Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

However, she did not allow her son to see her misgivings. She had made that mistake earlier in the day and would not make it again. Joshua was . . . happy here with his father and in his new home. She refused to allow her own fears to poison his joy.

Smoothing out a spare blanket by the foot of his bed, she said, “Tucker’s going to stay with you tonight.”

Joshua let out a loud yawn. “Cool.”

Tucker hovered over her shoulder until she finished, then stretched out on his makeshift bed and rested his chin on crossed paws. An intruder would have to step over him to get to Joshua, a comforting thought as she wished them both a good night and closed the door.

A light at the end of the hallway immediately drew her attention. The door to Dylan’s study stood slightly ajar. A nervous sort of flutter settled low in her belly. She felt breathless and antsy—because of him and his hot stares and angry admissions . . .

My patience has ended . . . I need my wife.

Our son isn’t the only thing I lost when you left me.

The very thought that he’d been celibate for all this time made her skin feel tight, the air a little too thick.

She wore a terry cloth robe with a plain cotton nightgown underneath; her toes peeked out from beneath the hem. Otherwise, she was respectably covered. She had taken a shower before checking on Joshua. The scent of raspberry soap lingered on her skin. She should not go to Dylan now, knowing how this night would end if she did. Yet she continued forward as if that meager light were a bonfire on a winter’s night, a beacon of heat when she’d been frozen for too long.

She knocked softly before entering.

“Who is it?” Dylan responded with a sharp reprimand that fell into silence when she walked into the room.

He sat in an overstuffed armchair, naked above the waist, wearing jeans and holding a tumbler filled with amber liquid. At first glance he seemed relaxed, legs spread wide, the corded muscles of his stomach rising and falling with even breaths, but her senses told her to be cautious as he emptied his glass with a single swallow.

“Is this a bad time?” she asked, surprised to see him drinking.

No answer, just a pointed scowl.

His disheveled appearance gave her pause. “Are you drunk?”

A sardonic laugh fell from his mouth. “If only I had that balm to escape to. No, my metabolism is too active to achieve true oblivion, but for a minute”—he shrugged without apology—“there is a form of peace.”

Provoked, she moved to take a step forward but he stopped her with a warning.

“Be advised, Sophie . . . if you come farther into this room, I will assume you’re doing so as my wife. There will be no going back. Your denial of our vows will cease, as will your absence from my bed.”

She froze midstride. Again, instinct and self-preservation made her cautious. To be Dylan’s wife meant to relinquish her choices. And yet the choices she’d made against him had caused her the greatest regret.

Unaware of her intent, Dylan sat before her like a hardened warrior, demanding and cynical, with golden skin and obsidian eyes that challenged her to make it right. Her compulsion for him was insanity, beyond human attraction. But this was not a human world she had fallen into.

No, it was magical, and dangerous, and she did not want to be the prodigal wife anymore, who hindered and didn’t help—who denied her own feelings. What she wanted more than anything—other than her son’s safety—was her husband.

The way he watched her, as if she were the most forbidden pleasure in over a thousand years of living, made her defiance seem petty in comparison.

She set her foot down.

The room shifted, muddled her equilibrium. There was movement, soft colors, a rush of air and heat, and then a loud noise that made her jump. The door had been slammed shut behind her, followed by a soft click, locked.

Dylan moved so fast, she blinked to right her balance. His hands were inside her robe, circling around her waist, lifting her, pushing her against the hard wood of the closed door. She felt light in his arms, molded, feminine. Cold air sent chills over her skin as her robe was dislodged and fell to the floor.

His lips descended to the base of her neck. “Sophie . . . I . . .” His voice was hoarse. What he’d begun to say dissolved on a broken breath.

A vibrating heat surrounded her, warmed her, held her. He was trembling, she realized. This powerful man, who had the welfare of a weakened race resting on his shoulders, was shaking, for her —because he needed her .

Her dark journey, begun on a narrow path wrought with poisoned vines and jagged roots, had reached a glorious field filled with light and truth. She had circled back to the very place she’d once fled, only to prove that she’d been running in the wrong direction all this time.

She had been blinded by fear, broken trust and the ignorance of youth.

If only . . .

“Dylan,” she began, wanting to free her conscience, “when I left you, if I had known then what I know now . . .”

“No talking.” He spoke through shallow breaths. “We . . .” He paused. “We have talked enough.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered anyway, needing him to hear this confession to free the burden in her heart. “Can you ever forgive me?”

A shudder wracked his body; the full weight of his head dropped to her shoulder and his lips pressed a soft kiss just under her ear, then another, and another.

He cleared his throat. His voice remained a rasping whisper. “I forgave you the moment you returned home with our son by your own choosing, when you came back to me. And”—he paused, took another breath—“you are not the only one who made misjudgments. If fault is to be carried, then some of it must rest on my shoulders as well.”

His thick thighs levered between hers, wedged her legs open; her pelvis rested against his hard length. She gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck for support. Her nightgown gathered around her waist, the thin cotton of her underwear a sad shield against the heat and hardness that beckoned unhindered contact.

His lips moved over hers. He tasted of whisky and temptation. It was a wild kiss, inelegant and desperate. He claimed her lips again and again, biting, caressing. His tongue tangled with hers; his hands tightened around her body as if he could meld them together in this storm of broken wills and neglected passion.

She clutched his shoulders; frantic movements of baser instincts overrode dignity. Her skin was on fire. She squirmed against the hard bulge trapped between their bodies.

Bracing her weight against the door, she reached down to stroke him, to soothe him.

“No.” He caught her wrist with a growl.

“But—”

“No,” he said again through clenched teeth. “Not this first time.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

Her question triggered a response from his wolf, or perhaps the wolf had been there all along but he could no longer contain its presence. Streaks of gold and green bled into his black gaze as he unbuttoned his fly and lowered his jeans. His hard length sprang out, dark and heavy.

She pulled her bunched nightgown over her head. He yanked at her underwear until it ripped off; the thin cotton drifted to the floor, forgotten.

He stood motionless, like the Great Oak that beheld their ceremonies, silent and looming, his eerie gold eyes devouring her nakedness with blatant hunger. Then, slowly, as if he were testing dream from reality, he reached out and ran his thumb over her bared nipple.

“Different,” he choked out. “Beautiful.” Meaning her body, she gathered. Carrying his son had left its mark. She did not mind the changes and, it seemed, neither did he.