Wolf, not dog. You were bitten by a Lycan, not Lassie.

You're a rare breed, Richard d'Alencon."

She didn't know the half of it.

Unable to resist, he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers in a gentle caress.

Her breath caught.

Lightning struck.

She hesitated. "You know I'm older than you, right?"

Richard stared down at her and forced himself not to laugh at the irony. He may be over two hundred years old, but he looked as if he were in his late twenties, thirty at the most. And Jenna was worried that her being thirty-seven would be a problem?

A hint of insecurity entered her features. "I don't mean to press this, but... I dated a guy once--- very briefly---who said the same thing until his friends found out and started to razz him about it. I'm thirty-seven. Are you sure that isn't a problem?"

"I don't know why his friends would tease him about dating you unless they were envious. You look like you're in your twenties, Jenna. Not much older than your son, in fact. And, if you looked like you were in your forties, guess what. I would be just as interested."

She smiled and closed the distance between them. "And if I looked like I were in my fifties?"

"Still interested."

"Sixties?"

"I happen to think laugh lines are hot.

If I couldn't be a good example, I'd just have to be a horrible warning.

Maybe I needed sensitivity training. I once signed up for an anger management class, but the instructor pissed me off.

As long as they were together, they could face anything. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel alone—and she knew he didn’t either.