He shut the truck door harder than necessary.
His dragon noticed the lie instantly. He was even wearing his best blue flannel shirt.
***
By the time he pulled up outside the bakery, evening had settled over Honeybay. Heat still radiated from the cobblestones. The sea breeze drifted in—salted, slow, and thick with the scent of damp earth. The street was mostly quiet, the kind of silence that made a man’s pulse thrum too loudly in his own ears.
The light upstairs was on.
No curtains. No blinds. Just a raw, golden glow spilling into the dark.
He saw her silhouette moving across the flat. She was wearing something that did absolutely nothing to conceal the lush, soft reality of her body.
Does she want half the werewolves in town howling beneath her windows all night?
The thought hit him hard—sharp, irritated, and purely possessive. His jaw tightened until it ached. He knew the back entrance; he had used it a dozen times when Seth had owned the place. He supplied him with eggs and apple cider—though he wasn't sure what pastry the latter was used in.
He knocked, the sound heavy and impatient against the wood.
A moment later, he caught a soft commotion in the corridor. Then the door opened without the click of a lock turning.
Sylvie stood there, framed in moonlight and the faint amber glow of the streetlamps.
Now he saw clearly what he had only glimpsed through the glass, and whatever fragile thread of control he had left snapped.
A light robe hung loosely from her shoulders. Beneath it, a silky cami clung to every curve, the fabric skimming the swell of her hips and dipping just enough at her chest to tease him with the shadow of cleavage. Matching shorts hugged the soft fullness of her thighs.
His throat went bone-dry.
“You never ask who’s at the door?” he growled, his voice rougher than he had intended, vibrating with a territorial edge.
She leaned one shoulder against the frame, her lips curving in exactly the wrong way.
“And who am I supposed to be afraid of, exactly?” she asked, her voice a daring silk. “You?”
Her mouth did things to his imagination he didn’t appreciate. It was ridiculous; he was a dragon, and she was making him feel like a teenager with a permanent, painful ache.
“Speedy delivery,” she added brightly.
“What?” He blinked, the scent of her—vanilla, warm skin, and something floral—scrambling his senses like a radio tuned to static.
She pointed at the crate. “I only placed my order this afternoon. That’s impressive.”
“Customer service excellence,” he gritted out, though his thoughts were nowhere near professional.I want to service you—slow, thorough, and completely unrestrained.“You said you wanted to try some cheese. I brought a few.”
She leaned forward to peer into the crate, and the world narrowed to the way her breasts swayed. The robe slipped farther, revealing the unmistakable outlines of her nipples straining against the silk like happy berries.
His grip on the wood tightened until the crate creaked in protest.
“Looks delicious,” she said brightly. She reached in, her fingers closing around the ripest strawberry in the batch. She bit into it, juice glossing her lips—a messy, sweet invitation. “Oh,” she breathed. “That’s good.”
Fuck, how good my cock would fit in that mouth.
The thought was a gauntlet thrown at his self-restraint. He hardened instantly, a heavy, insistent weight that made him nearly drop the crate.
“Do you want to come in?” she asked.
Yes. Fuck, yes.
