Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

“Because at this particular moment”—his voice dropped to a low growl, barely audible—“I’m having a difficult time controlling my wolf.”

She swallowed. “What do you need me to do?”

Those eerie eyes narrowed in on her with a look of pure carnal hunger. Her breath lodged in her throat. Of all the emotions she had expected from Dylan upon returning, desire had never crossed her mind. Anger, yes. Hatred, probably. But not desire.

“Dylan . . .” She grasped the back of a kitchen chair for support as her heart cried out and her body responded in kind. And that frightened her more than anything, for she fully understood her weakness toward this man, and what that might mean for her future freedom.

Slowly pushing away from the chair, she edged backward, her eyes darting to the door and then the hallway.

He moved in swiftly, shoving the chair out of his way, using his bulk to dominate her path until her back touched the wall.

“Don’t run, Sophie . . .” He placed his hands on either side of her head, trapping her between his outstretched arms. “Don’t move. Just keep still . . . please .”

He smelled like pine and fresh air, and something other, something undeniably sensual.

“All right.” Fear of her own reaction to his nearness kept her motionless.

“Don’t be afraid.” His head dropped and his lips hovered just below her ear. “I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you.”

She shuddered, leaning her head forward until it came in contact with his chest. To be this close to him, to touch him, to know he still welcomed her touch . . .

A ragged breath fell from her lungs.

This was a dangerous temptation—because she wasn’t afraid of him. Oh, no . . . She was afraid of her own weakness, of what she might let him do—of what she wanted him to do. It was sad, really, how rapidly her walls of defense had tumbled.

“What do you want from me?” She cringed at the desperate sound of her own voice.

He inhaled; she knew because the intake of air drew chills across her nape. “I think you know what I want.”

“Joshua and my mother are upstairs,” she reminded him in a panicked whisper.

“Both are sleeping.” His hands tangled in her hair, tugging gently. “I can hear them breathing, soundly and unaware.”

She clutched at his torn shirt, her knees threatening to buckle. “We can’t . . .”

“One kiss, wife.” It was a soft-spoken demand, but a demand all the same. “You asked me what I wanted . . . and what I need from you. For now . . . for tonight , just give me one kiss to calm my beast and then I’ll leave you alone.”

One kiss. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek along the soft material of his shirt. Just one kiss.

Dylan lifted her head, cupping her face with both his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze, his dark eyes still stricken by the wolf. He did not ask for further permission. Slowly, as if sharp movements might frighten her into bolting, he lowered his mouth onto hers.

It was a gentle kiss that didn’t invade, a warm kiss of promises and restraint.

She closed her eyes and sighed against his lips. God help her . . . but she loved his mouth, the way it fit against hers. She didn’t know what base emotion compelled her . . . Selfishness, perhaps? Instinct? Sexuality too long denied? Maybe even a touch of wickedness? Because it was wicked to play with this fire.

But rationality was lost, destroyed by a greater compulsion as Sophie curled her arms around his neck, turned her head and deepened the kiss. Dylan stiffened, surprised. She felt his struggle for control as his hard frame shook around her, just as she knew the instant he lost the battle.

It was as if something in the air lifted, some unseen restraint, and whatever control Dylan maintained shattered on a broken breath. His hands became rough as they moved over her body. His thighs pressed between her legs, forcing her to straddle his hips, trapping her between him and the wall. Those demanding hands found her backside and lifted her onto him.

He paused for the barest of seconds, waiting, she supposed, for a protest. When none was given, he gave a ragged groan and pressed his tongue along her lips, insistent.

She opened for him. She was powerless to do anything else, trailing her hands into the soft curls of his shortened hair, melting into the hardness of his body supporting hers, matching the thrusts of his tongue with those of her own.

The evidence of his arousal was trapped between their bodies, hard against her belly. If they were not clothed, he would have been inside her. She ground against him in frustration that he wasn’t.

His mouth broke from hers. “Sophie . . .” He stilled her motions by pressing his entire weight into her, his hands a vise on her backside. “I will warn you not to tease me.” She squirmed against him. And he swore under his breath, a guttural sound of frustration. “Unless . . .” The last was a whispered growl. “Unless you’re willing to finish this properly.”

Blood pulsed through her veins, the soft pounding in her ears combined with their labored breaths. Her entire body was shaking. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t breathe.

“Sophie . . . ?” Hope hung heavy in the air, like the first rays of sun after a hard rain, warm and promising. He shuddered, rightly taking her silence as indecision, and pulled back slightly . . . only to return, pressing into her again, and again, a rocking motion that went straight to her core.

“Oh, God,” she groaned, feeling the first pulses of pleasure start to build.

“Are you willing?” He continued to ride her clothed body, his tone both arrogant and pleading, a mixture of confidence and . . . vulnerability ? “It’s been so long.”

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she knew this was wrong—knew regret would follow. “If we do this,” she warned, “it does not mean I’ll stay.”

Her conscience refused to promise him anything beyond the physical, simply because she wasn’t willing to conform to what he really wanted—the complete submission of her will.

A low growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her hands. He tore at her sweatshirt, his movements almost brutal. He was angry, she realized, but not enough to refuse what was offered.

She lifted her arms to help him pull the unwanted item over her head. She wore a white tank top underneath, and felt exposed as his hands ran over the thin material, brushing across her breast to linger, thumbing the sensitive peak until she cried out.

His mouth dropped to her throat; heat and rough kisses teased her sensitive skin. His hand moved lower. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back until it rested against the wall, waiting, breathless . . .

He froze. “What . . . ?” In an instant, his body went from liquid heat to a cage of iron. He lifted his head to look down to her waist and then back up, pinning her beneath his harsh gaze. “What is that . . . ?”

Realization invaded slowly. She pushed against his chest, the cool air a shock against her heated skin as he stepped away. Still dazed, still shaking from pleasure unfulfilled, she leaned back against the wall for support. A frown marred his features as he stared down at the gold serpent wrapped around her waist.

The cold silence that followed helped extinguish the last haze of passion.

“Dylan . . .” she began, finding her voice.

He held up his hand. “Answer me this one question . . .” His eyes met hers, entirely black and fully human, and suddenly she wished for the return of the wolf. “How is it that my human wife has returned to me after all these years wearing a weapon of my world?”

“I . . . I’m not sure,” she stammered, as her hands fell to the serpent. Her suspicion that Matthew had lied to her was fully confirmed in the hard set of Dylan’s jaw, and yet there was a part of her that instinctively wanted to protect her friend.