Logan won’t stop grinning at from across the table, and it’s making the tender, perfectly seasoned ribeye taste like cardboard.
Not because of anything the chef did.
It’s all because of him and the pheromones he’s dumping my way.
What tear in my vajayjay? There’s no tear, my brain insists, cajoling into round two. Maybe on the dinner table. Or the kitchen counter.
The sofa’s good, too. Always fun to desecrate a sof—
No.
Damn it.
Nicole, stop listening to the pheromones.
I cut another piece of steak, placing it in my mouth with chanical precision while trying to resist the magnetism of Logan’s gaze. It should taste divine, since it’s coming from the five-star restaurant downstairs... but my tongue is too busy craving sothing else.
Heat crawls up my neck.
Ah, dirty Nicole. You’ve just jumped straight into the gutter.
His elbow rests on the table, chin propped in his hand, eyes never leaving my face.
I deliberately focus on my plate, as if the arrangent of roasted potatoes requires my full concentration. They’re tricky, after all. Too aggressive and they fall apart. Too hesitant and you don’t get through the skin. Yep. Potatoes require all my attention.
"I’m going to have to install so restraints in the bedroom," Logan announces casually, as if comnting on the weather. "For my safety, of course. My mate’s a wildcat."
My fork stabs through a potato like it’s my worst enemy, and the steak lodges in my throat.
I cough violently, reaching for my glass, but it doesn’t help. Liquid flows down the wrong pipe, making everything ten tis worse.
My eyes water as I struggle to breathe.
The threat to my life lasts only a second, but Logan’s already by my side, smacking at my back with great big thumps. "You okay?"
My coughing fit subsides, replaced by so sort of strange mix of indignation and the urge to beg him to get on those restraints pronto. What happened to my self-respect?
Gone, apparently. Must have sold itself on the black market for another romp in the hay with an alpha werewolf.
I shrug his hand away, twisting in my chair to glare at him.
"Restraints? Really?"
His eyebrows lift, and his trademark charming smirk returns. "You’re deadly with a pillow."
You have a tear down there, Nicole. Abort all flirting. Back off. You’ll regret it in the morning if you play with this bad boy.
He chuckles. "Fine, fine. That was just testing the waters."
"Testing the—" I sputter, while my lower body says yes, please, I’ll pass with flying colors, sir.
"You’d be surprised what people reveal when caught off guard."
I narrow my eyes further. "That’s manipulation."
"Strategic conversation." He strolls back to his seat, resuming his over-the-table observation. Elbow on table. Chin in hand. Eyes unblinking. "Your steak’s getting cold."
I lower my gaze to my plate, stabbing at an unsuspecting potato and watching it fall apart. "So. About these restraints..."
"Yes?"
I peek up at him through my eyelashes. "Are we talking about the fuzzy pink handcuff kind of restraints, or where you tie to the bedposts with rope?"
Logan pupils dilate so fast, I swear I can hear them expanding.
"Neither." His voice drops an octave, rough and gravelly. "I was thinking leather. Custom-made. Reinforced with silver threading for durability."
The temperature in the room spikes. Or maybe that’s just .
"Silver?" I raise an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Isn’t that harmful to werewolves?"
"Are you a werewolf?"
My mouth goes dry.
"I didn’t think you were the type," I murmur, focusing intently on cutting another piece of steak.
"To restrain beautiful won? Or to be prepared for all possibilities?"
The knife slips, scraping against the ceramic plate with an unpleasant screech. "Both, I guess."
I’m playing with fire, and I know it. My body is still aching from our elevator encounter, but apparently, my self-preservation instinct has gone on vacation.
A long vacation.
"I thought alphas preferred dominance through pure strength alone." I take a sip of water, because I’m clearly incapable of getting a single bite of food onto my fork. "Accessories seem... unnecessary."
Logan leans forward with another of his wicked grins. "Strength without control is just brutality. The restraints aren’t about power—they’re about the anticipation."
My thighs squeeze together as my brain conjures up all sorts of naughty images. The slight pressure reminds of the tender soreness between my legs.
Abort, abort, abort.
But... I don’t.
"So you’re saying you have experience with this sort of thing?" I ask, trying to reclaim so control over the conversation. "With another woman, maybe?"
"No." His answer is imdiate, unambiguous. "Just a delightful imagination when it cos to my mate."
The relief I feel is ridiculous. I have no business feeling territorial about Logan’s past. Yet here I am, practically purring with satisfaction at his answer.
"Would you like to know more?" he asks, his voice like velvet as his foot nudges mine under the table.
My body will die if I let him have his way. I should change the subject. Maybe talk about Princess Paws. Or my magic and how terribly it’s going.
"Yes," I whisper instead.
"First," he says, his eyes growing dark, "I’d bind your wrists. Not too tight—comfort is essential for extended play."
My breath catches. Extended play?
"Then your ankles, spread just wide enough for you to feel exposed, but not strained."
I can’t seem to find my voice. The image he’s painting takes root in my mind, and I wiggle a little in my chair.
"The leather would be custom-made—soft against your skin but impossible to break. Maybe I’ll have each cuff lined with silk. Wouldn’t want your precious skin to chafe."
"You’ve... given this a lot of thought."
"Only since I t you."
Fuck. How does he do this to every ti? His pheromones are have filled the room, making it hard to breathe without my entire body throbbing with need.
"What happens after that?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. It shakes despite my best effort, so I sip at so water to pretend like it’s just because my throat’s a little dry.
His tongue runs over his top lip as he tilts his head. "Hmm. That depends on your tolerance for sensory play."
"Sensory play?" I echo, like a parrot with a limited vocabulary.
"Blindfolds. Temperature. Textures." He lists each item as if reading from a nu. "Perhaps a feather dragged along your inner thigh. Or ice lting against your nipples."
I almost drop my glass.
"All designed to heighten your awareness of every touch." Logan continues, unperturbed by my reaction. "Until you’re so sensitized that even my breath against your skin would make you tremble."
Hell, I’m trembling now, imagining it all with embarrassing clarity.
"Is this a common alpha thing? This whole bondage scenario?"
"Nope." He shakes his head slowly, never letting his eyes leave mine. "It’s a Logan thing. With you. Specifically."
I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse. Better, I decide. Definitely better.
"And what if I wanted to tie you up instead?" The words tumble out before I can reconsider them.
Logan’s eyebrows shoot up, genuine surprise flashing across his face before his expression settles into sothing more contemplative.
"Are you volunteering?" he asks, his voice a dangerous purr.
"Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically." He rolls the word around his mouth like he’s tasting it. "I would allow it. Under very specific conditions."
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. I hadn’t expected him to agree, even theoretically. Alphas are notorious for their need to dominate, to control.
"What conditions?" I ask, leaning forward despite myself.
"You’d have to earn it." His gaze burns into mine. "Prove you can handle having an alpha werewolf at your rcy."
Oh.
I like the sound of that.
"And how would I go about earning such a privilege?"
"That’s for you to figure out. Consider it a long-term project."
"I’ll take that under advisent," I say, picking up my fork again in a valiant attempt to regain my composure, like I’m not ready for him to throw everything on this table and slam onto it instead.
Logan chuckles, the sound rich and deep. "Please do."
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