Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 116

Chapter 116: More Questions

"Fascinating," I mutter, trying to reconcile the image of Marcus Ashby in my head to the stereotypes of alpha wolf shifters.

Logan has all the cockiness and arrogance of one, but is admittedly a little more intelligent (sometimes—because there have definitely been times I’ve questioned his IQ level, not that I’d tell him that) and charming than the ones I’ve encountered. He also has a presence I’d associate with alpha werewolves.

But Marcus?

If anything, he reminds me of Scott more than Logan. Not weak, but not the strongest in the room. Not someone who could lead a company to greatness, but not the lowest on the totem pole. Then again, Marcus Ashby is a renowned lawyer with a lot of money. That definitely fits.

Strange. Very strange.

Logan’s strong hands press into my shoulders, his touch sending waves of relief through my tense muscles. Before I can finish processing the revelation about Marcus, he gently but firmly turns me onto my stomach.

"Much better angle for this." His fingers work their way down my spine. "Though these damn cameras make everything complicated."

A grunt of frustration escapes him as he hits a particularly stubborn knot near my shoulder blade. The bed shifts as he adjusts his position.

"What’s wrong with the cameras?" My voice comes out muffled against the pillow.

His hands pause briefly. "They’re everywhere. Always watching. Makes certain... activities difficult to pursue."

The strain in his voice clicks everything into place. I bite back a smile as I realize exactly what kind of ’difficulty’ he’s experiencing. Here I am, enjoying a purely therapeutic massage while he’s fighting an entirely different battle.

Maybe I should be more worried and afraid and moping over my questions, but Logan’s predicament shifts my mood entirely.

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. "Having problems there, your highness?"

"This isn’t funny." His fingers dig deeper into my muscles, though not enough to hurt. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"I think I’m getting the picture." Another giggle escapes me.

"Right. Speaking of pictures—" Logan clears his throat, his hands stilling on my back. "Penelope’s been trying to reach me."

The abrupt subject change only makes me laugh harder. "Smooth transition there, very smooth."

"I’m serious." But there’s a hint of amusement in his voice now, too. "She’s called three times in the last hour."

My amusement fades a little. "Have you talked to her?"

"A little. I did tell her you’re safe. She’s been understandably worried and more than a little pissed off at the lack of information."

Yep, sounds like Pippa.

"She told me to tell you the Anti-Turn is working." His massage slows down as he grunts. "Damn. I’m going to have to stop, or we’re going to give someone a show."

That idea should horrify me a lot more, but my body has other ideas. I clamp my thighs shut immediately, mortified at the dampness gathering there. What has this man done to me? Hopefully he doesn’t smell it.

"I’m glad it’s working." My voice is hoarse, and this time not from any injury.

A deep groan rumbles from Logan’s chest. "Fuck, Nicole. It’s your turn to stop oozing those pheromones all over the place."

Damn. He definitely can smell it.

"I don’t ooze anything." Heat floods my cheeks at the accusation.

His hands slide down to grip my thighs, fingers pressing into sensitive flesh. "Sure about that?"

I kick out playfully, catching him in the side. "Get off me, you brute."

Logan rises from the bed with deliberate slowness, making an exaggerated show of adjusting the obvious bulge in his pants. He doesn’t give a shit about the cameras. Or the viewers. Too bad I do.

I should have a libido in negative range after being kidnapped and then semi-kidnapped by his little Conclave faction, or whatever they are. But somehow I’m (very briefly, okay?) entertaining the idea of climbing onto his lap and riding him like a sex-crazed cowgirl, cameras be damned.

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