Page 17 of Bewitching the Wolf

Fuck that centaur.

TIPPY

When Larry says, “Let’s dance,” I demur with a coy smirk. “Oh no… I don’t dance.’

“Yeah, you do, you used to be an aerobics instructor,” Larry insists.

“That’s not the same thing.”

But the truth is, I do love dancing. All vixen shifters do. And with my witch heritage, I’ve learned a few exotic moves from Aunt Felicia.

“It’s high time I taught you the steps to the wixen mating dance,” she told me a month ago. “You’re nearing the end of your first year of training, after which remaining a virgin is very much your choice.”

“Phhttt,” I huff, trying not to let my mind go straight to Jax. “Why would I bother to learn all this to impress a lousy fox-shifter.”

My aunt’s brows scoot up. “Who said anything about a fox-shifter?”

I blink.

“For you, honey, there will be someone special.” She sandwiches my cheeks between her hands and gives me a kiss on the nose. “Because you are special.” I didn’t try to get any more out of her. Aunt Felicia will never be goaded into telling you more than is necessary.

So I just learned the dance moves. All swaying hips, flirtatious eyes and sensual smiles. It made me feel seductive. Desirable. Sexy.

Since then, I’ve practiced those steps in the privacy of my bedroom, and yes, I’ll admit, I might have imagined I was dancing for a certain someone.

A part of me knows it’s wrong to execute the dance here. I don’t want Larry to take it the wrong way. They’re powerful moves, designed to bring out male desire.

But the wicked wixen in me really wants to show Jax what he’s missing.

I have a strong sense he’s still in the club, watching me from the darkness.

As I follow Larry onto the dance floor, I’m filled with misgivings. Centaurs take up a lot of space, with their equine rear body and huge hooves. And I’m a lot smaller than him. If he steps on me by mistake, I could get badly hurt.

But it’s too late to renege on my decision.

I start by circling my hips, swaying to the music from the band. Monsters’ gazes are trained on me as I let my tail join the rhythm.

Closing my eyes, I increase the sinewy movements, and raise my hands above my head.

There’s a round of applause, then someone shouts, “Woohoo, go, girl!”

The musicians slow the music, increasing the bass to a low, sensual beat, perfect for a mating dance.

Abandoning the last of my inhibitions, I ruffle my hair with my hands, then run them over my face, down my front, skimming my breasts, and feel my nipples harden. I even undo a button or two of my shirt, and notice how my skin sheens above my breasts. As the drumbeat pounds harder, I start to dance faster, letting my hips shimmy and my tail swish wildly.

Before long, I’m lost in the rhythm. I imagine—in fact, I know—that Jax is watching me. I feel his gaze like beams of heat, radiating all over my body.

I throw back my head and bite my lip, feeling far more drunk than I should.

Larry is moving closer. I sidestep his big, clumsy hooves.

“Climb on my back,” he hollers over the music.

I shake my head.

Dancing on a centaur’s back is something exhibitionists do for a dare. That’s not me. I’m not a circus entertainer, for goddess’s sake.

You’re behaving like one, a little voice inside me whispers, and for a moment I feel foolish. Larry mistakes my hesitation as consent, and suddenly his big muscular arms lift me into the air and plonk me on his back.