Kinsey Holley - KISS AND KIN

I sat on the porch drinking champagne with my two sisters-in-law one night and said, Y'know, I think I could write a paranormal romance. They said, Of course you can.

I wouldn't have started, and I couldn't have finished, without them.

I had this fantasy that one day I'd get published, and we'd sit on the porch and drink champagne to celebrate, and when the book came out I'd dedicate it to them. We've done the champagne, so here's the dedication. To Vickie and Wendy.

Lark inspected her reflection in her antique full-length mirror. Applying final touches to her makeup, she pursed her lips and smudged her gloss just a bit. She pulled her auburn chestnut hair into a carefully messy chignon, touchable stray wisps framing her face the way Taran liked it.

Dressed in a purple lace bra, boyshorts and four-inch stilettos, she struck a little pose. Which dress to wear?

They both showed off her legs. The chic black cocktail number featured a fun little twirly skit, and she fancied herself a fun twirly kind of girl. On the other hand, she liked to look like a bad girl sometimes, which she did in the lavender sheath with the plunging neckline and the slit up to mid thigh.

She held up each dress beneath her chin, one at a time, and eyed herself critically. Lavender, black. Lavender, black.

She heard Taran getting ready in the bathroom, but when he suddenly appeared behind her-a werewolf could move so swiftly and silently it seemed he teleported-he wore nothing but skin.

Taking a hanger in each hand, he tossed the dresses aside. He laid a large, warm hand on her stomach and pulled her tightly against him while his other hand cupped her breast. His thumb rubbed circles around her nipple through the thin lace.

What are you doing here? he growled softly. His stubble tickled her neck as he nuzzled. It made her laugh.

He rolled her nipple between two fingers and she sighed, reaching back to run her fingers through his dark gold hair. His other hand now cupped her mound, barely touching, and she ground her hips, silently urging him to press harder. He chuckled.

I'm trying to choose a dress, she smiled. Which do you like?

Neither, he replied. I vote for naked. He nipped her shoulder and slid his hand inside the boyshorts.

Their gazes met in the mirror, the only way she could maintain eye contact with him. Lust glittered in his eyes, making them shine like emeralds. Her dark blue eyes melted in submission. In heels, she stood almost as tall as he did, but she looked petite against his much larger body.

I can't go to dinner like this, and neither can you, she murmured.

True. He ran his tongue lightly down the back of her neck. Anthony's has a dress code.

Reservations at eight, right?

Yes. She shivered.

She gasped as his middle finger sank into her folds and stroked.

So he smiled against her neck, I've got ten minutes to make you come. I can do that with one arm tied behind your back.

He took his hand out of her panties, spun her around and pinned one of her arms behind her. She moaned in anticipation as his mouth came down on hers, and she woke up.

Damn it. Shit. Damn, damn, damn, shit.

Lark rolled over and slammed her head into the pillow.

She couldn't even manage a decent sex dream about him-she always woke up when it got to the good part. Her subconscious just rolled its eyes and said, This is too farfetched for me to handle, kiddo. Dream about someone in your league-like George Clooney, maybe. He'll ask you out before Taran notices you're grown, much less shows any interest.

She showered, trying not to think about Taran as she did it.

Detective Taran Lloyd yawned with boredom as he stood by the bar and observed the patrons of Le Monde on a typical Saturday night. A pricey club, it attracted an affluent crowd, and a mixed one: humans, werewolves and other shifters, people who looked a little more than a little fae. The only thing they had in common was a willingness to pay five bucks for a bottle of domestic beer and seven for well drinks-or the ability to find someone who would do it for them.

He grimaced. He'd like a drink himself, but regulations prohibited drinking on duty.

The intimate nightclub featured wood-paneled walls, polished hardwood floors and a lot of recessed lighting. Music loud enough to dance but not too loud to talk, waitresses pretty but not too sexy, bartenders fast but friendly-if not for the fact that three women reported missing this month were last seen here, it would've been a great place to bring a date.

He tried to remember the last time he'd gone on a date.

Detective? Daniel Denardo, the HPD Shifter Investigations Unit's rookie, interrupted Taran's musings.

Yeah, Danny?

What are we supposed to look for here?

Taran smiled wryly. If we get lucky, some guy will pick up a chick, throw her over his shoulder and run out, and we'll arrest him. But I don't think we'll get lucky. So we hang around and watch, talk to people, ask if anyone saw the women, noticed unusual behavior, that sort of thing. I'd rather no one know we're cops yet.

As soon as he said it, he noticed Lark across the room at a banquette with another woman and four slimy-looking wolves in suits. Taran automatically considered any guy with Lark slimy-

looking. These wolves looked like Eurotrash. Eastern European wolves ran drugs and weapons in and out of the country, and SIU suspected they'd expanded into the sex trade. Rich European werewolves frequented Le Monde. Apparently Lark did, too.

She sauntered toward the bar.

Shit, he muttered.

What's the matter?

I'll be back in a second. Why don't you mingle.

I can do that, Denardo replied cheerfully.

What are you doing here? he growled softly.

Those words, that voice, just hours after the dream, freaked Lark right the hell out. She started so violently her perfectly chilled Cosmopolitan sloshed the front of her dress. Her nipples stood at attention. He didn't even notice.

She grabbed a handful of napkins. Damn it, Taran, what- Quiet, he said fiercely as he stole her breath with a smile. He never smiled at her like that. He rarely smiled at her at all. She stared up at him, dumbfounded. He clamped a meaty paw on her elbow and dragged her away from the bar toward an empty table.

The dark blue pinstriped suit, a fitted European cut, and the custom-tailored, crisp white dress shirt looked great on his long, muscular frame. Taran didn't live on his detective salary alone.

Act like we're having fun. Irritable as always, he still wore that stutter-inducing smile. It stopped short of his luminescent green eyes. Why are you here, and who are those wolves?

None of your business she grinned gaily, and I don't know.

A few golden strands of hair drifted across his eyes. He wore it halfway to his shoulders; HPD grooming regulations exempted werewolves. She always itched to brush his hair aside. One day she'd do it, just to watch him react.

I'm serious, Lark.

You're hurting me, Taran.

He let go instantly but continued to stare at her, knowing she'd answer him.

She heaved a dramatic sigh. I'm here with my friend Eloise, who's into some Euro werewolf whose name I don't remember, and he's with his bros, and they're all creepy and boring, and one of them keeps trying to pick me up, and after you replace the Cosmo you made me spill, I'm going home. This just is not my night.

Are you driving?

No, I'm talking to you. Why? Do I look like I'm driving?

He didn't laugh. He never laughed.

El drove. I'll take a cab home. Where's my cosmo?