Ryan raised her face and gave her a dark smile. “I am human. What’s on your mind?”
She looked at him with those beautiful blue eyes, questioning, enticing. “I just wondered if you ever wanted to have sex with a werewolf but couldn’t because then you’d be mated for life.”
“If I wanted to have sex with her, I’d want her for life.”
Carol’s fingers swept across his heated skin again in a tantalizing caress, and now that she was awake and fully aware that he was with her nearly naked and not in the least bit bothered by their close proximity and intimacy—
“Well if you were human—all the way—you could have a werewolf lover with no consequences,” she continued, her words still spoken in a hush, as if she didn’t want the world to know she was awake or that she was speaking to Ryan or even what she was speaking about.
“True.”
She rested against him in silence for some time, as he stroked her soft hair, his body hardening, his desire for her growing, despite his efforts to keep his burgeoning craving to have her in check. She wasn’t making it easy. Considering her quickening heartbeat and the subtle changes in the sweet scent of her, the hint of arousal—and even the way she touched him and stroked him softly, playing with him—she had to be feeling something for him also.
“I wonder how Sam and Silva do it,” she said under her breath.
“Pardon?” He could guess where this was going, and he was instantly interested, as long as she knew what she was getting into and was just as willing.
“Nothing.”
“Do what, Carol? You brought it up,” he pressed, hoping he wouldn’t scare her off with his enthusiasm.
She cleared her throat and whispered, “As hot and heavy as the petting is getting between them even in public, I wonder how they can hold back.”
“Maybe they aren’t.”
“You mean that they’ve already done it? Consummated the relationship? Are secretly mated?”
His fingers paused on her hair. “They’d let everyone know if they’d mated. No, I’d say they haven’t quite gotten there yet.”
“Oh.” She had to have gotten the picture.
“It’s perfectly acceptable.” He wanted to push her onto her back to demonstrate just how far werewolves could go with one another before being committed as mates, but he was still afraid she wasn’t ready. “We aren’t talking about Sam and Silva here, are we?”
Her face flushed with color, and her fingers grew still.
“I have to admit I’m a bit surprised. But not in the least bit… unwilling.” When she didn’t respond, he thought he’d scared her off, that she hadn’t had that in mind, that she was only curious about Sam and Silva’s situation. He had to admit that because she was newly turned, werewolf relationships might still be a mystery to her. And he felt a bit of a cad, believing she had wanted him.
She didn’t say anything for so long and was so still—barely breathing, her heart still beating at an increased cadence—that he wasn’t sure how to rectify the situation.
Before he could speak, she whispered, “Someone might hear us.”
If he could have, he would have whisked her away to somewhere private, away from Darien, his own family, and the world. But, if she was willing… hell, who was he not to satisfy her cravings?
That’s when he rolled her onto her back and captured her mouth with his, intending to kiss her so thoroughly that she wouldn’t be able to make a sound. The only thing he regretted was that they didn’t have time to luxuriate in the feel of each other, to make the experience last.
But she seemed to be of like mind and parted her lips for him, opening to the curl of his tongue as he seduced hers with his, her fingers sifting through his hair, his hands holding her face in place, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. A soft moan escaped her throat, spurring him on.
Feral and ardent, from the moment their lips and tongues touched, he felt his blood sizzle with heat and desire. His arousal pressed against her waist, and she released his hair and swept her hands down his naked back, skin to skin, her touch leaving a fiery wake in their path. With his mouth greedy on hers and her response just as fiercely passionate, he felt her nipples beneath her cotton T-shirt bud against his chest, hard, tantalizing, aroused.
He meant to move aside her so he could cup a breast and feel the delectable nipple, but she spread her legs, and he found himself resting between them, a dangerous invitation to sex and consummation and mating.
And for the first time, he truly wanted it. With her. For all time. But she wasn’t ready. Not yet. Maybe never.
Her lithe body arched beneath him, pressing against him to solicit his touching that most intimate of all spots. He swallowed a deep-seated groan and tried to keep his thoughts intact. No consummation. Just pleasure, even if it killed him.
He moved over, straddling her soft leg, still trapping her, leaning against the mattress so he could pull off her shirt. And when he’d freed her of the fabric, he caressed her now swollen breasts, which were flushed, the nipples like dark cherries begging for a kiss. His tongue teased one, and she closed her eyes and clamped her teeth shut against another moan.
And then his fingers dipped into her sweet sheath, hot, wet, erotic, but he quickly silenced another of her moans with a deepening kiss. Her fingers dug into his buttocks still covered in cotton boxers, her body writhing against his fingers, arching, pleading for resolution. His fingers continued to ply her with caresses, stroking, then thrusting inside her, while he watched her shuttered gaze and parted lips, heard her shallow breaths, and felt her fingers clinging to him.
Unable to help himself, he rubbed the erection straining in his boxers against her soft naked thigh. Bone-hard, wanting, thrusting, he felt burned to the core by white-hot heat as he pressed for deliverance.
Carol absorbed every feel of him, from the way his fingers worked miracles on her nub to his erection thrusting against her thigh. God, she wanted him inside her where everything had turned to aching, molten lava. She craved release and begged for it, pushed him to hurry and finish it before she died an exquisite death from wanting. Without being able to hold onto the rising tide of pleasure, she came, the climax filling her with a rush of satisfaction, her breath ragged, her body hot and flushed and sweaty—and sweetly satiated.
Ryan’s face was dark and flushed, his breath hurried, his eyes smoky brown, and his heart beating as if he’d run for miles as a wolf. She exhilarated in the feel of his touch, his wildness, yet gentleness, too, the fact he wanted to pleasure her and would keep it quiet.
He was the hero of her dreams, the fantasy in the novels she so loved to read, the kilted warrior who’d somehow lost his kilt and wore instead a pair of boxers. Which wasn’t right. A Highlander went without. She slipped her fingers down his backside and underneath his waistband and squeezed his buttocks, soliciting a groan from his lips.
But then she tugged at his boxers, and he hurried to slide them off. Then he was all hers. She ran her hand over his rigid length and felt it jump in her hands, tightened and stroked and smiled as he reached up to kiss her lips. But he was already so primed that he couldn’t last. With another stroke, she sent him reeling, and he came. She continued to stroke and marvel in the way he reacted, his eyes clouded with lust, his body jerking with completion, his calling her name in a husky whisper as if she was the one sent to save him.
He kissed her as if he never wanted to stop, his tongue again stroking hers, his hand caressing her jaw, her throat, her breastbone, her breast.
And then he groaned one last time, collapsed beside her on his back, and pulled her into his arms. They lay together in perfect bliss for what seemed like an eternity, floating, satiated, and warm in each other’s embrace.