Page 32 of Wolf's Return
Monsieur D’Artagnon growled around her nipple, and her whole body pulsed with pleasure, a persistent throbbing setting a steady beat between her thighs. She tilted her hips, wishing the barrier of the covers between them would disappear. That she had the strength of mind to compose a spell to make it so, but her thoughts skittered wildly as he laved her nipple with his tongue.
He must have had the same thought, for he lifted himself away from her and gave an impatient tug on the covers, dragging them down past her hips, the ripping of the remnants of her chemise bracketed only by their heavy breathing. Then his mouth was on hers, and his large palm pressing between her naked thighs.
Oh, the Fates, this is…
Monsieur D’Artagnon rubbed the heel of his hand against her mound, sliding his fingers through her slick folds, and she moaned. The tension between her thighs begged for release, and she chased his fingers. She might not have had much experience with sex, but she knew what this feeling was, what it led to, and she hungered for it with every fiber of her being.
Then he was wrenching himself from her arms and throwing himself off the bed. He backed away from her, staring down at his body, his chest heaving and his hands clenching andunclenching. A strangled noise erupted from his throat, neither human nor wolf, and he stared at her, his nostrils flaring and his mouth working, but no sound coming out.
Constance wanted to scream her frustration, but one look at his expression, at the sheer panic writ across his face, and her stuttering orgasm vanished.
She eased from the bed, ignoring her nakedness. “Monsieur D’Artagnon.”
He squeezed his eye shut and thrashed his head from side to side. Even in distress, he was beautiful. Scarred, but strong. Troubled, damaged, but still proud. With the body of a seasoned chevalier. It made her mouth water. Had her longing to touch him, to run her hands through the dusting of dark hair on his chest. To trace the angry scar curling up over his rib cage and around his shoulder. Her gaze dipped lower. And yes—Mother help her—she wanted to touch him there, too. Take him into her body, lay with him.
Another guttural groan drew her gaze back to his face. The longing she saw there between the strands of his dark hair had her body tingling.
Is this because of my potion?
He clenched his fists at his side, the muscles in his shoulders and arms bunching. He let out an agonized cry that all but tore her heart open.
Shame flushed her cheeks.What sort of person am I? The man is inpain.
She took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. He straightened and reached for the door.
“Wait. Please.” She pulled the pieces of her torn chemise together. “Stay. Talk to me. Please. Or…I can fetch Seigneur Gaharet?”
Another vigorous shake of his head.
“Then…tell me who betray—”
He snarled and flung the door open. It crashed against the wall as he disappeared down the darkened stairway. Constance raced after him, heedless of her nakedness, her torn chemise flapping against her sides. She followed the glimpses of his bare torso, ignoring the cold floor beneath her feet. If she did not catch him before he shifted back…
She burst into the kitchen, the door to the bailey hanging open.Am I too late?She skirted the kitchen table and peered out. By the keep wall, staring back at her, was the black wolf.
No.Constance’s shoulders sagged.
Monsieur D’Artagnon turned and slunk away into the night.
She slumped against the door frame, the anguish in that guttural cry still ringing in her ears, burning into her memory. Monsieur D’Artagnon had shifted, whether by her interference or for some unknown reason, but at what cost to the man?
Chapter Eighteen
D’Artagnon sped through the gloom of the forest, his mind racing and the thud of his heart keeping time with the beat of his paws on the ground. He ran as though he could outrun what had happened, as if outrunning himself was truly possible. He had had another uncontrolled shift. Pulled the little healer into his arms, tore at her chemise and almost…
Merde, what is wrong with me?
Not once in all the years since his fellow wolf had cut him down had he shifted. From the moment he had crawled from the battleground and taken wolf form, he had remained so. Even when his body had healed and he had traveled so far northeast that he had run into them, he had not shifted. When they had accepted his presence and allowed him to stay on the fringes of their pack, still he had remained a wolf, though returning to human form would have been the honorable thing to do.
As a wolf encroaching on their territory, it was theexpectedthing to do. To reveal himself and announce his intentions. They could have demanded it, and forced him out when he did not. As an interloper, they could have killed him, but they had seemed to understand why he did not, perhaps more so than he did, and let him be.
If he were honest, shifting had never tempted him. Not in all those years. Now, in the last few days, he had shiftedthreetimes. Involuntarily. In hissleep.
She must think her mixture with the deadly nightshade was the reason, and it would be easy to lay the blame there. He knewdifferently. Oh, he had caught Anne’s wink, and Constance’s little catch of breath, but his food had been untainted.
D’Artagnon slowed to a halt in a clearing, his chest heaving. No. He had not shifted because of her potion, but because ofher. Constance. The woman with the golden braids and unusual eyes. The way she looked at him with such…empathy.It echoed in every word she spoke, even if those words were about him. For him.
And,merde,she had felt good beneath him. Better than good. She had felt…right. As though his mouth on hers and his hand wedged between her thighs, sliding his fingers through her juices was exactly where he was meant to be. Her heady fragrance and her naked body flushed as she balanced on the edge of a climax etched forever in his memory.
