How to Marry a Werewolf

Faith was enjoying her evening, the looming presence of Major Channing notwithstanding. He seemed to swoop in at odd times, presenting her with a glass of punch or distracting her from her conversation by glowering fiercely. She noticed that if she paid any one gentleman too much attention for too long a time, the major would make himself known. Then he would disappear and ignore her once more. It was sublimely aggravating. Like being desired by a very large mosquito.

Stop terrorizing the servants, Channing. I don't care how you get yourself out of this twitchy, angry mood you are in, but do it now. I believe I preferred you as a cold, elusive pollock." Channing grinned. "Now you see why I work so hard for that state. Anything else is worse." Biffy rolled his eyes. "You could try being happy. Or would that strain something?" "He doesn't know how." Lyall's voice was sad. Biffy glared at them both. "Oh, for goodness' sake, he's a werewolf, and he likes to fight. Is it so wrong to suggest he might, oh I don't know, fight for her?

Now, Faith dear…” “Yes, cousin?” “Of course, you look absolutely ravishing, but perhaps no mention of rocks right away?” “Not a single sedimentary sequence shall pass my lips, I promise.” Faith attempted to look grave. “I don’t know what that means, dear, but thank you.

parched for the raisins in her breath and the lapis in her eyes.

What if I want him to throw me up against the wall and press against me with his whole body, as if he needed me to breathe?

How many times has he taken revenge on a woman for the sins of a wife decades dead?

Miss Wigglesworth gave him an assessing look out of her remarkable blue eyes. “You’re a libertine? How very unique.” She gave a small fake yawn. She was, in that heartbeat, so perfect and so pure and so very dangerous indeed that all he could do was frighten her away. “Have you been listening at keyholes, Lazuli? I assure you, they have always been willing, even when I ask that they pretend otherwise.” She blushed deep pink at that – an appealing thing, the blood high under her cheeks, warm and subtle and alive. He wanted to delve into her, with teeth and body until she was ravaged and supine and wrecked and bleeding and his. She did not, as he had expected, break away from him mid-step. The blush was there, to be sure, but she was made of sterner stuff. Any true innocent would be repulsed by the intent in his tone. A woman without experience would fear the implication of his preferences – the certain acknowledgment that there was wolf, nothing but wolf, underneath all his icy indifference. Faith was intrigued. She tilted her head and looked hard at him, her lovely eyes flinty. “So, you’re just a beast who enjoys the chase, nothing else?” “Exactly so.” She threw it all at him. Like a piece of warm fresh meat, cut and dripping temptation, enough to make him salivate, to bait her trap. “You can’t catch me.” The waltz ended.