Page 49 of Wolf's Return
“Come for me, Constance,” he murmured against her mouth. Then he hooked his fingers inside her and pressed his thumb on her little nub and she crested the wave of her pleasure, arching her back and shuddering around his hand.
With his breathing jagged and harsh in the quietness of the cottage, and his cock as hard as stone, D’Artagnon held his savage thirst for the woman beneath him in check by the barest of threads. She lay on the down-filled mattress, her head thrown back, her eyes closed and her pussy still fluttering. The sight of his hand between her thighs, his fingers disappearing inside her…Merde.His cock throbbed, leaking pre-cum from the tip. He needed inside her. Now. If he did not, he might spill his seed like an inexperienced lad. All over her delectable breasts.
His wolf pushed forward in his mind, primitive, and guided only by instinct.Mark. Claim. Rub his scent all over her.D’Artagnon clenched his free hand into a fist. He could make no promises beyond this moment. He slid his fingers free of her to a delightful little mewl of protest. But he would not deny himself, or her, what their bodies were crying out for.
He nudged her thighs further apart with his knee and settled between them, taking his weight on his elbows, a low groanrumbling up from deep within him as he slid his length through her slippery folds.
With his cock primed and coated in her juices, he prodded her entrance. “Open your eyes, Constance.”
One blue eye and one green locked on his, and with infinite slowness, his breath held, he pushed inside her, inch by incredible inch.
“Constance.” He let her name out on an explosive breath. “Merde.”
The exquisite sensation of being seated to the hilt, of her pussy around his cock, the rightness of it, took his breath away and made his heart pound. Chest to breasts, his arms beside her face, his fingers curling in her hair, their panted breaths mingling and their gazes locked, he began to move. Unhurried and measured, one long thrust then withdraw. Then another. And another. Teasing her, taunting himself, testing every bit of his control. Then faster, rocking into her with a desperation he could not hide nor rein in.
Constance threw her legs around his hips, her heels pressing into his cheeks, and urged him on. Those beautiful eyes of hers remained open, fixed on his, as they stared deep into his soul, seeing everything, takingallof him. The two of them connected in every way possible. The loneliness, the boundless emptiness, slipped away with every thrust of his cock and every clench of her pussy. She did not shrink from him, nor turn away. She embraced him, and the intensity of it shook him to his core, broke him down and rebuilt him.
Pleasure ripped up his spine, and he could hold back no longer. “Constance.”
Her mouth dropped open, her channel spasmed around him, and he let go, roaring his release, not once relinquishing her gaze, taking her with him over the edge into ecstasy. As he spilled his seed inside her, her childhood vision—Constancewith a black wolf and a little girl—flashed across his mind. It burrowed deep, encircling his heart like a tight fist, and for the first time since his near death on the battlefield, D’Artagnon hungered for something other than vengeance.
Chapter Thirty-One
Remi slipped into the cool silence of the chapel, following on the heels of Eveque Faucher. Not too close, mind, for he did not want to be caught. The big chevalier with the twin brother paid well, but not so well he would risk a quick, short drop at the end of a rope. Comte Lothair liked his public executions, and one word from the eveque and Remi’s days of running the streets would be over.
He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the nave. Empty. Careful not to make a sound, he crept past the pews, sweeping a practiced eye over them should luck favor him with a left behind coat, a fancy trinket, or a coin slipped from a purse. He had once found a bejeweled broach belonging to a baron. Too fancy to sell, he had returned it to its owner, pretending innocence, as though doing his civic duty. In front of the aumônier, of course. He had accepted his tidy reward with much bowing and scraping. Today, he found nothing.
He checked the nave again, peering into the pockets of shadows created by the flickering oil lamps in case he had missed someone, head bowed in prayer. Or worse, the eveque sneaking up behind him. Satisfied it was empty, he skirted the altar, resisting the temptation to snatch one of the gold candle holders, and headed for the sacristy.
Remi pressed himself against the wall and listened. The soft murmur of voices floated up, too far away to be in the next room. He edged the door open, cringing at the creak of hinges. The voices continued, louder now, but still indecipherable. Heneeded to get closer. Remi had never lived so well since the big chevalier had caught him trying to slit his purse, then put him to work as a spy. If the chevalier wanted information, then information he would get.
He slipped inside the sacristy. Robes belonging to the aumônier and the eveque hung on hooks, two chests stood along the wall, a table with a pitcher and bowl and fresh linens, but otherwise the room was empty. Through the open doorway at the back of the room, a conversation echoed unabated. Beyond it a lit corridor, also empty.
He had ventured this far into the church once before, when spying on Archeveque Renaud. Perhaps this time he would get a name. The one Renaud had passed onto this new eveque, the witch hunter. The name of a man claiming to be a werewolf.
Remi rolled his eyes. Werewolves? Witch hunters? Were the nobles so bored with their rich and fancy lives they chased mythical beasts to entertain themselves? If they had to scrounge for every meal, or for a warm place to sleep like he did, they would be too busy for such nonsense. Then they might realize there were enough real monsters in the world without searching for imaginary ones.
He shrugged. The big chevalier wanted that name, and he would pay double for it. Remi was going to get him what he wanted. Then he could get himself a thicker coat for the coming winter. Maybe a blanket, too. That was all he cared about. The important stuff.
He eyed the hanging robes of the priests. No. Too conspicuous. Too many people would recognize them for what they were. With some regret, he left the robes untouched and made his way toward the voices, to a room at the end of the corridor.
Two voices. Aumônier Touissant and Eveque Faucher. No Archeveque Renaud. Odd that no one had seen Renaud fora while now. Several days ago, Eveque Faucher had taken Renaud’s place beside Comte Lothair when d’Louncrais and his men, the big chevalier and his twin included, had renewed their vows. Remi had asked around. Now no one seemed to know where Renaud had gone. At least, no one willing to talk about it.
Remi did not believe the rumors whispered about the hall, that Renaud was off living a life of luxury, recalled by Rome. No. He suspected the archeveque had met a grisly end. The question was—by whose hand? Comte Lothair? This new eveque with his pretty face, soft hands and zealous, fiery sermons about the devil and the evil that walked amongst them? Or had one of the big chevaliers who paid Remi to watch the clergyman taken care of him? He could well believe it of them. Especially Aubert, the growly one.
Remi shrugged. The nobles could butcher each other until the streets ran with blood and still he would not care. He had more important things to consider. Like where he would sleep this eve. And, if he gave the twins what they wanted, could he demand enough coin for his new coat, a blanketanda good meal? Or maybe two?
Remi pressed himself flat to the wall outside the room and listened.
“I promise you, Aumônier Touissant, I will personally look into the disappearance of Archeveque Renaud. It grieves me as much as you that something may have befallen him.”
Remi muffled a snort. This Faucher was as big a liar as Renaud.
“I am currently looking into the possibility d’Louncrais and his men may have been involved.”
“Seigneur d’Louncrais?” asked the aumônier. “You don’t think—”
A chair creaked, and Remi could imagine the saintly aumônier’s discomfort. So humble and willing to see the good in everyone.
