It was the most obnoxiously cocky thing Dylan had ever seen.
“Here you go,” Steve said, handing him back his phone. The contacts app was open, and Dylan could see that Steve had filled out most of the fields, including his social media handles and his birthday.
The selfie he’d taken was there at the top of the screen, Steve’s grinning face and flexing bicep captured in miniature.
“Thanks,” Dylan mumbled, putting the phone back in his pocket.
“Well, I should probably get going. I have a shift at three, and I’d like to shower and have something to eat before that.” Steve rose to his feet, looming over Dylan as he pulled on his jacket. He grinned as he tucked his helmet under his arm and tugged on his gloves. “Does it make me an asshole that I hope your date on Wednesday sucks?”
Dylan snorted, not surprised by the shamelessness of the question. “A little, maybe?”
Steve grinned, grabbing his helmet in his right hand now that he was done putting on his gloves. “In that case, good luck on your date.”
Dylan had never heard anything less sincere. He smiled anyway. “Thank you. Have a good shift today. Direct lots of traffic.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed, his grin turning a little menacing. He leaned down, and Dylan’s breath caught at just how big he was.
“If you were mine, I’d spank you for that.”
Every muscle in Dylan’s body froze, his mind coming to a screeching halt.
Steve’s expression turned smug with satisfaction. He leaned closer, resting his hand on Dylan’s armrest and crowding into his space with all the grace of an apex predator.
“And guess what?”
Dylan swallowed, the sound impossibly loud to his own ears. “What?”
Steve leaned even closer, his breath hot against Dylan’s cheek. His body was like a furnace. “I would make you love every second of it.”
Dylan whimpered, knowing with absolute certainty that Steve was correct. He’d never been spanked – either for real or by a lover – but Dylan knew deep down to his bones that if Steve put him over his muscular thighs and smacked his butt, it would be the best thing ever.
Opening his mouth, Dylan hesitated. He didn’t know what to say. Not after that.
Steve rose up, his hand going briefly to his crotch to adjust himself through the leather. He was still grinning, enjoying Dylan’s horny distress.
“I’ll let you get back to your thesis.” He took a step back and winked. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”
He left the coffee shop, garnering more than a few stares as he strutted out the door.
Dylan watched him go, tracking him through the window as he made his way outside. Steve didn’t look back as he mounted his motorcycle and put on his helmet, or after he kicked his bike into gear and took off down the street.
Dylan kept looking out the window, far too worked up to go back to work.
It felt unreal.
Dylan had gone his whole life without talking to a werewolf, and now suddenly he had two that were interested in him?
It didn’t make sense.
Dylan wasn’t unattractive. He knew that he had a nice face, and he was more toned than he should be considering how little he worked out, but he wasn’t something that would have hunks like Dr. Schaffer and Steve drooling over him like he was a choice piece of meat.
Then again, they were the only werewolves Dylan had ever met. Maybe he was exactly what werewolves liked, and he’d just never known it because he hadn’t met any?
But that didn’t feel likely. He’d never heard of werewolves having a type, and he was sure that if they did the magazines and blogs devoted to glorifying and objectifying werewolves would have been all over it.
It could be some sort of trick, Dylan’s insecurities whispered into the back of his mind. He could be the subject in a highly unethical research trial looking at how losers who hadn’t had sex in over a year would react if werewolves started hitting on them.
Dylan pushed those thoughts firmly down. Steve and Dr. Schaffer being into him was weird, but it wasn’t illegal studies being conducted on him conspiracy-theory weird.
