Silas Thorn had always prided himself on control of his body, his wolf, his temper. But looking at Lena Marlowe in the soft amber light of the late afternoon, he realized he had never mastered control at all. Not truly. Not where she was concerned.
She wore a flowing slate-blue dress that draped like it had been poured over her curves: full breasts, narrow waist, lush hips. It wasn’t tight, but it clung where it mattered, moving with her like it had been tailored to love only her. His gaze kept snagging on the long line of her throat, the faint glimmer of her lip gloss, the way her glasses slid down her nose every few minutes only for her to shove them back up in a flustered huff.
Her ponytail was the final match to the gasoline of his restraint. Silas adored her curls wild, soft, defian
