Page 40 of Crying Wolfe
His wife’s hips left the bed, and she tossed her head to release a sob to the sky.
Pinning her thighs open with a splay of his hands, he grazed the bud again, and a third time, reveling in the little mewls she made, in the writhing of her limbs as she both sought to encourage and escape what was coming for her.
I could love you.
Eli disengaged with a wet, wicked sound. His breath coming in tight rasps.
Her adorable ass fell back to the bed, her thighs still splayed indecently beneath his hands.
He didn’t own the thought. Sure, it was in his own head. In his own voice. But it wasn’t his. Never would he think something so batshit crazy while supping between a woman’s legs.
He stared down at her, her long hair fanned out like a cloud of silk over velvet. Her lips puffy and glossy from his kisses. Her nipples dark beneath the damp circles he’d made of her gown, contrasting with the prim pallor of the rest of her.
She watched him through eyes half-lidded, meeting his own startled gaze.
I could love you.
What had even conjured such nonsense? And why had it intruded into this? Here? Now?
That little voice didn’t know what the fuck it was talking about.
He didn’t know shit from shit when it came to love. Didn’t really believe in it. People succumbed to desire and called it love. They wanted to own someone just like he owned things, and the only legal way to do that these days was to lock them into marriage contracts.
Like this one.
Lithe little fingers slid over the ones he’d splayed on her thighs, threading into the negative spaces, curling into the dips between his knuckles and nudging them wider so they could insinuate between each and interlock together.
With that small, earnest gesture. That one quiet, lovely action, she’d managed to stop the entire world from turning. To quiet his qualms and melt something that’d been solid and cold for as many years as he could remember.
What replaced it wasn’t exactly as tender as expected.
It was that damned beast. The one cursed with eternal hunger. It filled him with instincts as possessive and primal as he could imagine. Violent ardor. Uncontrolled adoration.
He needed to fuck her deep. To shape that tight channel of wet flesh to his body and his, alone. To put a baby inside of her. Hell, a whole fucking blueberry-eyed brood if she wanted, tumbling around like that litter of kittens, squalling and screeching through the palace he was going to build her.
Because he was a creature obsessively loyal to ritual. He found a food he liked the most and consumed it almost exclusively. He wore the fabrics he liked against his skin, regardless of cost. He’d kept the same friends for thirty years. Drank the same scotch, smoked only one brand of cigar. Not for any particular reason, he was just squirted into this world that way.
Sure, he’d no concept of love, but once he developed a taste…he returned to taste it again and again.
Licking his lips, he savored the elixir she’d left there before hunkering down for more.
His poor little wife…
She really had no idea what she was in for.
CHAPTER8
Rosaline was lost in an enchantment of sensation wreathed in delectable darkness. At first, she’d squirmed from it, awash with shame. She’d truly known nothing of this act but the bare bones of what went where.
And every moment had been one pleasant shock after another.
Not the least of which was the large, virile creature that was her husband.
He stood at the foot of the bed, towering over her prone, exposed body. Her thighs clamped open by his formidable hands.
He looked perfectly savage.
Butterflies danced low in her belly as he gazed down at her like some arrogant god, rapacious as a winter wolf resplendent with lupine grace.
