Werewolf fairytales

So smooth

*Fenrir*

Margaret's dress is driving me mad. Well, that and her lips, dyed ruby dark from hard kisses. The gown is a bluish color, its material so frail that I can see the line of her thigh. It has no bodice to speak of, so every voluptuous inch of her is on display, waiting for my touch.

It's a dress that might well belong to a harlot in a high-class brothel. It makes me wonder who she wore it for before I shut the thought away in a dark part of my mind. That part of her life is over. Over.

But I want that dress off her. And I don't want her to ever wear it again. That isn't a gown that one's mate wears, even if she has taken a lover.

And yet… she looked as startled as a virgin when I touched myself. She hadn't been frightened in the least all those years ago. As I remember it, she briskly pulled up her nightgown and laid back on the bed like the embodiment of every boy's wet dream. “Do as you will,” she said, or something to that effect.

Now she is just as luscious, her curls spilling over her shoulders and her n*****s standing out against the frail material of her bodice, begging for my touch.

“Come here, Margaret,” I say. I can't help it: my demand comes out with the tone of a pirate captain who is never disobeyed.

The little smile that curls her lips looks remarkably like mutiny. She doesn't move.

With one swift grab, I pull her tight and roll on top of her. She is soft and yielding, with the kind of generous curves that haunt a man's mind, making me long to return home and grope my wife secretly behind a door.

Even my leg ceases to hurt in the face of a sensation so raw that a groan comes from the back of my throat. “Damn, what you do to me,” I whisper, pulling a few stray hairpins from her curls and tossing them to the floor.

She bites her lip, a flash of white teeth making her lip even darker. I think about those ruby-colored lips closing around my most private part, and another groan breaks from my throat. “I want you so much.”

“I am your wife,” she whispers back. “You can have me. I mean, you do have me.”

The words burn into my heart and have me shaking from head to foot. But I can't simply plunge into her.

There is still that trace of fear at the back of her eyes. Her lover probably was a smooth and sleek Englishman. And here she is with a brute of a sailor.

I have to seduce her. Gently.

“You are my wife,” I say, loving the sound of it, rolling us both onto our sides. “My only wife.” Her hair finally tumbles down over my fingers. I pull her close and kiss her again. And again. We kiss and kiss, sweet and hot and unbearably sensual. I don't let my hands leave her hair, twisting until every finger is knotted in silk strands.

She doesn't touch me for the longest time but keeps her arms locked around my neck as if she is pretending that we are both clothed. As if she hasn't noticed that I am stark naked, trembling with the wish that she would caress me.

Finally her fingers slide to my shoulders, and then down my back. I groan, and gasp, “Touch me.” I've never heard that tone in my own voice before. But I shake off the thought.

“You're so powerful,” she whispers, her feather-light touch sending streaks of heat straight to my groin. I imagine those slender fingers straying below my waist, and grow impossibly harder.

“I will be gentle,” I state, a vow and a promise.

“It's all right,” she whispers back. I am drinking up the husky edge in her voice and hardly hear what she says. “I know it will hurt and I don't mind.”

“Hurt?” I frown at her. “I'm large but not monstrous.” But her fingers are skimming the curve of my ass, and I am spending all my brainpower curbing myself so I don't lunge on her like a wild beast.

“Would you mind very much if I ripped your gown?” I ask, trying for a polite air. I really hate that gown and all it implies.

“Not at all. I greatly dislike this gown.”

I frown. “You do?”

“It's not proper,” she says, the corners of her lips turned down. “You may destroy it.” She isn’t agreeing; she is commanding. Without another word, I put both my hands on her bodice and rip it straight down the middle.

She is exquisite… And totally naked.

“No corset,” I say, once I recover enough to breathe. “No chemise? Has English fashion changed so much while I was gone?”

“No,” she admits. “Not at all. I thought I’d die of embarrassment when your father walked into the drawing room. I was convinced he could see how shamefully I am attired.”

Another pulse of that unwelcome wish that my wife isn’t quite so experienced, that she doesn’t know to leave off her undergarments when greeting a man. I push it down, away.

“I had no idea,” I promise her, “and neither did the Alpha. Believe me, I was looking.” Margaret’s breasts are voluptuous and plump, overflowing my hands like a gift from the gods. I run a hand down the curve of her hips, the length of her legs. She lies before me, naked, flawless, a sweet expanse of perfect skin and sultry curves waiting to be caressed.

“You’re perfect, Daisy,” I breathe. And then hear what I have just said.

She scowls. “My name is not Daisy. I know you’ve been with other she-wolves, but you have to remember my name.”

“I’ll never be with another she-wolf again,” I say, cupping her face in my hands and bringing my nose close enough to touch hers. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life in this bed.”

“No Daisies?”

“Never. Could I call you Daisy sometimes?”

“No…”

“Not even when I want to make those beautiful eyes stormy?”

“No.” She is an uncompromising she-wolf. I make a mental note to call her Daisy on regular occasions. Obviously, it is my role in life to make certain that my wife laughs.

“No going to sea?”

“Never again without you. I’d like to show you Paris sometime.” Tired of talking, I take her mouth, one hand curving under her bottom, pulling her hard against my crotch.

We kiss until I realize that I am in danger of losing control, pinning my wife down and having my way with her.

“You’re bad for me,” I murmur, leaving her mouth and kissing my way down her throat.

She has to clear her throat to answer. “Why?”

“First you made me impotent. Now you’re threatening to turn me into a six-second miracle.”

“A what?”

“A misfiring pistol,” I say, a laugh rumbling in my throat. For all I am ravaged by lust at the mere sight of her, I actually have an iron grip over myself. I will not lose control until I have wiped out the memory of Colin’s father, so that my wife never thinks of the man… whoever he was… again.

I’ve reached her breast, so I lick and nuzzle and suckle until she is begging me wordlessly, her arms trying to pull me closer, her legs clenching together. “Please,” she keeps begging. And then commanding, “Now, Fenrir!”

There is no reason to obey her, not this time, so I keep on going, down past the curve of her stomach. I glance up to see a horrified expression on my wife’s face.

That just makes me grin. Apparently, there is something I can teach her in the bedroom. I am skilled… she is a she-wolf… the outcome is inevitable. And she is wildly responsive, after she gets over her initial qualms.

In fact, it is a mere moment before she screams, her body twisting up before she falls into a surprised, limp heap. I don’t stop. I am reveling in the pure carnality of her lusciousness, in her sleek, wet beauty. So I bend my head and start over with a wantonly sensual kiss, one that breaks every rule and demands utter surrender.

Margaret surrenders, oh so sweetly. I let the pirate side of me enjoy holding her down, pleasuring her even as she tries to pull me up.

I keep going until her breath is coming in little sobs, her body bucking against mine, her eyes glazed.

Then I bring my hand into play, and with just a rough caress and a twist of my fingers, her whole sweet little body tightens around my fingers and she screams again, falling apart.

It is time.

I come up and over her, pausing for a moment to enjoy the sweet triumph of knowing every luscious inch of her is suffused in pleasure. Her skin stretches like the finest silk over her bones, sweet and creamy, without even a freckle.

Or, more to the point, the faintest stretch mark.

I frown.

My wife’s skin is unmarked, except a trail caused by kisses that must have been rougher than I thought. “Margaret!” I growl.

She opens those beautiful blue eyes.

Perhaps we will always be able to read each other’s thoughts. A little smile instantly curls my wife’s lips. “There’s something I keep meaning to tell you,” she whispers, her voice a husky, sensual invitation. No virgin could…

“Damnation!”