Page 53 of Wolf's Return
Constance squealed as the cold water lapped at her bare bottom, her heart swelling at D’Artagnon’s throaty chuckle. She clutched at him as the water rose across her stomach and over her ribs, her nipples pebbling. They weren’t the only things that were hard. Trapped between them, his cock made its presence known. Again. The man was insatiable. She wiggled against him, clamping down on a moan when her over-sensitized nub rubbed against his hot, hard length.
Another chuckle. “Wash first, Constance.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I promise I will not leave you wanting.”
He pressed into the pond until all but her head and neck were above the water, her hair splayed out behind on the surface.
“Take a breath.”
Constance did as she was told, and he dunked them both beneath the surface. She came up grinning, a matching smile on his face. By the Fates, it was a glorious sight, D’Artagnon smiling.
He walked them to the edge of the pond and laid her down in the shallows. Slowly, with gentle hands and a reverence fit for a queen, he cleaned her body. From her shoulders and arms, down her breasts and stomach, over her thighs, her knees, and to the tips of her toes, he washed her. No, he worshiped her, and Constance reveled in his ministrations.
With every pass of his hands, every tender caress, wrapped in the cocoon of water and his devotion to her care, she was unspooling in his arms. That such a big, scarred warrior couldbe so gentle. That a man so wounded could be so giving. She blinked at the prick of tears. That she could experience this. At his hands.
The images of her vision filled her mind—the black wolf, the child dancing about, and the woman smiling, happy. She remembered it as though it were but ‘ere-yesterday. She had carried it around in her heart like a protection charm, warding her against the harshness of her existence. With every tender touch, with every brush of D’Artagnon’s fingers, hope solidified in her chest. Could she be…?
D’Artagnon’s hands left her body. For a heart’s beat, their absence left her bereft, until he nestled between her thighs, his arms bracketing her shoulders. His face hovered above hers, full lips parted and a mere breath away.
He touched his lips to hers. “Beautiful.”
A lump formed in her throat. He thought her—
He rolled his hips between her thighs and slanted his mouth across hers, and all thoughts of what might be, what her future might hold melted away, and she lost herself to the feel of him, and to the bliss he wrung from her body like a skilled master.
Constance lay on top of D’Artagnon, her head on his chest, the water cool against her thighs and his heart a steady thrum beneath her cheek. If only they could stay here until the end of time, in this moment, in this peaceful place, the two of them alone in the forest. It could not be. As the sun rose higher in the sky, so did the tension in D’Artagnon’s body. Constance sensed it—his need for action and the heavy weight of change bearing down on them.
He let her go as she slid off him, sluicing her body clean and stepping out of the pond. In silence, he followed her. On the edge of the forest, he stopped and tilted his head to the breeze. Hesnarled and pulled her into the circle of his arms, surrounding her with his body.
Her throat tight, she searched the clearing. “What is it? Is someone there?”
Then she saw it, at the head of the waterfall. A wolf—big and grizzled with age. Her heart thumped loud in her chest, and she clutched at D’Artagnon. Another werewolf. He was too other not to be, but she sensed a foreignness about this one. As though he did not belong here, nor with the Langeais wolves. Was he friend or foe?
D’Artagnon turned her away, giving the intruder his back and hiding her, but his body no longer vibrated with his anger. “Do not fear, Constance. He is a friend. From my time away.”
The gray wolf cocked his head and lifted his nose to the breeze. D’Artagnon did the same, listening for things her human ears could not possibly catch.
D’Artagnon nodded. “I was”— he grinned over his shoulder at the wolf—“distracted.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Come, Constance. Aimon approaches.”
They left the gray wolf behind and hurried along the path, back to the cottage. Constance may know Aimon, but she was not eager to greet him naked. D’Artagnon appeared to feel the same way, thrusting her clothes at her as soon as they cleared the doorway.
She dressed as quickly as she could, and was lacing on her boots as hoof beats skidded to a halt outside the cottage.
“Constance? D’Artagnon?” There was a note of hesitancy in Aimon’s voice. “It is I, Aimon.”
Constance followed D’Artagnon from the cottage. Aimon stood at the edge of the clearing, the reins of two horses in his hand.
Aimon’s eyebrows shot up. “D’Artagnon. You’ve shifted?”
D’Artagnon pulled her to his side and ran his nose along the curve of her throat. He bared his teeth at Aimon, dark hair sprouting across his cheek. The heavy, musky scent of his wolf surrounded them. The horses stomped about and tugged at their reins, their whites of their eyes revealed. Aimon kept a firm grip on the reins and backed away.
Constance held her breath, her heart racing. Would Aimon move to defend her, not knowing D’Artagnon meant her no harm?
Aimon held up his hand and backed up further, keeping his gaze fixed on D’Artagnon. “Easy, D’Artagnon. I am a mated male. Remember. My mate Kathryn, your cousin, is back at the keep.”
The air crackled with the potential for bloodshed.
D’Artagnon ran his nose along the curve of her neck again, as though the action reassured him, but he kept her held tight against his side. As the fur receded from D’Artagnon’s cheeks and his wolf’s scent faded, the horses settled, and some of the tension eased from Aimon’s face. Constance released her pent-up breath.
Aimon lowered his hand slowly. “I come with news, D’Artagnon. Will you hear me out?” He took a step forward.
