little harder until he releases me completely.

I am sure I will regret this, but really, I can’t just allow this to continue.

Another five minutes, and I’d let him bend me over his desk and have his growly way with me.

“I am ready to bend you over anywhere, anyway, and any when. Just say yes, Sweet Witch,” he responds to a statement I know I didn’t make out loud, and I startle.

“Did you just read my mind?” I demand, my voice a little too high-pitched for my liking, my eyes wide as saucers.

“I did,” he replies, grinning like the Big Bad Wolf himself, all sharp teeth and unrepentant swagger. “You know, that’s pretty common with fated mates.”

My heart stops. Then starts again. Then begins pounding so hard I’m pretty sure it’s trying to escape my ribcage.

Fated mates?

No. No, no, no.

This can’t be. I mean, do I wish it were true? Obviously.

I’d be lying if I said the thought of being Wulfy Tremayne’s fated mate didn’t give me a thrill.

But if it were true— if we were really fated mates —he would’ve said something long before now. Right?

N o, this has the unmistakable stink of magic all over it.

“No,” I blurt, shaking my head vehemently. “No, no. There’s a mistake. I am not your mate. Mr. Tremayne?—”

Before I can finish, I realize his hands are on me again.

When did that happen?

Why is it happening?

And more importantly, why do I kind of want it to keep happening?

I wiggle out of his grasp like a slippery eel, stepping away and spinning around so my back is to him.

Maybe if I can’t see him, I can get my brain—and my wildly racing pulse—under control.

“Okay. Principal Tremayne,” I say firmly, determined to establish some professional distance.

“Wulfy,” he corrects, his tone soft and almost playful, like he’s trying to coax a skittish cat out of a tree.

I whip around and narrow my eyes at him, but the effect is totally wasted because he’s still grinning.

Grinning and inching closer like some cocky, predatory panther who knows his prey has nowhere to run.

“Goddess, you are something,” he says, his whiskey-colored eyes practically glowing as they sweep over me. “Look at those eyes. Dark as midnight and just as mysterious.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. I don’t like where this is going.

“And those curls,” he murmurs, his hand reaching out before I can stop him. His fingers find a lock of my hair, twirling it gently.

“It’s horribly frizzy when it rains. And it gets tangled. A lot.”

“Sweet Witch, it’s beautiful. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about seeing all this glorious hair of yours spread across my sheets like a billowing sail.”

I freeze. My brain short-circuits.

Did he really just say that? Out loud?

“ W ulfy, I don’t think?—”

“You don’t think *what*?” he interrupts, his voice dropping to a rumbling purr that makes my knees go alarmingly weak. “That I’ve imagined what it’d be like to tangle my hands in this hair? To kiss you senseless? To feel you shiver against me?”

Okay, that’s it. My pulse officially breaks the sound barrier.

“You’re insane,” I manage to choke out, stepping back again, only to bump into his desk.

Fantastic.

Now I’m trapped between the mahogany monstrosity and the walking, talking daydream that is Wulfy Tremayne.

“Insane?” he repeats, his grin softening into something that looks suspiciously like genuine affection.

“Maybe. But if I am, it’s only because you drive me there.”

My mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. I feel like a fish flopping on dry land, completely out of my depth.

“Don’t fight this, Sweet Witch,” he says, his hand brushing my cheek now, his touch impossibly warm. “You feel it too, don’t you? This pull between us?”

I hate that he’s right.

I hate that my body betrays me with every shaky breath and every inch I lean closer without meaning to.

But more than anything, I hate that I’m this close to swooning.

And when he leans in, his golden eyes locked on mine, his voice a low growl as he murmurs, “Let me show you,” I know I’m in serious trouble.

Holy motherhumping hotness.

His eyes are still glowing, and that snickerdoodle scent of his—that magnificent, mouthwatering, cinnamon, sugar cookie smell is driving me bananas.

Would it be so bad to take advantage of whatever this is and cure myself of the very long dry spell I’ve been stuck in?

Yes, Dora, you ho! It would be very bad!

Ugh. My inner voice can be such a drag sometimes.

“Listen, we have to talk about this, and I can’t string together two thoughts with you touching and kissing me,” I snap, and he just smiles wider.

Of course he does. I just about told him how much he affects me.

FML.

No man, or Wolf, should be that damn handsome. It’s criminal.

“Please, Principal—” I pause when he growls and I correct myself, “I mean Wulfy . Please Wulfy. I need you to listen.”

If I admitted how much I’ve been wanting to call him by his first name or some other term of endearment, I was never going to fix this mess.

“Okay, my sweet Dora, I’ll listen if you will,” he replies and winks.

“Oh, um, okay,” I say, and lick my lips.

He narrows his eyes, following the move with a rapt expression that makes me want to climb him like a tree.

“The truth is I’ve been waiting months for the opportunity to touch and kiss you, my sexy little Witch. But if you need me to wait a few more minutes until we consummate our mating, I can do that. And I will listen to what you have to say, but only if you sit on my lap while you say it,” he says.

Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.