Page 33 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Constance trembled, teetering on the precipice of all her hopes and dreams, all her fantasies, coming to life.

Not a night had gone past since they had arrived at the cottage had Constance not fallen asleep with images of her and D’Artagnon, naked and entwined on the humble cot, weaving through her dreams. Standing before him, both of them naked, a riot of emotions swirled through her as turbulent as the heat and the sensations storming through her body.

He was every bit the warrior, chiseled and shaped by the life he had lived, as a man and as a wolf.

Her fingers itched to curl in the faint dusting of dark hair on his chest and trail over the taut muscles of his stomach.

To trace the scar that curved around his ribcage.

Absorb and wash away the pain of it and quiet any lingering memories.

Her gaze dipped lower, and she sucked in a breath.

There was no hiding the evidence of his need.

Still, the voice of reason threatened to sour this moment, whispering he is a man, and I am but the first woman he has encountered after so long as a wolf .

But when he reached for her, when he picked her up, carried her to the cot and sat her upon it as though she were something precious, something fragile, all logic fled.

D’Artagnon dropped to his knees, parting her thighs and pressing between them. The heat of his body so close to hers, his large hands on her thighs, his thumbs stroking her sensitized skin, banished all thought, centering all her focus on him.

Constance gave into temptation and raised her hands to his chest, savoring his jagged breathing and the thudding of his heart beneath her palm.

Up his chest, over his shoulders she traversed, cupping his bearded chin in hands drawn higher by some inexplicable force.

With gentle fingers, she brushed aside the lock of dark hair to reveal the scar hidden beneath.

D’Artagnon grasped her hands and tugged them away from his face, kissing first one palm, then the other, then looping her arms around his neck.

He silenced any protest with his mouth, before pressing soft, moist kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat and across her collarbone.

Her breasts heavy, her sex clenching, Constance let her head fall back, his scar forgotten.

Strong arms encircled her, supporting her as he arched her over the cot and dipped his mouth lower.

The scrape of his beard, the soft press of his lips, the hot, wet lick of his tongue had Constance gasping for breath.

And when he took her nipple in his mouth, grazed it with his teeth and laved it with his tongue, in one fell swoop he wiped away all the disappointments she had borne.

Constance sank her fingers into his long black hair and held on tight.

Desperate for more, she squirmed against him.

If D’Artagnon noted her sense of urgency, the clenching of her thighs about his hips, or the scoring of her nails against his scalp, he gave no sign, continuing his patient onslaught of first one breast then the other with a devotion both divine and tortuous.

He laid her back on the cot, and dipped his hand between her thighs, a gentle, light touch, teasing her little nub and sliding through her slick folds.

Constance thrust her hips at him, wanting more.

Needing more. She moaned, and his deep, throaty chuckle, his hot breath across her damp nipple, set her core clenching on air.

Then his finger was at her entrance, and her whole body quivered, hanging on a knife’s edge.

He slid inside her, pushing deep. She gasped, and he took her mouth in his with a slow, languorous kiss as he slid his finger out, then pressed back in.

And again. This time with two fingers, stretching her and creating a delicious friction that sizzled up her spine.

He set up a rhythm, purposeful and determined, not swayed by her gasps, her entreaties for more, nor the impatient thrusts of her hips.

“D’Artagnon.”

The word slipped out on a moan, and a growl rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating through her body and engulfing her.

“Come for me, Constance,” he murmured against her mouth. Then he hooked his fingers inside her and pressed his thumb on her little nub and she crested the wave of her pleasure, arching her back and shuddering around his hand.

With his breathing jagged and harsh in the quietness of the cottage, and his cock as hard as stone, D’Artagnon held his savage thirst for the woman beneath him in check by the barest of threads.

She lay on the down-filled mattress, her head thrown back, her eyes closed and her pussy still fluttering.

The sight of his hand between her thighs, his fingers disappearing inside her…

Merde. His cock throbbed, leaking pre-cum from the tip.

He needed inside her. Now. If he did not, he might spill his seed like an inexperienced lad. All over her delectable breasts.

His wolf pushed forward in his mind, primitive, and guided only by instinct.

Mark. Claim. Rub his scent all over her.

D’Artagnon clenched his free hand into a fist. He could make no promises beyond this moment.

He slid his fingers free of her to a delightful little mewl of protest. But he would not deny himself, or her, what their bodies were crying out for.

He nudged her thighs further apart with his knee and settled between them, taking his weight on his elbows, a low groan rumbling up from deep within him as he slid his length through her slippery folds.

With his cock primed and coated in her juices, he prodded her entrance. “Open your eyes, Constance.”

One blue eye and one green locked on his, and with infinite slowness, his breath held, he pushed inside her, inch by incredible inch.

“Constance.” He let her name out on an explosive breath. “ Merde.”

The exquisite sensation of being seated to the hilt, of her pussy around his cock, the rightness of it, took his breath away and made his heart pound.

Chest to breasts, his arms beside her face, his fingers curling in her hair, their panted breaths mingling and their gazes locked, he began to move.

Unhurried and measured, one long thrust then withdraw.

Then another. And another. Teasing her, taunting himself, testing every bit of his control.

Then faster, rocking into her with a desperation he could not hide nor rein in.

Constance threw her legs around his hips, her heels pressing into his cheeks, and urged him on.

Those beautiful eyes of hers remained open, fixed on his, as they stared deep into his soul, seeing everything, taking all of him.

The two of them connected in every way possible.

The loneliness, the boundless emptiness, slipped away with every thrust of his cock and every clench of her pussy.

She did not shrink from him, nor turn away.

She embraced him, and the intensity of it shook him to his core, broke him down and rebuilt him.

Pleasure ripped up his spine, and he could hold back no longer. “Constance.”

Her mouth dropped open, her channel spasmed around him, and he let go, roaring his release, not once relinquishing her gaze, taking her with him over the edge into ecstasy.

As he spilled his seed inside her, her childhood vision—Constance with a black wolf and a little girl—flashed across his mind.

It burrowed deep, encircling his heart like a tight fist, and for the first time since his near death on the battlefield, D’Artagnon hungered for something other than vengeance.