Wolf’s Redemption (The Wolves of Langeais #3)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Rebekah stepped away from him, and it took everything Ulrik had to not reach for her and drag her into his arms. To slake his need to have her pressed against him. Far from recoiling, his transition from man to wolf and back had enthralled her. More than. It had aroused her. This woman—bold, unapologetically defiant and fearless—she slayed him.

“My turn,” she said, an impish grin on her lips. “You showed me yours. Now I’ll show you mine.”

Twice before, he had teased her, taunted her with his body. In the pond, stroking his length as she’d watched with slitted lids, pretending to sleep, and in the witch’s cottage as Constance gutted and skinned the hares. He had not missed the burn of her gaze searing his bare back, the force of her attention on his naked ass. He had not forgotten. Neither, it seemed, had she.

She turned her back to him, unlaced her peasant’s dress and slipped it over her head, tossing it aside. The red and yellow ink of her phoenix blazed across her shoulder, a mirror image of his crest on his surcoat. The subtle curve of her spine and the dips and shadows of her body called to him. He longed to trace his fingers, his tongue, over each one—nipping, sucking, caressing, licking. Seeking the places, the hollows, that would make her moan and tremble with desire.

Her hands went to her breeches. She threw a glance over her shoulder at him, full of challenge, as she wiggled them over her luscious ass. Inch by torturous inch, revealing a tiny strip of red fabric disappearing between her cheeks. His fingers curled, and his claws punched through the skin of his palms. Heat flared in her eyes, then she smiled and bent at the waist, giving him a glimpse of her red covered sex as she peeled her breeches from her legs.

Merde. His lungs seized, and his cock throbbed with a need to answer her challenge. To stride over to her, rip away that tiny piece of cloth, thrust inside her and pound against her willing flesh. Teach her what happened when she taunted the beast. He kept himself rooted to the ground. He had not spent a lifetime learning to control his darker half only to falter now. Rebekah would have the best of him. All his knowledge of how to please a woman. He would have her writhing in ecstasy, begging him to sate her, not some savage fucking in the mud.

She turned.

Ulrik almost spilled his seed right there and then. He searched desperately for some measure of calm. He was not some stripling lad, untried and inexperienced, but his cock was ready and willing. Had been since she’d first appeared in—what had she called it?—Lothair’s oubliette. Nights of sleeping with her snuggled against him for warmth, and days of walking with throbbing testicles had done little to dampen his lust, his need for her.

She faced him, almost naked. Her pale skin, luminescent in the moonlight, emphasized the colorful etchings on her body. They snaked down her arms, across her shoulders, curled around her ankles and over her hip. Black straps over her shoulders attached to a dainty, open-weave black fabric cupped her breasts, thrusting them up in the most delectable way. Her dark nipples poked through the floral pattern, taunting him.

Ulrik had seen this garment drying in the witch’s cottage and wondered at it. Now he saw it on her body, and he loved it and hated it in equal measure. He wanted to bury his face in the deep valley it created between those glorious mounds. He wanted to rip it off her. A man’s hands and naught else should cup a bosom like hers. His hands.

That little scrap of red barely covered her pussy, with a hint of dampness at the crux of her thighs. Her scent floated to him on the still night air, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Heaven and all the temptation of hell rolled into one. All the wicked things he wanted to do with her, to her, flashed through his mind. Him inside her, watching his cock split her pink pussy lips, wet with her desire. Him behind her, gripping the creamy flesh of her soft, rounded ass. Rebekah on her knees, dark eyes focused on him as she sucked his cock with her defiant mouth. He salivated. His wolf pushed forward, forceful and eager.

She turned away from him and waded into the pond—the water caressing her calves, then her knees. Deeper still until it lapped at her thighs. It seemed ridiculous to be jealous of a pond, but Lord help him, he was.

She glanced over her shoulder. “What are you waiting for, Ulrik?” With a crook of her finger, she beckoned him. “Come join me.”

Then she dove into the water and disappeared from view, only to resurface midway across the pond.

Ulrik strode into the water, his cock erect and pointing unerringly at the object of his desire. He dove in after her. Cold water surrounded him, chilling his skin, but it did little to temper the heat in his loins. By the time he had caught up with her, she had reached the waterfall, clambered up onto the rock ledge beneath it and stepped into the gentle flow. Rivulets streamed over her dark hair, down her shoulders, followed the curve of her spine and sluiced along the line of her hip.

Ulrik hoisted himself onto the ledge and clasped his arms about her waist, pulling her slick body back against his. His cock, harder than the tempered steel of his sword, crushed between them, pressed eagerly into the cleft of her ass. He groaned at the contact. She did not fight or twist away, rather ground her ass back into his groin.

He reveled in it, pulling her tighter against him, grinding his length into her sweet, soft curves. If he never found redemption, if heaven were to be denied him, right here, right now, he could not care. This, this glorious woman, naked in his arms, was all the redemption he needed. Heaven but a thrust away. Then he could die a satisfied man.

The red material covering her sex was soft, but it was an impediment to what he wanted. Her. All of her. Naked. He hooked his fingers in the material, prepared to tug it off, snap it, whatever gave him the access he wanted faster. She pulled away.

He gritted his teeth against the inner howl of his wolf and stepped back. He had never, would never, force his attentions on a woman. No matter how much he craved to lick and touch and suck every inch of her body. Or how much his cock begged, demanding he take what he wanted, what he craved with every fiber of his being. Every instinct in him screamed she wanted that, too, but he would not take what she did not offer freely.

She faced him, wet hair plastered to her forehead and her eyes glazed with lust. She stepped out of the flow of the waterfall. A bead of water trickled down her throat and carved a trail lower. He followed it as it slipped between the creamy skin of her breasts. Merde , he would love to get his hands on those. He sighed. Maybe not tonight. He swallowed his disappointment.

Ulrik raised his gaze to hers, prepared to retreat, to spend the night unsatisfied, with only the relief of his own hand. A poor substitute. He hesitated. Mischief danced in her brown eyes. Her tongue flicked out and she ran it across her top lip. He stared at it, tracked its progress as she repeated the motion. Now all he could think about was what he wanted her to do with her tongue. His cock leaked pre-cum. It needed little encouragement.

She stepped in close, her bottom lip clenched in her teeth and slowly, she sank to her knees.

Merde. By all that was holy. No woman had ever offered him this so boldly. The more jaded women of the court, the occasional bawdy serving wench, had taken his cock in their mouths. But only after he had pleasured them, and they lay sated and limp from his attentions. It was more an afterthought, or a duty, an expectation to be filled and reluctantly given. Yet Rebekah, gorgeous, lush Rebekah, kneeled before him, her mouth bare inches from his weeping cock with not a hint of hesitation. Little puffs of her breath teased his swollen head, and she stared at it with undisguised hunger.

She tilted her head up, locked her gaze on his, opened her mouth and placed her lips around the head of his cock.

Merde .

His knees all but buckled . Have I ever seen a more beautiful sight? He wanted to throw back his head and howl. To slide his fingers into her hair and shove his cock to the back of her throat and bury himself balls-deep in her warm, wet mouth. See how much of him she could take.

Her tongue worked his length, threatening to strip away the thin crust of his civility. He was more than the brutal chevalier who had killed the guard beneath Lothair’s keep. More than a beast of myth and legend. His hands trembled with the need to touch her, but he kept them by his side, letting her have control. For now.