The devil doctor *Completed*

Trusting him

*Wicky*

With resolve in his stride, Billy carries me through the house with purpose. I should have objected. Any decent she-wolf would, but I wanted too badly what he was offering, and I wanted to provide comfort in return. I thought tonight I would be dealing with my past, and it seemed he was dealing with his.

I am glad I’d had a chance to see him in anger… in fury, more like. I know for certain that he would never take his fists to me, would never hurt me. I can trust him with my body… and in doing so, with my heart and soul. He will guard them, he will keep them safe.

It is late, and all the servants are abed. I am grateful for that, although I’m not certain it would have mattered. As I kiss the underside of his jaw, I realize how very desperately I want to be with him.

He opens the door to my bedchamber, walks through, then slams it shut with his foot. Setting me down on the bed, he stretches out beside me, rising up on one elbow. As one of his fingers journeys along my throat and stops at the first button, I hold my breath.

His eyes darken, his breathing grows shallow. “It will be like seeing you for the first time.”

He’d seen my injuries, but not the scars that have formed. Can I share them with him? Can I share them with anyone? They shame me and yet…

“I don’t find scars hideous,” he says as though reading my thoughts. Leaning in he kisses my brow. “The reason behind them perhaps, but they are a badge of survival.” He presses his lips to the small one at my cheek. “But you have scars across your soul, and I don’t know how to heal those.” He touches his tongue to a small place beneath my chin.

Is there a scar there as well? It seems he knows me better than I know myself, but then he had treated them while I had avoided looking for any reminders of that night.

“Do you have scars?” I ask.

“A few, from when I was a boy, so they are faint now. You probably wouldn’t even notice them, but I still see them, feel them, know they are there. We look at ourselves more harshly than others do. We think people note the imperfections because they are glaring to us, when in fact they are nothing at all to others.”

With little more than a quick flick of his wrist, he frees the first button.

‘Stop him,’ a tiny voice cries, but a louder one tells me I would be a fool not to welcome his advances. I remember how gently he had tended my hurts, how tenderly he had changed bandages and applied salve.

Now he cups my face, leans in, and captures my mouth in a deep searing kiss that sends all my doubts, my inhibitions to perdition. Within me he stirs a matching hunger that I can’t deny. I want his mouth, his hands, his body, every aspect of him touching me, becoming part of me. I’d never felt this way before, had never dared want anything this desperately.

I am vaguely aware of the other buttons being released. Pulling back slightly, he slowly peels away my bodice, his eyes fastened on the skin he is revealing. I see appreciation wash over his features, and I feel treasured, beautiful, accepted.

Within a few heartbeats, he has me stripped of my clothes. I watch in wonder as he quickly divests himself of his clothing. I see no scars, but then the whole of him is distractingly marvelous. Hard muscles, flat stomach, narrow hips.

Rejoining me, he takes his mouth on a sojourn over my body, pressing a healing kiss to each scar, the ones along my ribs, my collarbone, my thigh. He licks, kisses, murmurs sweet words. Then he kisses the whole of me. Every inch, every nook and cranny, every hidden cove.

When he returns his mouth to mine, I am heated with need, burning with desire. I plow my hands into his hair, relishing the feel of the soft curls claiming my fingers, wrapping around them. I turn my body into his, skimming the sole of my foot along his calf. I move in rhythm with him, rolling one way and another, striving to touch all of him as he touches all of me. There is no complacency from either of us.

For the first time in my life I feel as though I am an equal partner in the lovemaking. Nothing I do disappoints him. Nothing I do is incorrect. I explore to my heart’s content. Exultation sweeps through me when he groans deeply, and I feel the vibrations of his chest. I have caused that reaction, and I feel triumphant. He cradles one breast. His eyes flutter closed, long dark lashes resting on his cheeks. He lowers his head and circles his tongue around my n****e, taunting and teasing.

The first gentle tug almost has me coming off the bed. No pain, just sweet sensations surging through me. He gives his attentions to my other breast, to the valley between, to my stomach, and lower. Everywhere he touches cries out for release, I cry out for release.

Then he rises above me, gazes down on me. I lock my eyes onto his as he eases himself inside me, withdrawing slightly, pushing with more determination, over and over until he is nestled deeply inside me.

He rocks against me. I meet each thrust, the pleasure increasing, until I am writhing beneath him and screaming out for release. It comes in a glorious rush that has me bucking against him, as he groans hoarsely and drives into me one last time.

Exhausted and replete, I lie beneath him, skimming lethargic fingers over his damp back, aware of the trembling in his arms as he keeps his weight off me, a consideration that touches me deeply. He presses his lips to my temple before rolling off me. He draws me up against his side, stroking my arm as though he is as loath to lose contact with me as I am to lose it with him. As his breathing slows, he kisses the top of my head. “I’m not leaving tonight, so sleep as deeply as you want.”

Inhaling sandalwood and the musk of our lovemaking, I close my eyes.