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  “We’re almost there, Miranda.” She couldn’t feel her hand in his anymore either, but she kept putting one foot after another, following the sound of his voice.

  And, like a mirage, the rough outline of a small cottage appeared against the bleak landscape.

  “How did you know this was here?” It was almost as if he’d been here before.

  “You’re not the only one who can use Google, Miranda. I used Google Earth to check the lay of the land before we left Hannibal.” He dragged her up the stairs. “Contingency, remember? Besides, there are scores of furnished rental cabins up here that would be empty during the fall and winter. I wouldn’t put it past Webster to break into one just like we’re about to do.”

  There were bars on the door and windows, something strange for so remote and rural a place. The lone howl of a wolf pierced the rage of the storm, to be joined by the chorus of his brothers. Miranda had the distinct impression they were being watched by something big and hungry. More fierce than a whole pack of wolves. Brewster pulled something out of his pocket and jimmied the door with it until it opened.

  It was almost as cold in the cottage as it was outside, but there was a massive fireplace in the center of the room, and Brewster immediately set out to build a fire. Within minutes, a yellow-orange dancer sparked and leapt in the grate, crawling higher and higher against the stone behind it.

  This had been part of her fantasy, to be snowed in with Agent Brewster. Now, here they were. Although the realities weren’t as spectacular as the fantasy. She pulled off her gloves and, with numb fingers, tried to unlace her boots.

  Miranda kept thinking about those howls, the sensation of hungry, predator eyes on her skin, and the reason for the bars on windows and door. Her eyes flickered back to the door and saw a strange locking mechanism on the inside that fit over the whole door. Almost like a steel barricade.

  Maybe to guard against bears, she rationalized.

  The howling sounded again, this time much closer, and the shivers that slithered down Miranda’s back had nothing to do with the cold.

  Chapter Four

  “WOLVES ARE NOTHING to be afraid of,” Brewster assured her as he came out of a bedroom with his arms piled high with blankets. “Besides, we’re safe here, and the cabin is furnished and stocked.”

  “It’s not the wolves. They’re beautiful, noble creatures, and it pisses me off that Webster pretends to be one.” She pushed her hands through her hair in frustration.

  He dropped the blankets and sat down next to Miranda. “Don’t doubt yourself now. We’re going to catch him. I’m sure he was entrenched somewhere before the storm hit. Like that moon cult across the lake.”

  “Or he’s in the next house over, subjecting a family of four to his delusions.”

  “Stop it, Miranda. This isn’t going to help anything. You know it won’t.”

  “I can’t get it out of my head. Those images from his crime scenes keep playing over and over on a looped reel. That monster is out in the world.”

  “So are we. And we don’t lose, remember?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t go soft and vulnerable on me now, Garrick.”

  “No, I’m a hard-ass. I just can’t stomach this fucker’s existence.” She shivered.

  “Neither can I,” Brewster said, and she shivered again. “You better hurry up and change into something warm and dry.”

  “Yeah. I was waiting for my fingers to defrost. They’re still tingling.”

  “Let me give you a hand.” He bent at her feet and reached for her boots.

  “Not exactly how I imagined you taking off my clothes.”

  He smirked as he finished pulling her boots off. “Oh yeah? So you admit you’ve imagined me taking off your clothes?” His hair fell across his forehead, making him look just a bit devilish.

  Brewster was so close, so warm, and showing her a side of himself that was new—the playful would-be lover. She liked it. Did she dare tell him? Surely he’d want to know how she’d thought of him, if she’d admitted again to imagining it. Could she admit that to him? They barely knew one another, after all. Yet, it didn’t matter that they’d just met, all of those nagging little chirps of reason were silenced by the scorching, almost instinctive need they seemed to have for one another.

  “I’ve imagined lots of things. So vividly I had to pull over on the way back to the hotel and bring myself off.” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper.

  He looked up, meeting her appraisal, and she was hyperaware of his position between her legs. “How did you imagine me taking your clothes off, Miranda?” His hand slid up her leg to her thigh.

  “Maybe it was a little like this after all.” She bit her lip and shrugged out of her coat.

  “Did I say something predictable like how you needed to get out of those wet clothes?” He arched a dark brow in question.

  “You did earlier when you told me I needed to have on something warm and dry,” she tossed back.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t offer to share my body heat to warm you up like I am now.”

  “Oh, is that what you’re offering? To share your heat?” She relaxed her knees apart and leaned back to invite him to continue farther.

  “Skin to skin is the best way to keep warm. Didn’t you pay attention in your survival classes?” He crept up her body until his knee was wedged at the apex of her thighs, and he held his body above hers.

  “So give me some skin, secret agent man.” She ran her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, sliding up and over his back, loving the play of muscle beneath her fingertips. He shrugged out of the shirt, tossing it to the side. Brewster searched her face for what seemed like forever, or maybe it was just a single moment taken out of time like a lone granule from the hourglass before moving back down her torso to kiss her navel.

  “Glad we’re in agreement on this one, Miranda. I’ve wanted to taste you from the moment we met.”

  He undid the button on her slacks with his teeth and pushed the zipper down with his tongue. Dear God, with his tongue. If he could apply that much force to a zipper with only the tip of his tongue—and it had to be only the tip or he’d cut himself on the teeth—what could he do to her clit?

  Marvelous and wondrous things, a voice in the back of her head whispered.

  His fingers hooked through her belt loop and tugged her slacks down and off. He licked her through her panties first, the damp lavender silk stroking her swollen clit.

  “You came in these panties thinking about me, Miranda?” he asked, his voice more like a growl.

  “Yes,” she responded, breathless.

  “Your need tastes the same as your scent.” He lapped at the silk a few more times. “Very sweet.” Then he pulled back. “Show me.”

  She was dizzy with desire, her whole body pulsing, the alpha and omega of that sensation deep inside the pit of her belly.

  “I want to see you touch yourself as you did when you fantasized about me.”

  “I used my phone,” she whispered.

  “Did you? And to think I was holding it in my hand right after it had been working your sweet pussy.” He dragged her panties down her hips. “Just as well. I don’t want to wait.” Brewster swept his tongue along her cleft, and she cried out, arching up into the erotic assault.

  His mouth and tongue were made of sin and fire, thrusting into her only to lave at her clit again. She twisted in his grasp, seeking more, but his fingers dug crescents into her hips as he held her immobile.

  Her fingers tunneled through his hair, and she drew him nearer to his task.

  Aden suckled her clit, tugging the sensitive bud into his mouth. He knew exactly what he was doing, paying more attention to the flesh at the edges than the center—lashing his tongue back and forth across the needy nub.

  She was wrong. Reality was definitely better than fantasy. He knew just what she wanted, what she needed.

  He pushed two blunt fingers inside her pussy while his tongue teased her clit. Miranda tight