Page 52 of Wolf's Return
A soft footfall in the corridor, and a tentative knock on the door had him snapping his eyes open.
“Mon Seigneur, is everything well?”
He flung open the door to the calculating eye of the madam.
She peered past him to the ruins of the chamber. “Are my girls not keeping you satisfied, Mon Seigneur?”
“I will need another room. And another girl. No. Two girls. I will pay you double our agreed price.”
The madam smiled. “Of course, Mon Seigneur. It is always a pleasure doing business with you. Come with me.”
He followed the madam down the corridor, his dark needs twisting within his chest. Once he had sated his fury and cleared his mind, then he would make his plans. He would not stay hidden forever. The time would come for him to take his rightful place as the alpha of the Langeais wolves. Nothing, not Gaharet,not this Eveque Faucher, nor the comte of this wretched county, would stop him. And if D’Artagnon lived, if he had survived his attack, Lance would soon rectify that mistake. This time, he would make certain he was dead. He would take his head.
Chapter Thirty-Three
D’Artagnon awoke to mid-morning light streaming through the smoke hole and the trill of birdsong beyond the cottage walls. Strewn across the floor were their clothes. Tucked in his embrace, her back to his chest and the lush curve of her ass snug against him, lay Constance.
He breathed in the heady scent of her, of sex, and a deep, contented rumble started up in his chest. She moaned in her sleep, pushing back into him, much to the delight of his already hard cock.
D’Artagnon skimmed his hand across her hip, reveling in the smoothness of her skin. He could not stop touching her. It was all he could do not to drag her onto her back and thrust his cock into her wet heat. Again. How many times had he taken her? He could not remember. A few. He had a lot of years to make up for. Years where he could have had Constance in his bed, and as his mate.
He tempered himself. She would be tender. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. But he could still give her pleasure. He slid his hand down to her inner thigh and her body responded, her legs parting, granting him access. She arched her neck, and he nuzzled at the soft juncture of her shoulder, careful to keep his canines leashed. His gums throbbed anew, his wolf aching to claim that which was his.
He brushed his fingers over her folds, seeking and finding the center of her pleasure. She gasped and her eyes fluttered open, capturing him, binding him. He rubbed his fingers over her nub—a gentle glide, circling, the occasional firm press—her needy whimpers a delight to his ears. He ground his hips, crushing his hard, hot length between them, then slipped his finger gently inside her. With every slide of his finger, he thrust his hips, his cock rubbing along the cleft of her buttocks.
Her fingernails dug into his forearm as she matched him thrust for thrust. A soft gasp slipped between her parted lips and it sank into his testicles, sending sparks up his spine. He was going to come already. So soon. That’s what she did to him, his little healer. Stripped him of any control. He latched onto her shoulder and sucked hard—no teeth—and she jerked, spasming around his fingers.
His release hit him, and he was too far gone, too caught up in the wet heat of her channel squeezing around his fingers, and her breathy little moans he could not stop it, could not prolong his, or her pleasure. He exploded over her hot skin, emptying his testicles of every drop of his seed. Unable to hold his wolf back, he pulled her tight against him and howled his triumph, his claim—to the morn, the sun, the forest and its creatures, to all who would listen.
He collapsed back onto the cot, panting, his own essence thick on the air, coating his tongue. His wolf’s smugness echoed in his mind. He tried to dredge up the familiar burn of his hunger for vengeance, the sting of betrayal that had been his constant companion, and his grief, but his heart and mind refused. It no longer filled all the empty spaces in his heart. She did.
But the fact remained. Lance still lived. And he continued to plot against his pack. Justice must be served. With his reluctance to involve his brother and risk his unborn pup, it left D’Artagnon with one option. He must hunt Lance down alone. Challenge him. Kill him. Or die trying.
With gentle hands, he used the covers to wipe his release from Constance’s back. His wolf wanted to leave it there, smear itacross her skin and mark her with his scent. The man in him understood she would find such a thing distasteful.
Constance threw her leg across his and stared up at him, a hint of sorrow in their depths. Did she know? Did she suspect? That he must leave her. That he might never come back. She reached her hand out, smoothing the lock of hair away from his scar. This time he did not flinch, nor pull away. With a gentle touch, she traced his scar across his cheek, dipping where his eye once was, and up over his forehead.
She straddled him, and leaned forward, the long strands of her hair brushing his shoulders, and touched her lips first to his cheek at the base of his scar, then to his forehead at the very tip. Without hesitation, she pressed her lips to his damaged eye socket.
“You are more than your scars, D’Artagnon. Much more. You need not hide them from me.”
He closed his good eye, heaving in a ragged breath. This woman… She slayed him with her kindness and her acceptance. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. If only they could stay like this forever. Her in his arms, his scent all over her, but they could not.
His brother would have returned from Langeais. Perhaps he had news. Or Kathryn might have remembered something more. The longer he lingered here, the greater the risk. He had thought, once he was gone, once no one was digging into the circumstances around his mother’s death, that would be the end of things. How wrong he had been. And now, despite the long years he had spent in exile, an urgency pressed at him. He stared into Constance’s beautiful eyes. Perhaps because now, more than ever, he had a reason to finish this.
D’Artagnon levered himself up from the cot, taking her with him. She wrapped her legs around his hips, and he strode from the cottage, heedless of their nakedness, and took the path to thepond and the little waterfall. He would give himself this morn, and maybe one more. Bathe with her, care for her, take her as many times as her body could bear. Imprint her on his body and his soul.
He could never slake his desire for Constance, not if he spent a score years—no, five score years—discovering her body and all its secrets. The sensitive hollows that responded to his kisses. Where she liked a firm touch, or a gentle caress. Or where he best use his tongue to lave her to a quick release. He would never tire of seeing her preparing herbs for her ward, sitting across the table from him sharing a meal, or the way she talked to him, sharing her stories, her life, though he never spoke a word, never shared his truth with her.
D’Artagnon was not free to have those things. He had made a promise to his father to avenge his mother’s death. He had failed the first time, skulked from the battlefield beaten and cowed. His failure to fulfill his oath swirled in his gut, battered by his fear he might prove unsuccessful yet again.
He clutched Constance tighter to him as he broke through the trees into the clearing, the pond glistening in the morning sun. He must conquer his fears, face his enemy. She had said as much. That he would not heal unless he did so.
But what of this Eveque Faucher? Was it safe for Constance to return to the keep?
He did not pause at the pond’s edge, stalking into the cool water. First, he would take care of Constance, then he would decide what action he must take.
Chapter Thirty-Four
