27. Luisa
— ? —
Luisa
The grandmothers arrived at seven o’clock sharp.
They came bearing wine and cheese plates and copies of a book with a shirtless man on the cover. The man appeared to be transforming into some kind of wolf-creature mid-pose, his abs gleaming in a way that suggested excellent genetics and perhaps a light application of body oil.
“Luisa!” Agnes swept through my front door like she owned the place. “Your home is lovely. Where should we set up?”
“Living room is fine-”
“Perfect. Doris, bring the crackers. Fern, the wine. Maude, you’ve got the reading copies?”
I stepped back as they invaded my house with the efficiency of a well-trained military unit. Within five minutes, they’d arranged themselves in a semicircle on my couch and chairs, wine glasses in hand, books open to bookmarked pages.
“Now,” Doris said, settling into what I was fairly certain was my favorite armchair, “where did we leave off last week?”
“Chapter twelve,” Fern supplied. “The scene in the woods.”
“Oh, the scene in the woods.” Maude fanned herself with her book. “That’s a good one.”
I sat down on the edge of the couch, already regretting everything about my life choices.
The book, a shifter romance, had been Agnes’s selection.
The premise was straightforward enough: a woman accidentally writes down the wrong phone number on her emergency contact form and ends up with a werewolf caretaker when she gets injured.
What happened after that was… less straightforward.
“I’ll read,” Agnes announced, clearing her throat. “Since I picked it.”
“Go on, then.”
Agnes adjusted her reading glasses, found her place, and began.
“‘His golden eyes burned into hers as he pressed her against the ancient oak. The bark was rough against her back, but she barely noticed, not when his hands were sliding up her thighs, parting them, settling her weight against his muscled body.
“‘This is crazy,’ she whispered.
“‘No,’ he growled. ‘This is fate.’”
I took a very large sip of wine.
“His mouth found her neck,” Agnes continued, her voice taking on an almost theatrical quality, “tracing the same path his hands had taken earlier, when he’d cleaned her wounds with such tender care. But there was nothing tender about this. This was hunger. This was possession. This was-”
Someone knocked on the door.
I nearly launched off the couch. “I’ll get it!”
“We’re not done with the scene,” Doris protested.
“It’s fine, I’ll just-”
I yanked open the door.
Wade stood on my porch.
He looked… good. Devastatingly good. His hair was tamed for once, swept back from his face.
He wore a clean button-down shirt that fit him perfectly, dark pants that did favorable things to his thighs.
In his arms, he carried an enormous bouquet of orchids, white and purple, their petals catching the porch light.
“Hi,” he said.
Every butterfly in my stomach woke up at once. “Hi.”
“Are you busy?”
“I-”
“Come on in, hon!” Doris called from the living room. “The more the merrier!”
Wade raised an eyebrow at me.
Heat crawled up my neck. “Yes. I’m busy. Very busy. You can come back-”
“Nonsense!” Agnes appeared behind me. “He can stay! It’s been a while since we’ve had a man in the club!”
“Club?” Wade’s expression shifted to one of dangerous interest. “What club?”
“Book club,” I said through my teeth, blushing so hard I was surprised I didn’t spontaneously combust.
His eyes lit up.
“Oh,” he said slowly, a smile spreading across his face. “I love this.”
Before I could stop him, he kissed my cheek, his lips warm and brief against my skin, but enough to knock the breath from my lungs, and walked past me into my house. He set the orchids on the table with casual grace, then surveyed the room with an expression of genuine delight.
“Ladies,” he said. “Lovely to see you all.”
“Wade!” Maude patted the cushion beside her. “Sit here, sit here. We were just getting to the good part.”
“The good part?”
“Agnes is reading.” Fern held up her copy so he could see the cover. “It’s about a werewolf. Very romantic.”
Wade took in the shirtless man on the cover. The transformation. The gleaming abs. His smile widened.
“I’m intrigued.”
I stood frozen in the doorway, my skin still lit up, my face still burning from that brief kiss. He was in my house. At my book club. About to listen to the grandmothers narrate what I knew from experience was pages and pages of explicit supernatural sex.
“Well?” Agnes waved at me. “Close the door, Luisa. You’re letting in mosquitos.”
I closed the door. Walked on numb legs back to the couch. Sat down in the only available spot, which was directly across from Wade.
He caught my eye. Smiled.
I wanted to kill him.
“Now,” Agnes said, “where were we? Ah, yes. ‘This was hunger. This was possession. This was the mating bond itself, crying out to be completed.’”
I took another large sip of wine.
“‘Please,’ she breathed. ‘I need-’
“‘I know what you need.’ His voice had dropped into that lower register, the one that wasn’t quite human. ‘I can smell it on you. Your body is calling to mine.’”
Wade’s eyes were on me. Fixed. Unwavering.
I refused to look at him.
“‘He lifted her like she weighed nothing,’” Agnes continued, “‘and she wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling the hard length of him pressing against her core through too many layers of fabric.’”
“That’s a great line,” Doris interjected. “Too many layers of fabric. Very evocative.”
“The author has a gift for description,” Fern agreed.
“I particularly enjoyed the part about the mating bond,” Maude added. “Very romantic.”
Wade leaned forward slightly. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt, but how does it work? With a shifter?”
Everyone turned to look at him.
“How does what work, dear?” Agnes asked.
“The mating bond. Is it a physical thing? A magical thing? Does he mark her somehow?”
The grandmothers exchanged delighted glances.
“Oh, there’s definitely marking,” Doris said. “That comes in chapter fourteen.”
“Biting,” Fern clarified. “On the neck.”
“It’s a whole thing,” Maude agreed. “The scent glands, the territorial instincts. Very primal.”
Wade nodded seriously, like he was taking mental notes. “And the shifting? Does that happen during the… intimate scenes?”
“Sometimes,” Agnes said. “In this one, he shifts partially. The eyes, the claws, the teeth.”
“Fascinating.”
I was going to die. I was actually going to die of embarrassment, right here on my couch, while my ex-husband discussed werewolf mating rituals with four women old enough to be his grandmothers.
“Should I continue?” Agnes asked.
“Please,” Wade said.
For fuck’s sake.
Agnes cleared her throat. “‘His claws extended, shredding through the thin fabric of her dress like it was tissue paper. She gasped, but not from fear, from anticipation. From the desperate, aching need that had been building since the moment she woke up in his den.’”
Wade’s eyes found mine again.
I looked away.
Looked back.
His gaze was darker now. Heated.
“‘I’ve wanted this since I first caught your scent,’” Agnes read. “‘Since I found you bleeding in the woods and knew, KNEW, that you were mine.’”
My whole body was tingling.
This was ridiculous. It was a book. Fiction. Werewolves weren’t real. Mating bonds weren’t real. The only thing real in this room was the man sitting across from me, watching me with eyes that made promises I wasn’t sure I could handle.
“‘He kissed her then,’” Agnes continued, “‘deep and desperate, his tongue claiming her mouth the way his body would soon claim the rest of her. She could feel his fangs, elongated now, scraping against her lower lip-’”
“That seems dangerous,” Wade interrupted. “The fangs. During kissing.”
“It’s erotic danger,” Fern explained. “Very different from regular danger.”
“He would never hurt her,” Maude added. “The bond prevents it.”
“Ah.” Wade nodded. “The bond. Right.”
I drained my wine glass.
The reading continued. Agnes’s voice rose and fell with the narrative, describing in explicit detail the various ways a werewolf might pleasure his human mate.
The grandmothers offered commentary. Wade asked questions, genuinely curious questions, like he was actually invested in the mechanics of supernatural romance.
And through it all, his eyes kept finding mine.
“‘His tongue traced lower,’” Agnes read, “‘following the path of his hands, tasting her skin-’”
“He seems very thorough,” Wade observed.
“Werewolves are very attentive lovers,” Doris informed him. “According to this genre.”
“Good to know.”
I was going to combust. Actually combust. My face was on fire. Other parts of me were on fire too, parts I was desperately trying to ignore.
“‘She cried out as he reached his destination, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer-’”
I stood up. “More wine! Does anyone need more wine?”
“I’m fine, dear.”
“Sit down, we’re almost to the climax.”
“The narrative climax,” Fern clarified.
“And the other kind,” Maude added.
Wade was grinning now. Actually grinning, like this was the best night of his life.
I hated him.
I wanted to kiss the smirk right off his face.
The reading finally, mercifully, ended. The chapter concluded with the heroine and her werewolf mate curled together in his den, satisfied and bonded and disgustingly in love.
“Well!” Agnes closed her book. “That was wonderful. Same time next week?”
“My house next time,” Doris said. “I just got a new cheese plate.”
They gathered their things with the same efficiency they’d shown arriving. Wine glasses rinsed. Cheese plates wrapped. Copies of the book tucked into oversized purses.
I walked them to the door, already breathing easier, already planning my escape to the kitchen where I could splash cold water on my face and maybe scream into a towel.
“Oh, Wade,” Agnes said at the door. “You stay.”
I froze.
“The last one to arrive always stays to help clean up,” Fern explained sweetly. “House rules.”
“It’s tradition,” Doris added.
Maude patted his chest, smiled up at him with an expression of pure, delighted mischief.
“Have fun,” she said.
And then they were gone.
The door closed behind them.
The house went quiet.
I stood in the entryway, every nerve alive, my whole body aware of the man standing behind me. I could feel his warmth. His presence. The weight of his gaze on my back.
“So,” Wade said. His voice had dropped. Lower. Rougher. “Book club.”
“Shut up.”
“I enjoyed it.”
“I said shut up.”
I heard him move. Felt him getting closer. My pulse tripped and wouldn’t settle.
“Let me help,” he said. Gravel voice. Barely a whisper.
I nodded. Turned. Fled to the kitchen.
There wasn’t enough space in this house to avoid what I felt was about to happen.