Page 44 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

“Good.” I pulled my fingers from her pussy, and she gave a little cry of protest as I tugged her off the desk and set her on her feet. I took a moment to steady her, and then I moved briskly, retrieving her jeans and ruined panties from the floor. She blushed furiously as I tucked the panties in my pocket, and she made an exasperated sound when I crouched before her with the jeans.

“I can do it,” she huffed, but she let me help her into her pants, and she stood docilely as I straightened her sweater and smoothed her hair.

“There,” I said, stepping back. I sucked my fingers into my mouth, and I didn’t muffle my growl as her taste hit my tongue again.

Despite everything we’d done over the past half hour, Harper’s cheeks went scarlet. Her hand shook as she tucked a lock of tangled hair behind her ear.

I licked the last of her arousal from my fingers. Then, with a hand on her shoulder, I turned her toward the door and delivered a firm swat on her ass. “You’re distracting me, woman. Go back to the kitchen and make my dinner.”

She rounded on me, one hand going to her posterior. As I skirted my desk and settled in my chair, it was clear she didn’t know whether to be angry or amused. She seemed to settle somewhere in the middle as she shot me a disgruntled look.

“What do you like to eat?” The second the words left her, she snapped her mouth shut, clearly realizing what she’d said.

I leaned back in my chair, anticipation flaring under my skin. “Harper,” I said, loading my tone with as much suggestion as possible. “If you make it, I’ll eat it.”

She absorbed the double meaning with bright pink cheeks and a jerky nod. Then she was gone. But I had her panties in my pocket. If dinner went the way I planned, I’d soon have her in my bed. And if a little voice in the back of my head warned the latter was a very bad idea, I didn’t hear it.

I pulled the Book of Crubeus in front of me, flipped it open, and resumed searching for the elusive knowledge that might finally deliver the freedom I’d waited almost a century to find.

Chapter

Fifteen

HARPER

“You look beautiful,” Einar said, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

We sat in Draithmere’s dining room, which boasted the kind of high-quality antiques my mother would have swooned over. But I hardly noticed the elegant hutch and scroll back chairs.

No, my attention was occupied with the roguishly handsome lycan prince at the head of the table. Einar had seated me to his right, which meant we didn’t have to shout to hear each other.

And he hadn’t taken his eyes off me—not even when Arlo brought in the crab bisque I made as a first course.

“Thank you,” I said now, glancing down at my dress, which was the only one I’d brought from home. Alone in my room before dinner, I’d hesitated to wear it, thinking it might be too much. That maybe I’d look too eager—or, worse, desperate. But those fears had evaporated when I saw Einar.

He was every inch a prince in a dark suit that molded to his body so lovingly it had to be bespoke. He’d gone without a tie, and his starched dress shirt was open at the collar, revealing a tantalizing vee of golden skin. Silver cufflinks winked at his wrists. His dark blond hair was brushed back from his forehead, and he smelled expensive, like cologne sprinkled over pinecones.

“That dress suits you,” he said, sipping from his wineglass. His silver eyes made a quick sprint down my bodice. “Armani?”

Surprise tripped through me. Although, maybe it shouldn’t have. Einar clearly knew fine things.

I smoothed a hand down my skirt. “Yes. Several years out of style, I’m afraid.”

“Couture never goes out of style.” Einar toyed with his wineglass, his long fingers caressing the stem. A thick, silver watch peeked from under his cuff. “But you could wear a potato sack, and no one could take their eyes off you. Including me.”

The heat that had simmered between us since we sat down sizzled higher. A second later, Arlo swept into the room with two dinner plates in his hands.

“Chicken piccata over linguine,” he announced. He moved quickly, placing the plates in front of us and then disappearing as swiftly as he’d appeared. When I turned my attention back to Einar, he watched me with an intensity that let me know he’d never stopped.

“I hope you like chicken piccata,” I said, lifting my fork and knife.

Einar’s eyes reflected the fire dancing atop the candles—and his expression was just as smoldering. “I already told you, sweetheart, I’ll eat anything you make.” He cut a piece of chicken and popped it into his mouth. His eyes widened, and he made an appreciative sound as he chewed and swallowed quickly. “Damn, Harper. You’re a gifted chef.”

Pride swelled my chest. “I’m glad you like it.”

We spent the next few minutes eating, our conversation light and companionable. Einar seemed to take a genuine interest in the dishes I’d made, as well as the cooking I did with my mother growing up.

“She took me to several Michelin star restaurants when I was a kid,” I said. “Unfortunately, I was too young to appreciate it, and I usually ended up ordering chicken fingers and macaroni and cheese.”

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