Wicked lessons with the coutesan

Waking up

*Seraphine*

Upon opening my eyes, my first thought is that demons… for surely my sins would prevent me from being welcomed into heaven… have the most gorgeous bare buttocks. Firm, round, and… begging to be squeezed. Or at least the devil standing near the wardrobe with his back to me does. A quick image races through my mind of how his butt cheeks would flex, tighten, and loosen with each powerful thrust he delivers. He would move with such grace and beauty that I would be mesmerized.

My second thought as I watch him cover up that lovely backside with a pair of black trousers is that I might not be dead. For surely, once released from this mortal coil I would experience no pain. However, I ache in places I didn’t even know a person could ache. My face hurts most of all. And my head. Now I know how a piece of iron feels when the blacksmith’s hammer bangs away, forging it into something useful.

Just as I’ve been forged.

As the devil draws on a shirt, I can’t help but admire his broad shoulders as well as the way his back tapers down to a narrow waist and slim hips. He really is lovely, should pose for a statue. Then he turns and silently I curse. Damn it all to hell.

I know him. Indeed, he is the very last person I want to set eyes upon, much less be in his lofty and irritating presence in such close quarters. My hands tighten on a blanket draped over me, and I am hit with the sudden realization that I am naked beneath it. How I have come to be in that revealing state is cause for some consternation. I remember divesting myself of my pelisse, dress, and shoes when the prospect of going into the water was looming before me. But the remainder of my clothing... Oh, my Goddess. I have my suspicions, and I draw the warm woolen blanket more closely around me, even as I push myself upright to a sitting position so I won’t be at a disadvantage for what is certain to become a confrontation.

He lifts a dark brow that rests over incredible silver eyes, eyes I’ve always feared see far too much. “Back to the land of the living, I see. Seraphine, as I recall.”

Irritated with the snide tone of his voice, I see no point in confirming what I suspect he knows to be true. All of Blackrock city identifies me by only a single name, so famous am I. Whether it is my first or my last remains a mystery, and I prefer it that way. It prevents me from being truly known, even though I am a regular in the gossip columns, disliked by mates, unmarried lasses, and widows who fear I might snatch away their husbands, betrotheds, or lovers. Although why in the world I would want a disloyal scapegoat in my bed is beyond my reckoning. “Beta Langdon, as I recall.”

A muscle in his cheek ticks. Apparently, he doesn’t like me haughtily using his words or his tone. Neither does he fancy me any more than I fancy him. As though I give a tinker’s curse regarding his opinion of me. He is not mine to please. I can irritate him as much as I like, and I am going to like doing so very much. I glance around. “How did I come to be in what is apparently a bedchamber?”

“You washed up on my shore.”

Ah, that would explain the gritty sand that clings to me the way some men want to. But I have a protector who doesn’t tolerate any such foolishness. Although I’ve never had a problem putting a man in his place when his hands wander to where they ought not. But then I’ve never had to deal with anyone who bothers me as much as Langdon does, in ways I don’t quite understand. From the moment I first saw him…

I shake off the thought. Now is not the time to let the past intrude. Now is for dealing with the present, and a beta who believes he can own pieces of the earth that are impossible to cordon off. Dear Goddess, the arrogance. “Your shore?”

“This tiny island is part of my family’s holdings. The main estate is across the way, along the coast. You muttered that there were no others.” With his brow deeply furrowed, he looks to the window. Blinding lightning briefly blocks the darkness beyond. A second or so later, the thunder roars its anger.

A shudder of fear rolls through me with the reminder I'd been out in it. I tighten my arms around myself, knowing I've been blessed to survive. In all of my twenty-two years, I've never been caught in a tempest such as the one I encountered earlier. While being tossed madly about, I had believed down to the depths of my soul that I was doomed. Had anyone else, even a drunk, odorous stranger been standing there, I might have asked to be held so I could weep for a few seconds and bask in the knowledge that I am alive to do so. But I want Langdon no nearer than he already is. Besides, I very much doubt he'd offer any sort of comfort.

"Are you certain no one else went overboard from the ship?" he asks, suspiciously, as though I'd have no interest in saving anyone who had. As though I am selfish, thinking only of myself and my own needs. Although I really can't blame him for having that opinion when I've spent the past few years cultivating such a persona, when in truth I am no more than a sow's ear determined to be mistaken for a silk purse.

"I wasn't on a ship." Not a classic one anyway, not what I suspect he's envisioning. I shouldn't take any sort of pleasure in proving that he has wrong of things, and yet I do. He thinks he knows me. All of Blackrock city thinks they know me but all they truly know is what the ink in the gossip columns reveals and it's shaped by those who resent me.

He swings his gaze back to me. "Pinesworth's yacht, then."

With that, it becomes evident he knows my protector quite well. Not that I'm surprised. It certainly isn't a secret that the Alpha of Hollingsworth sees to my care. Nor is it a secret that he possesses a yacht. "I wasn't in any sort of boat."

"Then how the devil did you get here? You're certainly no angel with wings."

I smile, or try to, but my mouth protests and when I touch my tongue to the corner of my lower lip, I feel the small laceration and taste the slightest tang of blood. "But I am an angel with a hot-air balloon."

He looks as if he wants to protest at my daring to refer to myself as an angel. A bit of sarcasm had threaded through the word when he'd used it. Before he can object or say something else to irritate me, I rush to continue. "Hung on for dear life. Swells took it under, me with it. I don't remember much after that, I'm afraid." Which I suspect, all in all, might be a blessing.

He narrows his eyes and a deep crease appears in his forehead. "But you wouldn't have been alone. A pilot would have been flying it. I should be out looking for him."

His assumption annoys me beyond reason. I think him young enough to be more enlightened. On the other hand, it isn't uncommon for people to believe the worst of a she-wolf in my position… or my inability to do anything except lie on my back. "I was flying the thing myself. I'm an aeronaut."

"You're a she-wolf."

"I've always heard you're brilliant, and it's a challenge to get anything past you." Inwardly, I curse. I'm accustomed to flirting, but now is not the time and he most certainly is not the man. "Ballooning is a rather common hobby among she-wolves." And has been for almost a century now. The sky is the one place where a she-wolf can be completely free of societal constraints. Where I'm not chattel. Where I'm not dependent upon the kindness… or in most cases the tolerance… of men. Where I can go my own way, do as I damned well please. Not that I feel a need to educate him regarding the craft's history. In fact, I want as little conversation between us as possible.

"Daft she-wolf apparently," he states succinctly. "Did you not notice a storm was afoot?"

He stares at me as if I haven't a sharp knife in my cutlery drawer. Perhaps I haven't. I'd seen the darkening sky but hadn't cared. I'd wanted to be someplace where I had more control. Where I am the mistress, the queen, the ruler. Where I can think. Where perhaps I can recapture those dreams I'd clung to when I was a young girl and my father would take me up in his balloon. I long to reclaim the peace and absence of doubts I'd held then. When I'd believed my future was mine for the taking, could be anything I desired. Instead, it has been fashioned by circumstances beyond my control. And of late, I am simply so damned weary of disappointments.