Werewolf fairytales

What she can do for him

*Margaret*

I have no sooner turned from escorting the Alpha to his bedchamber than Fenrir pounces on me from behind, spinning me around so that his laughing face looms above mine.

His voice is totally male, hungry and deep. “Your bedchamber or mine, Daisy? Let me just add that there’ll be no yours or mine after tonight. We’ll share the bed and the chamber.”

It's everything I’ve been dreaming of for hours, and yet a flash of panic races through me. “I have to check the children.”

“They’re asleep.”

“I always look in on them, kiss them goodnight.”

“I want to kiss you, not a child.”

He bends his head, and I pull away. “You can’t kiss me just outside your father’s bedchamber!”

He pulls me through the next door before I can take a breath, then he pushes the door shut and backs me against the wall without taking his eyes off my face.

“Where are we?”

I giggle helplessly. “A guest room. What if this was Nanny’s bedchamber? Or the nursery?”

He braces one forearm against the wall over my head while the other grips his cane. His eyes are dark, as hungry as his voice.

“Does your leg hurt?” I ask.

“Yes. And I don’t give a damn.”

“We should sit down.” It comes out in a little gasp.

“Lying down is better,” he says with a wicked smile. “It doesn’t hurt when I don’t put weight on it. Does this room have a large bed?”

“No,” I manage to say. That gleam in Fenrir’s eye is probably outlawed somewhere in the world. He stands so close that I can smell leather, wind, and, faintly, a salty maleness that intoxicates me more than champagne.

“I haven’t kissed you in seventeen years,” he says conversationally.

“You haven’t kissed me ever!” I remember every moment of our shadowy wedding night, and it was far too businesslike to have included kisses.

“After the ceremony, in the church. Your lips were softer than I had imagined a she-wolf’s lips could be. It was utterly terrifying.”

I giggle again, my heart lightening. There’s something about his rueful, quirky smile that makes anything seem possible. Even marriage.

“Truly.” He brushes his lips against mine. “You’re only more beautiful now, so it’s a good thing I grew a pair of balls in the interim. You were too much for me.”

“Maybe I’m still too much for you,” I say daringly.

He runs a finger down my forehead, over my nose, and catches on my lip. “Quite possible,” he whispers. Then he finally bends his head and kisses me. Really kisses me. His tongue slides between my lips. It’s strange, but it makes my breath ragged. Rather timidly, I begin to kiss him back, realizing that kissing is a kind of intimacy, a conversation, a way of making love.

My tongue tumbles over his. He nips my lip; I pull his head closer to mine and open my mouth again, coaxing him back.

A while later, I’ve forgotten that we’re standing against a wall in a room I rarely enter. I can’t hear anything besides my own breathing, a faint gasp whenever he leaves my lips to nuzzle my cheek, my jaw, my neck, before returning to my mouth.

“If I visit the children with you later,” he says finally, his voice a hoarse thread, “could we retire to our bedchamber, Margaret? I want you. Feel this. I have the opposite problem I had as a youngster.” He takes my hand and presses it against the hard length in the front of his pants.

“I’ve been hard as a poker for most of the day. Please let me make up for our wedding night.”

For a moment, I don’t answer. I can’t. My fingers curl instinctively, measuring the pure size and strength of his organ. Union doesn’t seem physically possible. Yet heat pools between my legs, and the only reason I’m not begging is that I can’t get my breath.

“Yes,” I whisper back, moving my hand against him. Fenrir obviously feels my touch through his breeches because he groans and arches his body, thrusting against my fingers. In response, my own desire grows almost painful, a raging lust, to give it the proper word. A lust to see, to touch, to feel, and to taste him.

“If we don’t move, I’m going to take you right here,” he growls.

My heart leaps. That would be just as I imagine. The image flashes through my mind again of the two of us sinking to the ground and simply rutting, like animals in heat.

Beside myself, I moan and lean into a hot, wet kiss. There are sounds to this sort of kissing… the rasp of breath, the smack of lips shifting places, the groan that comes from one throat and is swallowed by another.

He crowds me now, his large body pushing mine against the wall, a muscled thigh shoving between my legs. His left hand, the one not holding his cane, slides from my hip to my bottom in a caress that lights my skin on fire.

All that fire sweeps through the place where our bodies connect, even though we’re wearing clothing.

“I’ve learned something about you,” Fenrir says into my ear, his hand moving slowly from my bottom to the small of my back.

“Mmmm.” I pull up his shirt so I can slide my hands underneath the cloth. His chest is ribbed with muscle, barely dusted with hair. I want to light every lamp and candle in the house so I can see what I’m touching.

“You’re wild,” he says, clearly surprised and utterly delighted. “I married a wild she-wolf. You merely pretend to be demure.” He croons it, his mouth trailing fire across my jaw and down my neck.

“I don’t think so,” I gasp, torn between a wish to be truthful and a wish that I could be that she-wolf he obviously wants.

“No wonder you couldn’t wait fourteen years for me to come home,” he says, his voice deep and understanding.

“No,” I gasp.

“Don’t talk.”

His voice is a velvet command, and I let him lick me into silence, loving the way his tongue sparks little trails of fire on my skin. He kisses me until I’m writhing, hands biting into his shoulders, and then he suddenly nips my earlobe. I cry out, my body consumed with flame, and I can’t keep the words in, no matter how he commands.

“I want you,” I say, my voice a near sob. “I want to...”

He spins, jerks open the door. “My bedroom?”

“Four doors down on the left.” I’m pressing kisses on his jaw. He seems to have forgotten his injury as he steadily walks me backward, moving through the shadowy corridor while kissing me.

Somehow, we make it through the door. I find myself sitting on the bed, watching as Fenrir undoes the buttons on his coat and slides it off his shoulders.

It’s fascinating to watch a man undress, sensual and somehow deeply intimate. “Do you like what you see?” he asks, pulling off his waistcoat.

I nod.

“I plan to watch you undress for the next fifty years,” he says conversationally.

Something that’s wound tight in my heart eases.

He keeps switching his cane from hand to hand as he pulls off his clothing. “Would your leg hurt less if you were lying down?” I ask, my voice quavering a little. “Would you like me to help you undress?”

He shakes his head, and his shirt flies to the side. I gasp. His chest is just as I imagined, golden skin stretched over tight muscle.

“Swimming in clothes is tiresome,” he tells me. He bends over to pull off his boots, grunting as he pulls off the right one.

I start to my feet. “May I help?”

“Yes,” he drawls. “Kneel before me, and I’ll show you precisely where I need help.”

His laughing eyes speak volumes about what he’d like me to do… and removing his remaining boot has nothing to do with it. Besides, the boot is already gone; now he’s ripping free the buttons on his breeches.

Startled, I laugh, stumble, and fall backward onto the bed.

He throws himself down beside me on his side. He’s utterly gorgeous, naked and virile, his hair rumpled and that little flower under his eye somehow emphasizing his masculinity.

“The seventeen-year-old in me would like to point out that, contrary to expectation and your truly dazzling self, I am still up to the task.”

My eyes fall between his legs, laughter bubbling out, trailing off at the sight of him. He draws his hand down his length, preening.

“Show-off,” I say, wrenching my eyes away.

“Wounded male vanity.” He gives himself another slow caress, and I find myself watching again. “I’d rather you did this for me.”