Page 48 of Wolf's Return
Merde.
That little sound, that little puff of breath, shot straight to his cock. He needed her naked.Now. But he cautioned himself to be gentle, to not frighten her. To take his time and be as patient as she had been with him. To worship her and treat her like the goddess she was.
Her eyes flew open as he dropped his arms and stepped away from her, the resignation in them all but breaking his heart. D’Artagnon ripped his tunic over his head and dropped it to the floor, satisfied when the flicker of surprise shifted to heat as her gaze fell on his naked chest. He kicked off his boots and peeled down his breeches. Tossing them aside, he stood before her and let all his desire, hisneedfor her, show.
She swallowed and reached for the stays of her dress. He closed the distance between them, his hand covering hers, stilling her fingers.
“I do not understand. I thought…”
D’Artagnon tilted her head, forcing her to look at him. Beautiful blue and green eyes searched his face. That she hadseen the evidence of his arousal and had any doubt at all he wanted her saddened him.
He dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead and another on her nose. She gasped when he sank to his knees before her and unlaced first one boot, then the other. Taking her hand in his, he placed it on his shoulder and lifted her leg. She leaned on him as he slipped her boot from her foot. Unlike her calloused palms, the skin of her foot was smooth and pale, and he dipped his head, pressing his lips to her delicate arch. Her toes curled.
He met her gaze and dropped another kiss on the top of her foot, one at her ankle and, sliding the hem of her dress higher, one on her shin. Her body trembled and her eyes glazed over. D’Artagnon set her foot down and lifted the other, repeating his actions, never once releasing her heated gaze. He would show her, prove to her that which she doubted—that he desired her. With everything he had.
D’Artagnon rose. With gentle hands, he wrapped her arms around his neck, and she curled her fingers in his hair as he worked at the laces of her dress. First one side, then the other, his fingers as impatient as the rest of his body. He ran his hands down over the gentle flare of her hips and, bunching the fabric of her dress in his fists, he slowly dragged it up over her head. He cast it aside. She stared up at him with hooded eyes and parted lips.
L’enfer,she was everything he had dreamed of as a boy. Everything he could have asked for. And she had been right there, in the forest outside Langeais all this time. Had his father not been murdered, the connection between Constance’s coven and the Langeais wolves would have remained intact. Had one of their own not attacked him, their bond would have been stronger. The younger D’Artagnon, the one who had yet to know betrayal and exile, would have claimed her as his mate. Without hesitation.
He dropped his head to the crook of her neck and ran his nose along the column of her throat, breathing in her scent as though he could hold it in his lungs forever. With an arch of her neck, she gave him greater access, and his canines punched through his gums. His wolf wanted her. To bite, claim, and make her one of them. Every instinct he had screamed at him to do it. To make her his.
D’Artagnon forced his canines to retract, his gums throbbing and his chest heaving with the effort. Regret lodged in his throat. As much as he wanted to, he could not offer her that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Instead, he dropped soft, open-mouthed kisses on the fast-beating thread of her pulse, his tongue flicking out to taste her. She shivered, and he delighted in her response. He would have her writhing beneath him soon. Devote this whole night to her as though they had no cares in this world.
He slipped her underdress over her head and let it fall to the floor. Only her chemise remained. So many nights he had tormented himself with the shadow of her form beneath the thin material. No more. He eased it off her, and it joined the rest of their garments.
With fingers that shook, he unpinned her braids and removed the ties. The rise and fall of her chest, the heady fragrance of her filling his nostrils, tested his control, and his willingness to be patient. He fought against the urge to swoop her up in his arms, to let loose the beast inside and plunder the delights of her body. Instead, he ran his fingers through the lengths of spun gold, teasing them out so they hung over her shoulders and across her breasts. Delicate pink nipples peeked out between the strands, taunting him. He would have them in his hands, in his mouth, many times before the night was through.
A growl rumbled deep in his chest. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. If he had to suffer all his years in exile,the bite of the blade in his shoulder and the slash of steel across his face again in order to be here with her now, he would not hesitate. He would do it all again. For her.
The memories of his betrayal, the agony of his injuries, and his need for vengeance slipped away. Here in the cottage, in this moment, with the promise of tonight hanging thick in the air between them, nothing could touch them. Not their past, nor their future. There was only now.
Chapter Thirty
Constance trembled, teetering on the precipice of all her hopes and dreams, all her fantasies, coming to life. Not a night had gone past since they had arrived at the cottage had Constance not fallen asleep with images of her and D’Artagnon, naked and entwined on the humble cot, weaving through her dreams. Standing before him, both of them naked, a riot of emotions swirled through her as turbulent as the heat and the sensations storming through her body.
He was every bit the warrior, chiseled and shaped by the life he had lived, as a man and as a wolf. Her fingers itched to curl in the faint dusting of dark hair on his chest and trail over the taut muscles of his stomach. To trace the scar that curved around his ribcage. Absorb and wash away the pain of it and quiet any lingering memories. Her gaze dipped lower, and she sucked in a breath. There was no hiding the evidence of his need.
Still, the voice of reason threatened to sour this moment, whisperinghe is a man, and I am but the first woman he has encountered after so long as a wolf. But when he reached for her, when he picked her up, carried her to the cot and sat her upon it as though she were something precious, something fragile, all logic fled.
D’Artagnon dropped to his knees, parting her thighs and pressing between them. The heat of his body so close to hers, his large hands on her thighs, his thumbs stroking her sensitized skin, banished all thought, centering all her focus on him.
Constance gave into temptation and raised her hands to his chest, savoring his jagged breathing and the thudding of his heart beneath her palm. Up his chest, over his shoulders she traversed, cupping his bearded chin in hands drawn higher by some inexplicable force. With gentle fingers, she brushed aside the lock of dark hair to reveal the scar hidden beneath.
D’Artagnon grasped her hands and tugged them away from his face, kissing first one palm, then the other, then looping her arms around his neck. He silenced any protest with his mouth, before pressing soft, moist kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat and across her collarbone. Her breasts heavy, her sex clenching, Constance let her head fall back, his scar forgotten.
Strong arms encircled her, supporting her as he arched her over the cot and dipped his mouth lower. The scrape of his beard, the soft press of his lips, the hot, wet lick of his tongue had Constance gasping for breath. And when he took her nipple in his mouth, grazed it with his teeth and laved it with his tongue, in one fell swoop he wiped away all the disappointments she had borne.
Constance sank her fingers into his long black hair and held on tight. Desperate for more, she squirmed against him. If D’Artagnon noted her sense of urgency, the clenching of her thighs about his hips, or the scoring of her nails against his scalp, he gave no sign, continuing his patient onslaught of first one breast then the other with a devotion both divine and tortuous.
He laid her back on the cot, and dipped his hand between her thighs, a gentle, light touch, teasing her little nub and sliding through her slick folds. Constance thrust her hips at him, wanting more.Needingmore. She moaned, and his deep, throaty chuckle, his hot breath across her damp nipple, set her core clenching on air. Then his finger was at her entrance, and her whole body quivered, hanging on a knife’s edge.
He slid inside her, pushing deep. She gasped, and he took her mouth in his with a slow, languorous kiss as he slid his finger out, then pressed back in. And again. This time with two fingers, stretching her and creating a delicious friction that sizzled up her spine. He set up a rhythm, purposeful and determined, not swayed by her gasps, her entreaties for more, nor the impatient thrusts of her hips.
“D’Artagnon.”
The word slipped out on a moan, and a growl rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating through her body and engulfing her.
