All Chapters of Alpha Maddox's Mortal Temptation : Chapter 161 - Chapter 170

He sucks in an incredulous breath. Warmth crawls into my stomach, up my backbone. I pull off my shirt, and he follows me eagerly with his hands and his mouthHe nips at my collarbone, sucks at my nipples, nibbles at my breasts. With every touch I feel like we’re slowly being welded together—until he stops.His long fingers flex around my hips, impossibly tight, then go limp.When he pulls back to look at me, his lips are dark red, eyes stark and clear.“We might need to stop.”I laugh, already out of breath. “Is this another bout of Alpha Were guilt?”“Seraphine.” He stops. Licks his lips. “I’m really wound up. We’ve been apart, and you smell so damn good, and you said some . . . intoxicating things, like that you’re here to stay, and I’m closer to the edge than—”I laugh against the edge of his jaw. “Okay. Before you devolve into more self-loathing, let me just say, I’m going to drink your blood again. Okay, Lucien?”He hisses a low “Fuck,” and nods eagerly.“And we’re going to have

It’s still the middle of the night when I wake up. I’m lying face down on the bed, my cheek buried in a pillow, feeling limp and wrung out, as though a lifetime’s worth of sensation has been crammed into and then squeezed out of my body.It’s surprisingly lovely.Lucien is next to me, propped on one elbow, touching me all over in a way that seems half distracted, half compulsive. Traveling the dip that joins my shoulder blades. Following the round contours of my ass. Combing his fingers throughthrough my hair and tracing the tip of my ear. Cupping right between my legs, uncaring, or maybe excited by the slick mess he left there, eager to push his spend back inside me.I let my eyelids flutter open and observe him observing every curve and angle and slope of my body, entranced by the entranced look in his eyes. He is focused, lost in the simple touch, and several minutes pass before he glances up at my face and finds me awake. His smile is at once reserved and hesitant and proud and l

LucienShe makes lots of “you are officially condemned to a lifetime of Seraphine” jokes, and Lucien isn’t sure he found them funny at first, let alone now that it’s been a week of having her back, but he cannot help being delighted every single time.Even as he sighs and shakes his head disapprovingly.“To the right. Actually, to the left. Actually, just let me do it,” she grumbles, stealing the hammer from his hand. They’re hanging a picture on the wall of what’s to become Daisy’s room once again. It’s silly, something Lucien drew off the cuff yesterday, because that’s what he’s been: Spontaneous. Inspired. Happy.A giant, Godzilla-like Sparkles towering over the Hollywood Sign—that happens to spell DAISY—is not Lucien’s usual artistic fare. And he didn’t think the result was that good. But when he left his sketch pad open on the kitchen counter, Seraphine and Anna got a glimpse, and his every protest was met with rolled eyes and accusations that he was fishing for compliments. As

Present dayIF SUCH A THING AS AN IDEAL NIGHT TO DIE EXISTED, IT WOULD not be this one.There’s so much wrong with it. I could bitch about the recent rainstorm, the weak garlic-clove-sized moon, the uncharged phone sitting on my nightstand. The main issue, though, is that I’m wearing no more than two items of clothing: undies and a camisole. They were both perfectly adequate underneath my fluffy comforter.Unfortunately, I left that back at the cabin. When I woke up at one a.m. to the realization that someone was breaking in.It’s fall. In a place that a year or so ago— back when I still foolishly believed I was Human— I would have called Oregon. Now that my Were genes are taking over, stuff like cartography and state lines have become comically trivial, but the crux of the matter remains: November in the Northwest is cold, and I’m not dressed appropriately.The goddamn timing, I mouth to myself, darting behind the gnarly trunk of a Douglas fir. Chest heaving, I stare down at my very

Panic bursts anew in my chest. I shake my head violently. No. No.“Well, then.” His eyes soften, and he lets out a half-resigned, half-amused sigh. “Better make use of that rock in your hand, killer.”It takes me a beat to understand his meaning, and to realize that the Vampyre’s hold on my wrist has loosened. Twisting my arm free and stabbing the jagged edge of the rock into his stomach takes so little effort, it’s almost anticlimactic.“What the— ” The Vampyre doubles over. I’m about to hit him again, but he bounces back and slams me to the ground. He lifts his knife above his head, aiming for my throat. “You fucking bitch— ”He stops with an abrupt gasp, as though in the grip of a sudden illuminating revelation. He stares down at me, eyes bulging, mouth wide open, and I almost expect him to . . . apologize? Then, after coughing up a small rivulet of mulberry-colored blood, he loses his balance. I observe his descent, horrified, as he collapses right by my side, face-first into a pa