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Twenty-two
Felicity ran as best as she was able while clutching her family portrait and dressed in a full-length cape and a dress that billowed and threatened to wrap itself around her legs. She heard his paws hitting the ground, under the cheering and revelry from the glade; he had to be faster than she, but he stayed behind, huffing and howling as she giggled with nerves.
She dashed to the cottage at the top of the hill, its windows glowing with candlelight, a welcoming stream of smoke puffing out of its chimney. She fell against the door, and Alfie bunched behind her as though to pounce; her hand found the door latch and pushed it open. She watched him sweep around her, once, twice, thrice, magnificent, lethal, beastly, and yet there was no fear, only the now-familiar push and pull of air, which resulted in Alfred standing behind her in his human skin.
“Do not turn.” He shut the door. “Close your eyes.” She did so. He removed the portrait from her arms, and she heard him set it down nearby. He moved to stand behind her back, his essence surrounding her, his head near to hers as he reached around and undid the ties of her cloak, hands warm as they drew it off her shoulders.
She turned her head. “Don’t,” he said. “I am mindful of your nerves.”
“I’m not…” She was, a little. Less afraid of the wolf than of the marital act.
“You are.” Lifting the tiara from her hair, this time he set it aside with care. Running his hands down to her waist, then up her back, then around to her belly, his gestures seemed to be less about seduction than—“Where are the bloody laces on this garment?” He pulled at the layers of veils, and she batted his hands away.
“I do not know how Jemima did this,” she said, as she, too, began rummaging for buttons, or some other sort of closure. “I wasn’t paying attention when Mary was helping me dress.”
“Distracted, were you?”
“I was in rather a languid state,” she said, tilting her head to nuzzle his shoulder. “Especially after my bath…”
“Another bath?” His hands squeezed her waist and left off trying to disrobe her for a moment. “I cannot imagine you had the energy for bathing after our journey.”
“It was merely a bath,” she sighed. “I believe they are ruined for me forever. Alfred. Let me turn around.”
“Pardon me,” he said. “I know this dress has pockets.” That quiver vibrated in the air, and something hard and sharp and cool tickled the base of her neck. Then there was a tug, and fabric rended, and her ensemble was at her feet, sliced clean through from back to bum, through dress, chemise, stays and all. Then, in the place of what had surely been a claw, a finger traced all the way down her exposed spine.
His hands ran down her shoulders to her palms, where his fingers entwined hers, and his mouth caressed the tops of her shoulders. His hands moved to run down her sides, over her hips, her belly, skating down below, and then back up again, over her ribs; then one arm wrapped around her waist, as the other hand lifted one breast, caressing, then the other, fingers straying over her nipples until she nestled, insensate, against him.
The feel of his body against her back was so strong, so warm, so large, it made her writhe; her bum nestled against steely thighs; the heat of his cock made her squirm against it. A growl—he spun her to face him, his arms banding about her waist, her arms twined ’round his neck; his hands caressed her everywhere, stroking, stoking her passion, passion of an intensity she had no notion she possessed. His hands notched under her bum; she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, and he, stronger than any man, didn’t move an inch.
“I will not let you call this tune, Your Grace.” In a trice, she found herself flat on her back on an enormous bed. “You would have us bowing ere we have enjoyed our dance.”
She lay before him, reveling in the perfection of that moment. Where she might have once cringed in dismay at the thought of being beheld naked before anyone, perhaps most of all a husband, she saw in his expression he thought her as beautiful as she felt. The candles whose light had warmed the windows were set about with abandon, and the fire that sent smoke up the chimney burned in the small grate. The lavishly appointed bed was almost as large as the cottage itself, its length and breadth such to support a man of size.
Oh, help.Size. She tried not to stare, but there it was, laid bare before her, and she didn’t know what to do next. Confidence lost, she reached for one of the many layers draping the bed with a view to covering herself and got no further than a cursory scrabble.
“No.” He lay down alongside her and pulled her close. “Trust me?”
“Yes.” She rolled to face him. His face above hers, his expression was unlike anything she’d ever imagined, a mixture of self-control and yearning, tenderness, a fervent desire. His thick, black hair hung in his eyes, so she reached up and brushed it back. She ran her hand over That Chest, down his belly to… “May I?”
“Oh, yes, you may,” he growled, his eyes firing, his nostrils flaring, his body tensing.
She kept her gaze on his as she ran a tentative finger around the top of his member, down along the side, back up. His eyes never wavered, but his entire body strained to her touch, and she knew from the tenor of his breath, she was affecting him as he did her. She used her palm, stroked up and down, down and up, around; his jaw flexed, and yet he did not move so much as an eyelash. She gripped, harder, her reward a deep inhalation of breath, and she smiled. She slid her fingers around, it quivered; she felt a drop of moisture at the head; she gripped it again, released, gripped, released—
And was set firmly on her back, her hands over her head, breathless with his power. “Enough,” he said, setting himself between her thighs. “I’ll not explode like a pup, not on my bonding night.”
She drew her legs up, drew him closer. She wanted nothing more than to join with him, all trepidation gone.
“When we join,” he growled, “we will bond. There will be no going back from this, Felicity.”
“I have made vows,” she said with some asperity, which, under the circumstances, was a miracle. “They may be human, but they are meaningful to me.”
“This means everything to me.” He dropped kisses where he would. “You mean everything to me.”
He released her hands, and she ran them up his arms, then down his ribs, and he nearly jerked out of her arms. She burst into laughter and went for his ribs again, resulting in a wrestle for dominance she lost straightaway. “This will not work if I cannot touch you.”
“I am less—” He twitched as her hands found his back. “I will become accustomed to your touch.”
She stroked her hands up and down his back, down to his bottom, which was not ticklish, and thought about all the women who had touched this body. Well, they had had their chance, those women, and wouldn’t get another. She looked up at him, fierce, and he growled in return.
