His reluctant Luna

Who to chose?

*Melina*

I spend a little over three hours preparing for my first visit to the Moon Goddess Club, only to discover upon my arrival that I have to change into something that very much resembles a silk nightdress. Although no nightdress I have ever worn revealed as much or caressed my skin as lovingly as this one does.

After a maid assists me in changing, I catch sight of my reflection in a mirror. With no undergarments or petticoats between me and the silk, I almost change my mind and quit this place. Faye no doubt has the right of it, and I should just return to my world, proposition someone I know, someone I like even if it's only a little bit.

But that seems even more awkward and unsavory than my present course. What if he isn't interested in the least or things between us were... awful? He would know who I am. What if he told people, his best mates, of our affair? Faye said men boasted of their exploits. I suspect they make sport of she-wolves who do not live up to their expectations. They certainly aren't likely to confess to any shortcomings of their own.

No, coming here is the way to go. The anonymity assures it remains my secret. No one will ever discover what I have done or with whom I have done it.

Not to mention there is a bit of titillation to the notion of his not knowing, to my being secretive. Surely men find it provocative as well when an air of mystery is involved.

Glancing around the dimly lit parlor, I am struck with both curiosity and a dash of irritation. The men are completely clothed in trousers, jackets, waistcoats, shirts, along with perfectly knotted neckcloths. Why aren't they forced to wear something that might make them feel as though they were standing about almost naked? Perhaps because a gent’s clothing doesn’t leave as much to the imagination as a she-wolf’s might. Still, it seems rather unfair.

Surely, if given the chance, she-wolves could appreciate muscled arms and bared chests. I fancy wide shoulders. And eyes that glinted with the ability to tease. Most of the men who have visited in my parlor had dull eyes or ones that revealed their thoughts drifting off to other places.

I recognize several Alphas. Beta Rexton is standing by the fireplace talking to a tall she-wolf. How I long for height. Not that I want Rexton's attention. With a blush no doubt creeping from my toes to my hairline, I turn away, knowing it's ridiculous to fear he might recognize me or to be embarrassed by the sight of Faye's brother wooing someone. He is young, virile. she-wolves are no doubt thrilled to have an opportunity to be in his company. He is heir to a storied and powerful pack.

Dear Goddess, I hope I don't run into my own brothers. But even if I do, it's not likely that they would recognize me by the sight of my chin and mouth. The rest of my face is covered. I can't do much about my hair, but then the dark russet strands aren't that memorable anyway. My dark eyes aren't the sort to incite poetry. Men aren't going to drown in them. They are as boring as the rest of my physical appearance.

Many couples are talking. That is no doubt part of the ritual. Silly of me to think that some man was simply going to toss me over his shoulder like some medieval pillager and haul me upstairs to a bed. I wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. I want a bit of wooing.

A servant approaches, carrying a tray of glasses filled with amber liquid and flutes of champagne. Going for the amber, I snatch it up and toss it back, relishing the burn and the heat cascading through my center.

In our youth, Faye and I never shied away from sneaking into liquor cabinets. I suppose, however, to be attractive to a man, I should at least pretend to have a preference for champagne. It's more refined and ladylike, but just as I hadn’t pretended in ballrooms to be other than what I was, I'm not going to pretend here. A man might not see my face, might not know who I am, but I intend to own my behavior. If they shy away from a she-wolf who drink scotch, I want nothing to do with them. As much as possible, tonight will be on my terms.

The servant takes the empty glass from me. Before he can walk off, I snatch another one, probably should have taken two, then settle for taking merely a healthy swallow. There will be other servants, other opportunities, and apparently, I will have ample time to imbibe. All seems to go at a snail’s pace. That's good. It gives me a chance to decide.

As my gaze sweeps over the crowd, I realize that I have spoken with most of these Alphas at one time or another. If they hadn’t appealed to me in a ballroom, what makes me think they would appeal to me here?

You are not going to marry him. You don’t have to really like him. You simply need to determine if he has the physical qualities to be a good lover.

This is to be a night for fantasy. For broad shoulders and narrow hips. Kind eyes, full lips. A thick head of hair. Shade is unimportant. I scoff. Maybe hair itself is unimportant. A bald man might make a wonderful lover. Having been judged by my too-large nose, strong brow, and round cheekbones, I'm not hypocrite enough to judge a man based on his looks. I want someone with a bit of intelligence, a dash of humor, and an interest in the different.

I consider my options. Alpha Gant is dashing, but he tends to spit when he speaks. Alpha Bentley is a dull conversationalist. Would he be dull in bed?

I hate that I'm beginning to agree with Faye. This lover business is more than height, strength, and good looks. I need someone I don't know. A complete stranger, not someone who has taken me on a turn about the dance floor or spoken to me during a dinner. No preconceived notions.

Or I could select someone whom I had fancied but hadn’t fancied me… at least not enough to ask for my hand. The problem is that I haven’t really fancied anyone, which is one of the reasons I'm here. Truth be told, I have yet to meet a man whom I want to pursue me. Perhaps I'm too particular. Is it really so awful if a man wants only my coins? Could he fake passion and caring? Would he? I deserve better than that. Every she-wolf does.

Starting to take another sip of the scotch, I realize that I have finished it off at some point. Another should chase away the last of my nerves. Before I can begin to look around for a servant, a deep voice asks, “Let’s switch glasses, shall we?”

Jerking around, I find myself staring up into the Alpha of Ashebury’s incredible hazel eyes. I can count on one hand the number of times I have been this close to him. We might have exchanged half a dozen words in passing. Handsome as sin with a devil-may-care attitude, he usually has a bevy of she-wolves circling about him, vying for his attention.

His tragic past, orphaned at eight to become the ward of a madman… not that anyone had realized the state of the Alpha prince’s mind at the time… causes some she-wolves to find him even more appealing. They want to provide a safe haven and ply him with the love that he had not had for years. And well he knows it. He isn’t above taking advantage of generous hearts.

I don’t know how many she-wolves he has ruined although no she-wolves has ever confessed to ruination at his hands. But still, the rumors abound. Yet in spite of his questionable reputation, there isn’t a mother in all of the country who doesn’t yearn to see her daughter standing at the altar beside this man.

And I, drat my feminine heart, would have been content to have had a dance with him, to have spent a few minutes in the circle of his arms. He is, quite literally, the most beautiful creature I have ever had the good fortune to lay eyes on. The irony of my thoughts does not escape me. My looks hold men at bay while his draw attention as though they were magnets and I, drat it all, have turned into metal shavings.

With a smile designed to melt hearts and cause a she-wolf not to care that he has no interest in permanence, he takes my tumbler, sets it aside, then, with his long, warm fingers covering mine, he folds my hand around his glass. I have never had a man’s bare hand touch mine or any other part of me for that matter. It should have been unsettling. Instead, the touch seems to spread along my skin.

Because it is. Without taking his gaze from mine, he slowly, ever so slowly, glides his large, roughened hand along my forearm, over my elbow, up to my shoulder before letting his fingers linger lightly in one place, toying with the thin strap of my gown, as though he longs to ease it aside and watch the silk flutter to the floor. I can hardly breathe, and yet it is rude not to acknowledge him.