“There’ll be lots of sex, too.”

Irene stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “Sex?”

“Lots of sex.”

“Truly? Or is this some kind of Van Holtz torture?”

He stepped up behind her and she could feel his body heat, the touch of his hands on her shoulder, fingers sliding under the straps of her gown. “Oh, there’ll be a little torture,” he promised. “But only the good kind.”

Van never realized until this moment how much of his childhood he’d taken for granted. Going to school, playing with the other pups in the Pack, dating human girls, and debating with his friends the best way to keep their fangs in during sex. Hell, even going hunting every Christmas in Connecticut with his parents and sister. Things he did for enjoyment, not because he’d been born into money, but because he hadn’t been born any more or less special than any other shifter. He hadn’t been any different from some pup from the Magnus Pack or the Smiths. All his parents ever asked of him was to not bare his fangs in public, not let his junior-high buddies pay to see his sister naked when she was getting out of the shower, and not to lick his balls when he thought the Pack wasn’t looking . . . because they usually were.

He simply couldn’t imagine people expecting any more from him than that at the age of five, ten, even twenty. But they’d expected it of Irene. At a charity event, he heard two older professors discussing how they once saw Irene give a speech at the United Nations nearly fifteen years ago. Why a ten-year-old needed to give a speech, in several languages no less, to U.N. delegates for any other reason than a dog and pony show, Van had no idea. Of course, it completely explained why she was the prickliest woman he’d ever known. How could she be anything but prickly and a tad uptight?

Yet as Irene stood in his kitchen, desperately trying to force herself to relax, he suddenly knew what he had to do. What he wanted to do. He wanted to show her what it was like to be brutally, painfully, wonderfully average. Not all the time— he knew she’d never allow that—but enough so she could learn to enjoy all the amazing things she could do. And so she wouldn’t die of an ulcer and high blood pressure by the time she was forty-five.

First, though, he had to teach her basic relaxation skills. Like taking a bath, he thought as he tossed her naked body into his bathtub. She squealed like an actual girl until she hit the water and then she came up sputtering and pretty pissed off. But by then he was naked and in the water with her, so he easily grabbed her waist and dragged her back in before she could stomp off mad.

“You do things just to irritate me, don’t you?”

Smiling, enjoying himself immensely, and determined to give her a wonderful and relaxing weekend, Van pushed Irene’s wet hair from her face. “Don’t be silly, doc.” He kissed her lips, nuzzled her chin. “Of course I do things just to irritateyou.”

How annoying. She actually found him cute. And charming. When did that happen? She’d always thought of Van Holtz as a spoiled rich boy from a one-time barbarian Pack of ravening wolves. But, when so motivated, he could be cute and—damn him—charming. Even when tossing her into water. Something Irene had always hated. But she did like feeling him press his body against hers as the bath water lapped around them and the bubbles sneaked up her nose.

She also liked the way he looked at her. Most men looked right through her. Women, too. Everyone looked through her unless they wanted something from her. And what they usually wanted involved academia. At the moment, Van Holtz looked like he couldn’t care less about her mind than those in the English department. Most women would be insulted. And, as a rather proud feminist, she would be too . . . if she actually wanted a discourse on the Chaos Theory. She didn’t. She wanted him. She wanted to have sexual intercourse with him. Wait. That was wrong. No, she didn’t. She had sexual intercourse with men like Bradley. She didn’t want that with Van Holtz.

She wanted to fuck him. She wanted to be fucked by him. She wanted to get sweaty and transfer fluids and forget her name. She wanted everything that a night with Niles Van Holtz promised, but she refused to want more. She refused to get so caught up in her sexual urges that she would believe, for a second, that this thing they were indulging in would ever lead to anything more. When this was done—and it would be done sooner rather than later—she’d find another Bradley who’d make a great fourth at dinner with the dean.

Irene knew it was a very cold way of looking at relationships, even for her, but she had no delusions she’d ever get more. She was too strange, too off-key—and not in a cute, adorable way either—to ever hope someone could love her as she was, and she was smart enough to know she’d never change. Not inherently. Not where it counted. Even if she curbed her tongue and stopped scaring her students, she’d still be Irene Conridge, freak. Nothing she did would ever change that.

But she’d indulge herself this time. She deserved it. For at least twenty years she’d always done what people expected and wanted. Now she’d do what she wanted, even if it was only for the weekend. Only for this brief time in her life.

Big thumbs brushed her nipples and all Irene’s important thoughts floated away, leaving nothing but deep-seated lust.

She wrapped her arms around Van Holtz’s neck and her legs around his waist, pulling him close to her. She marveled at the heat of him. His body was always warm or sometimes, like now, hot. She wondered if that was normal for shifters. If their body temperatures were hotter than other, normal humans. She wondered if he’d let her take a sample of his blood. Then he lifted her up and laid her out on the tile floor and she quickly stopped caring about his DNA strain.