"Mom invited you," she choked out the words, looking back up into his face. "But why? - I'm your songmate, Mac. I already belong to you."
His heart bounded and he smiled at her, eyes warm.
"I wanted," he bit his lip, a little hesitantly, "I want your parents to understand -" His voice cut off as she flung herself up against him, kneeling raised up on his thighs, hugging him as hard as she could, arms wrapped around his head.
"Is this a yes?" he whispered slightly unsteadily into her breasts, the plump mounds heaving against him. She couldn't let him go.
You know damn well it's a yes, she conveyed fiercely.
Say it aloud, he requested silently, his heart thundering. Then he asked formally, a slight tinge of amusement to his voice, the words muffled by the soft mounds pressing against his face: "Will you marry me, Dr Gemma Smith? Despite the fact that I'm occasionally a bit stubborn and have been known to bite from time to time?"
Occasionally a bit stubborn? A blush seemed to infuse her body. How many girls had a proposal whispered into their breasts, for Pete's sake?
You picked this position, he reminded her. Not that he was complaining. I was all set to propose to you romantically on one knee at dawn, but nooo.
"Yes," she whispered back. There were a lot of things she wanted to say in return, but the scent of his rapidly rising lust was making her throat tight and her mind cloud over.
Good. Now we can both head back to bed. Mr Romantic had evidently skedaddled. Mac was on his feet and had leapt back down into the cabin with her in his arms even as he conveyed the thought.
But romance was not completely dead. They reached the shore the following day. Gemma's eyes widened as she took in the round, gleaming carriage waiting on the quay of the marina in the early morning sunlight. The four horses harnessed to it began shifting their weight slightly uneasily as Gemma and Mac approached up the gangway, even though they were downwind of the herbivores.
A coach-and-four?
She tried to decipher the logo discretely embossed on the side, just before Mac covered her eyes with his palm and murmured, "No peeking".
It would have been so much more romantic if she hadn't suspected that he'd covered her eyes so that she couldn't give their position away, however involuntarily.
Mac courteously took over holding the rear door for her from the driver, and she kept her head down, purposefully not looking while she climbed inside. Her mate was quivering with eagerness, and he pounced in after her as soon as she'd settled onto the springy, spacious seat. He rolled atop her and plastered her against the plush velvet, beginning to smother her face with kisses.
Her laughing protest was muffled by his greedy mouth, and the vague discomfort in her head at the idea of a driver watching them evaporated underneath those skilful lips.
It was a bit of a waste of a romantic carriage ride. Gemma didn't notice the equipage being set in motion; Mac's hands began to glide underneath her t-shirt. She didn't notice as the silk-lined, well-sprung vehicle crept its way off the smooth quayside onto a cobbled track either. Her mate's tongue slowly and strongly thrusting into her mouth in a very suggestive manner prevented her from noticing the bumps as they ascended slowly through the trees.
Somewhere within her lurked a vague disappointment when the unsteady motion of the carriage smoothed out again, because she was no longer ground against Mac's hard body with each bump. She missed it.
The smoothness of the asphalt road meant that she had to do her own grinding. Not an irretrievable situation.
She was aware of the flashes of sunlight beaming through gaps in the trees, because they bounced along the mesmerising lines of Mac's arms and bared chest, so smooth, hard, yet slightly yielding under her fingers. Who had pulled his shirt buttons off? They seemed to be scattered all over the seat and floor.
Some naughty woman.
She did, eventually, notice that the coach had stopped and the way-too-poker-faced driver was patiently holding the door open for them. But she only noticed because Mac sighed and leaped off her out of the opening. Her wolf, easily relaxed in his gaping shirt, untidy drawstring trousers, ruffled hair and bare feet, then spun to lift her out, swinging her around exuberantly in his arms. She laughed aloud at his joyous expression, blushing faintly as she pulled her own errant T-shirt back down to her waist.
T-shirts nowadays, they don't know how to behave.
Gemma was too distracted to notice where he was carrying her. The early morning sun was gleaming in a golden halo through his gorgeous mop of hair, which was still standing on end from her ministrations. That hair needed more attention. Lots of it. Gemma was purring internally to the feel of it teasing through her fingers when Mac stepped into the shadow of a vast building. Abruptly her lips froze, midway through kissing the bare skin over his bicep. Her heart bounded as she took in the breath-taking, beautiful view behind him, the multitude of rainbow colours of misty spray shimmering in the sunlight above the majestic falls; she only then realised that the roaring in her ears was partially external.
Mac stilled, and half turned so that he could follow her stunned gaze. A gentle sigh eased from his chest. They stood silent for a long moment. Gemma's throat was aching and a tear dewed the corner of her eye, peace curling through her. The fierce, perfect beauty of the light shimmering through the ceaselessly cascading water.
That's how you make me feel, picchu.
The words in her head were quiet, matter of fact. Her lip wobbled. Then Mac added, "Well, that as well," and a surge of lust powered through him as he turned to bound urgently on up the marble steps. Gemma struggled to suppress a sudden violent urge to bite him for the pathetic duration of his romantic conversation.
The urge was smothered as the vaulted entrance dwarfed them and she swallowed, blood shuddering in her veins at the awe and inadequacy thundering through her. She could see the doorman eyeing them surreptitiously, wondering who on earth this scruffy pair were.
She flushed, vividly self-conscious in Lianne's T-shirt and baggy shorts, being carried by her barefoot mate, his slightly torn (tsk tsk) shirt hanging loose, across the marble atrium to a huge, ornate reception desk. Evidently they were in a hotel. A human hotel, judging by the scents of everyone around them. And a very, very exclusive one.
OK, Mac still managed to look fantastic whatever he wore - witness the several women around the hall eyeing him in both surreptitious and blatant admiration, but she was feeling seriously out of place. Everything around her was so discreet and expensive it was almost shrieking "What did the cat drag in?" at them.
Her lips quirked against her mate's skin. Shhh. Mr Wolf doesn't like being called a pussycat.
Mac slanted a sarcastic eye down at her while he halted by the gleaming walnut countertop. She hadn't tried to hide that thought.
"Macmillan," he murmured succinctly to the really, really too instantly, eagerly attentive, immaculate blonde behind the desk. Gemma felt herself bristling at the faint hint of the girl's arousal in the air, the way the receptionist's eyes lingered on Mac's biceps, the light flush rising in the human's cheeks. A growl arose in her throat, but was smothered beneath lust at the brush of Mac's lips over her neck, and the light tingle of his breath in her ear when he turned his tawny head and murmured, "Easy, my picchu. Growling is not a common human trait. Just glare at her."
Who?
Oh. The girl.
Mac was now carrying her swiftly to the stairs, having hitched her briefly onto one arm to scoop up the keytag. She'd been too busy admiring his biceps herself at that point to bother who else was looking. But over his shoulder she couldn't help but notice the way the receptionist's eyes were transfixed by the smoothly pulling muscles in his taut buttocks as he loped easily away. Then the woman's starry eyes rose, tracing the broad shoulders, loosely defined under the gaping shirt. The small cherry-painted lips parted as a sigh escaped.
Abruptly the human's gaze widened, caught by the dangerous light in the wereem's eyes, glaring over her mate's shoulder. But an imp of mischief seized Gemma, cresting over the rising anger, and she simply smiled wickedly and stuck out her tongue, an incredibly smug taunt gleaming in her sparkling eyes.
Which of us is he carrying to bed? Eat your heart out.
The receptionist flushed scarlet and then blinked rapidly, dropping her head, eyes slightly fearful.
God, she'd enjoyed doing that.
"Picchu," growled her Alpha warningly, scenting the renewed aggression in her musk.
She wrinkled her nose up at him, and he flattened her abruptly against the side of the stairwell, and dove down for a smothering kiss, melting her into his embrace.
"Behave yourself," he warned. Eventually.
Gemma had to wrench herself back into coherency so that she could reply, but after a few deep breaths managed to force out a feeble squeak of, "Make me."
"Oh boy oh boy oh boy!" crowed her wolf, and suddenly they were bounding up the stairs four at a time.
Why couldn't she keep her mouth shut?
What a ridiculously boring life she would have if she did.
Oh boy oh boy oh boy, the exultant words echoed in her head while her taut, trembling skin shuddered in anticipatory glee.
The Rainbow Falls hotel. Wow. The hotel was renowned worldwide for the historical masquerade balls, held on the first Saturday of each season. Not her league at all, but so much fun for one night. Gemma's stomach was shimmering in excited anticipation. Tonight was the Fall Ball, and she'd had managed to cajole Mac into agreeing to attend. He'd enjoyed being cajoled. Especially as she'd mentioned that she'd appreciate it if he bought her some wolf-tooth caps, so that she could do it properly in future.
Apparently they had to hide out for a couple of days while her mate sorted somewhere for them to disappear where she could still work, where Gus would deliver the remaining drug. Mac had reassured her that Gus had recovered the package from Kate, and her human friends were fine, although still under covert surveillance for their own safety. But they desperately needed an antidote as soon as possible, so that they could find Grey and find out how he'd manipulated his pack. Before he did it to anyone else.
They?
Gemma wasn't stupid. It had become increasingly evident that despite them both now being 'DeadWolf', Mac wasn't working in isolation. All Alphas could convey to each other. And at least one of his former allies was keeping him supplied with information to their benefit. She also knew that Mac had reported what he'd seen in the ex-Grey wolves to the Wolflord. She had a feeling Gus Fealden was currently on a covert mission as a delivery service to Deadwolf Laboratories.
But that was nothing she could deal with right now. They had a few days out of time. And her mate had picked this amazing place as a hideout.
Mmmmm.
Gemma felt her stomach fluttering in excited anticipation as she fitted the mask carefully over her irrepressible blissed-out expression and surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. She didn't think she'd lost this stupid smile for one second since her tawny-haired, gorgeous male model mate had kissed her breathless while he'd lowered her to her feet in the spa doorway two hours ago.
He had had to carry her back downstairs too. Her legs hadn't been working by that point. Much to his smug delight.
And hers. Oh oh oh and hers. Thank god as a werewolf she now recovered quickly.
Her spine tingled. Her smile, impossibly, widened, a blatant, constant advertisement shouting "I have been supremely, gloriously fucked all day long." Would she just lose that cat-got-the-extra-scrumptious-thick-and-tongue-tingling-cream smile?
Gemma pulled a grumpy face at herself in the mirror. It bounced back instantly into a grin.
Huh.
She could pretend it was the dress making her smile. Gemma had always loved dressing up, since she was very little, and now she delighted in sweeping around the costumier's dressing room in the heavy, ruby red brocade, mastering her balance on the delicate heels. The bodice of the Elizabethan gown they had fitted for her was cut low, with a pattern of tiny pearl-coloured beads shimmering as she moved. The tight lacing around her waist make it seem tiny, lifting and supporting her full breasts in plump mounds, leaving her shoulders bare. The full boned skirt curved out almost horizontally from her waist, then dropped to just brush a large circle of the floor, swaying majestically as she walked. Gemma turned swiftly, and the full, heavy fabric swirled in a rich, sensuous curve around her, the weight pulling at the richly beaded waist, making her insides dance with the exotic, bewitching exuberance of this gown.
Still smiling under her mask, Gemma swished superbly down the hallway to the reception area.
Apparently, the tradition was that the masked women would all assemble in the Honey Bar for an aperitif before the meal, and the males would swarm in to find them. Each man would offer to escort a lady to dinner, and newlyweds, or soon-be-weds, were the subject of much teasing attention, it being a point of honour among the other diners to attempt to fool or fluster either or both partners into accepting an alternative escort.
Like she wouldn't recognise her mate's scent.
Her breath caught when the men finally appeared in the far doorway. Wow. She didn't need scent. His gorgeous hair was drawing her eyes across the room. Not just her eyes either, she could scent female interest rising around her. And she knew whose thick, tawny hair they were drooling at. Plus that strong, graceful, powerful build. The luscious lips. Mac looked magnificent, in a smart black velvet doublet, the slashed sleeves displaying a rich green silk which exactly matched the shade of his gorgeous eyes behind the mask. He stood in the doorway, hands on hips as he surveyed the room. His thighs stretched tight the skin-hugging hose, showing off the taut definition of muscle on his legs. And the tight mound of the codpiece at his groin. Gemma swallowed, eyes tracing over him.
Then the green eyes caught hers, and he stepped toward her, drawing her gaze up, smiling, lifting her out of her private drool. Flaring, lustful black swirled into the green eyes as they slowly travelled down the length of her, and his desire scorched across the room while he speeded up his steady advance.
I think I may buy you that gorgeous dress. His thoughts were so blazingly heated, you'd never have thought he'd already spent most of the day fucking her.
She curtsied to him across the room, feeling the fire in his mind blazing higher as her deep cleavage was presented to him, pressing against the tight bodice.
Then she felt his irritation spike when his passage was impeded.
As she rose back to her feet, Gemma was first amused, then irritated, then felt a light tinge of anger as she watched the bevy of beautiful females jostling for turns to oh-so-accidentally sprint into his path, trip, or fling their clutch bag under his feet, so that Mac had to stop and they could start up a conversation. She tried to feel sorry for them; her mate was adept at swiftly disengaging himself, leaving a little trail of pouting ladies in his wake. It may be a game, but she had no doubt that the women would have played it to the rousing finale, given a chance.
Then gradually she became aware of the hint of danger growing in the sparkle in her mate's eyes as he crossed the room, and realised that she herself had collected a little circle of admirers.
The scent of their human arousal was cloying, a disturbing, distasteful drug in the air, surrounding her, making her twitch on a shudder, shrinking slightly. Then the bile rose in her throat at the increased, greedy, interest in the air aroused by her almost undetectable withdrawal.
The roman emperor to her left offered her a small bowl of olives, eyes gleaming as he tilted the dish. He drawled, "Mademoiselle?" and lifted one of the tart fruits, biting suggestively into its flesh, eyes gleaming lustfully.
It should have made her giggle. But the scent was wrong, the thick, heavy pushing smell of male human arousal invading her head; the smothering, unsettling reek of gang lust rising from the group closing around her clouding her brain. The fear, the temper, the shattering fear of her own temper were rising with it.
"No thanks," she breathed, and shrank away, trying to evade the posse around her. The predation in the scent rose with her fluttering movement as the men encircled her again, and she felt her hackles rising, teeth lengthening, the tang of anger sharp on her tongue.
Shh, my picchu. Calm. I am almost with you.
The words in her head soothed over her quivering tension. Then abruptly both she and her mate froze, incredulous, when she felt the oily skin of an olive being traced gently along her collar bone, then stroked suggestively down to trail along the V of her cleavage. The Caesar's eyes gleamed blatant meaning down at her, and she watched in disbelief as he lifted the fruit back to his lips and bit down, slowly.
Right over her mate's naulu. Black fury obliterated her reason.
Coming back to herself, Gemma's vision was filtered through a black haze, her brain still seething. She was clamped to Mac's side, and clamped also within a powerful hold on her mind that she realised had prevented her from shifting wolf to rip the human to pieces. That man had dared to touch her.
I'll deal with him. Mac's anger echoed darkly in her head.
The wave of her own fury abated just as abruptly as it had descended, and she was released. Gemma stood blinking the last black flecks out of her vision while she distractedly watched a very suave, quietly seething wolf holding the large, struggling would-be emperor by a simple, unbreakable grip on the jaw, and casually forcing olive after olive after olive into the spluttering mouth, too swiftly for the man to expel them. She realised that she must have only been out of reason for a second. Silence gripped the little circle where they stood, and no-one except her mate moved. The rest of the men were watching avidly, mouths slightly open.
Breathlessly, they all waited. Olive followed olive. The silence and stillness, the realisation of what was happening were spreading out through the room as other guests and staff turned to watch and little murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The man's cheeks were bulging like an overindulgent chipmunk's, his eyes goggling at the uncanny force of the grip on his jaw and the strength of the fingers which ruthlessly posted the olives between his lips when Mac eventually broke the breathless hush, saying softly, "I believe my fiancée said no." Her wolf relentlessly forced yet another small fruit between the lips straining to close around the huge, choking mouthful.
"Now, why don't you just apologise to her and then we can all go in to dinner in a nice, civilised manner, hmm?" continued Mac, halting the hand holding the next olive, the threat wreathed in silk. Gemma felt the male staff who had been moving warily and reluctantly towards them halt, and look at the intrusive Roman hopefully.
"Urgm zuggig," gargled the emperor plaintively, rolling his shocked eyes toward Gemma, olive-scented drool splattering over his chin. The faint wisp of anger in his sweat was smothered under the engulfing fear.
Gemma nodded coldly at him, then stepped in and let her head sink to rest against the side of Mac's upper arm, curling her hand over his elbow while he let the fake Caesar go. She felt a little revelation burst in her head as the avid crowd sighed in a mixture of disappointment and approval, and began to turn away: wolf discipline worked on humans too. He wasn't as damaging in his rebukes, because a human wouldn't heal as easily, but the lesson had been clear, and understood by all parties, not just the principal, but everyone in the room watching with interest. Humans may pretend that they didn't know the same basic rules of behaviour, but they did.
Her wolf's palm glided around to rest on the opposite side of her waist, and the crowd unconsciously gave way to them as Mac guided her gently towards the dining hall. She felt a rush of pride in her mate. Alpha male. His head bent to hers, and his breath tickled in her ear, "I told you this public meal was a bad idea." He had wanted to stay in bed.
Her eyes sparkled back up at him. "I'm enjoying it," she told him truthfully.
The green eyes flashed black, "You liked that idiot mauling you?"
She snorted at the ridiculous idea, but a little smile lit her face and she slanted her eyes up at him. "I like the way my mate protects me." Her voice seemed to have turned a little hoarse.
He huffed grumpily, but the black was fading from his eyes and she slid a hand up into the silken hairs at his nape, to tilt his head back down to hers so that she could whisper in his ear, "I'm feeling very, very appreciative."
He was eyeing her speculatively when she drew away again, a pleased little smile lifting the corner of his mouth as he breathed in her melting scent. They halted by the prominent table where the maître d' was holding a chair for her. Mac glanced around the central, centre-of-attention position and asked quietly, "Don't you have somewhere more secluded?"
As they followed the retreating usher, Mac bent to murmur quietly into her ear, "Emandeus the poet wrote, many centuries ago, that when a sjeste is safe, and protected, she becomes soft, and gentle, her core melting, warm, richly moist and welcoming to the wolf who guards her so."
A brief pause. Gemma was annoyed to feel herself flushing.
"So you agree?" Mac added.
The damn wolf. Gemma had closed her eyes, feeling her core melting as he described, and she could only hope that his guiding arm would ensure that she didn't walk into a chair.
Of course it would.
How did you stop me shifting? she tried to change the subject.
I'm an Alpha, picchu.
I thought you couldn't stop me when I lost control?
I can't stop you losing control; I can stop you shifting. And if you hadn't felt my anger, believed that I could protect you from that idiot human, then you probably would have raged on, and eventually broken free.
If I didn't believe you could protect me from that or any other idiot, then I think you'd be demanding your ring back. Gemma smiled at the ridiculous thought.
Her mate inhaled another long, slow breath over her head, his nose almost touching her skin, and she could scent his desire rising as he murmured appreciatively, "Richly moist and welcoming," his lips brushing over her earlobe.
"Whose idea was this stupid dinner anyway?" Mac added on a growl as he nodded his thanks to the head waiter, smoothly taking over holding the chair ready for his mate. Gemma slid shakily into it and grinned down at her hands. He had been tormenting her all morning, and most of the afternoon. Her turn. She still wasn't quite ready for round two - her stamina was not yet on par with his.
"Control, Mr Wolf. We have to eat anyway."
He sighed, and slid into the seat opposite, muttering, "We are not staying to dance."
By the time she was restraining herself from picking up and gnawing the bone of the much-too-small shoulder of lamb she had selected for her main course, Gemma was beginning to agree with her mate about public venues. Although it had been fun to slip back for an hour into their old familiar arguments about action films, social welfare, pollution, and barefoot running. They were just finishing with a heated debate over the to her mind totally justifiable eminence of chocolate fudge cake in the world. Mac wanted to retire. She wanted chocolate.
Some of the other diners had glanced across as they got more vocal at each other, and amused smiles now twitched across faces when Mac closed the chocolate argument by grabbing the hand she was waving exasperatedly in the air and bite-kissing the pad at the base of her thumb so sensuously that her eyes rolled up and she gasped audibly, stuttering to a halt.
The men were all smiling. Actually, so were most of the women - or at least those within earshot of their table. It was astonishing, the amount of approval Mac seemed to have garnered with his aggressively protective olive-stuffing act earlier.
Gemma huffed indignantly, cheeks scarlet at the blatant message in her wolf's gaze, and pulled her hand out of his, sinking back and glaring as well as she could past the glow in her cheeks.
"I see you are speechless at my superior argument," he teased.
Eyes sparking at him, Gemma hitched her bottom forwards until she was resting on the very edge of her seat, and reclined sulkily against the velvet back, folding her arms across her aching nipples. She then realised the benefit of this ridiculous skirt. The bones were holding the swathes of stiff fabric off her thighs, the ruffled flounce barely touching the floor in front of her, allowing her free movement of her legs. So...
Silently she slid off one of her spindly, high-heeled sandals, responding sarcastically, "Your amazing argument being, "Don't talk back to me, wench, or I'll kiss you into submission"?"
Mac grinned.
"It works. You are now putty in my -." Her wolf stopped abruptly, lips parting and fire leaping into his eyes as she slid her stockinged foot delicately up his inner thigh. She tilted her head enquiringly to one side, mock-courteously waiting for him to finish his sentence. Mac's mouth appeared to be stuck half open, and he was unable to do more than breathe harshly, eyes half-closed, glazed in pleasure, while she nudged his half-awake sex softly with her toes.
So she sweetly supplied, "...feet?"
Gemma was enjoying the delicious, heady musk exuding from him, the way his chest was rising and falling in abrupt, shallow breaths, before he inhaled sharply and stilled, while she slid her toes oh- so- gently along the full, growing bulge of the proud cock straining against the soft leather codpiece.
Mac clenched his eyes shut, then pulled himself together, leaning forwards with his elbows on the table, and widening his knees to press that insistent, throbbing bulge firmly against her foot while he shifted his weight forwards. He tugged gently on a loose tendril of her dark brown hair to bring her lips a breath away from his.
"I think we should retire now, picchu. Before you burn yourself." His glowing eyes were promising retaliation.
Yum yum yum.
But she was feeling naughty.
"Oh I don't know," responded Gemma demurely. "I was thinking about having something tasty for dessert." She licked the tip of her tongue gently against her upper lip, eyes gleaming up into his as his cock swelled under her toes.
His eyes darkened, and the gleam grew more fierce, "You didn't seem disappointed by the room service, earlier."
Her cheeks scorched at the memory of how hard he'd made her beg earlier, beg him to end his gentle, slow pace, and she sat back abruptly when a flush of liquid pulsed along her passage. She glanced across towards the kitchens, barely able to see past her glowing cheeks.
"Would you call for the dessert cart, Mac?"
"You don't seriously want a dessert, picchu." His voice was soft with a purr of warning. "And the only thing I want to eat is you."
Her heart hitched but the desire was warring with the stubborn need to prove that he was not always allowed his own way in every single little thing, and she pouted sulkily at him. "You'll just have to wait, Mr Control. I told you, Chocolate Rules. You can't put me off just by kissing me."
"Room service," he growled the suggestion.
"No," she vetoed, wrinkling her nose teasingly. "I don't want you distracting me when there is important chocolate to be savoured. And don't tell me you wouldn't."
Chocolate first. Then bed. This way, she got both.
Mac's eyes sparked fire before his head snapped around, and he just looked at one of the waiters, shifting his chair back while the man whisked across the room to them.
"My fiancée would like to see the dessert cart," her mate murmured, rising to his feet and adding quietly, "Order what you like, picchu," before striding off towards the washrooms.
Poor wolf. He was far, far too used to having his own, undisputed way in everything.
She was so good for him.
Gemma's blood was sparkling in her veins, and she smiled naughtily over the rim of her glass, taking a sip of wine while she watched those delicious, taut buttocks pacing gracefully towards the men's room. But damn. Her moist pussy was keening in disappointment as he disappeared, skin humming with frustration.
There was a downside to her winning this one.
She had to wait.
It had better be damn good chocolate.
Gemma had pushed her chair back and was sitting sideways on to the table so that she could watch the laughing, genial throng of other diners when the waiter gently placed her dessert at her right elbow. She smiled at him absently in thanks. Mac still hadn't reappeared. She placed the first, heavenly mouthful of the oh-so-richly perfect chocolate mousse on her tongue, half-closing her eyes at the delicious taste.
Maybe her wolf was sulking.
Her eyes shot fully open again when she felt a brush of air against her calves. She sharply inhaled a heady gust of hot, male musk, and froze to the touch of warm, strong hands gripping her knees and slowly, inexorably pulling them apart. Wide. Wider.
Her blood catapulted into a foaming torrent through her veins, her eyebrows scrambling for the ceiling while every inch of her skin seemed to flush.
Damn the wolf. Dammit. He was under her ludicrous, voluminous skirt.
Her eyes were stretching as wide as he was forcing her knees, and she threw a panicked glance down, ridiculous relief flaring through her when she realised that the stiff bones that held the skirt high left enough space for her mate to kneel between her legs with no tell-tale bulge where his head was.
Like that made any difference!
His hands had now left her knees and a finger traced gently along the bare skin of her inner thigh, above the lace top of her hold-up stockings. Fire burned through her, and a flush shone in her cheeks as she bit down on the spoon in her mouth, feeling the handle buckle then sheer under her very sharp teeth.
Damn.
Warm fingertips were tracing over her delicate skin. She could scent his arousal, the warm, familiar, spine-tingling musk melting into her, and her answering arousal was heating under her skirt, her moist core beginning to overflow with want.
No, no. Not in public. He wouldn't. The other diners could see her.
Jittery, her eyes swept the room, scanning the throng of unconcerned, colourful fellow guests. Not one of them appeared to have seen Mac slipping into his current position, but then, he could move so damn fast. Realistically, she was the only one here who had stood a chance of seeing him, and she hadn't noticed so much as a blur.
Too intent on her damn chocolate.
A couple of lone men were eyeing her, the abandoned fiancée, speculatively. Her heart was pounding so hard that her breasts were heaving, and she felt a tinge of ire as their greedy eyes fastened on the plump mounds. Heaving. Heaving in anticipation. Yeah, but not of their actions.
Don't you dare, Mr Wolf.
Mac ignored her. A warm breath brushed against her inner thigh, and Gemma's limbs froze while her blood ignited. Her breath was panting from her in little panicked bursts, and she could feel the core of her melting down to his audacity, but also frozen in panic.
Alright, so he was hidden, but she was on show in a huge room packed with other people. Mac! She knew her skin was flushed, breasts heaving harder in this damn tight bodice.
That king four tables over was now staring into her eyes with a wistful invitation in his.
No.
Gemma, cheeks scarlet, wrenched her eyes down. The trouble was, all she could then see was the swathe of rich brocade curving out from her waist. And she knew who it was hiding. Could feel what he was doing. A finger teased back along the flesh between her stocking top and the crease of her hip joint, fire burning in its wake.
She was burning, trembling with desire but also burning with embarrassment, and a tingle of anger rippled up and down her spine. She tried to cramp her legs together, but her thighs closed on broad shoulders. She rolled her eyes and the black-robed monk two tables over whose partner had disappeared to the ladies' smiled back, catching her aroused gaze, then dropping his to her heaving breasts.
Enough!
Gemma abruptly pushed her right hand down against the table-top and heaved herself off the seat despite her uneven footwear, intent on storming from the room.
Before she properly gained her feet, she felt the bewitching ripple of Mac's muscles pulling smoothly in his upper arms as he pounced. He slid his hands underneath her thighs and grasped her buttocks, lifting her swiftly forwards until she was perched on the edge of her seat, his shoulders spreading her thighs. His hands then slid further, up the back of her hips to clamp down on the top of her thighs, holding her fast to the chair. His breath was teasing over the wet, sheer material covering her pussy, and her arm and wobbly legs gave up fighting the impossible battle. Gemma collapsed on the chair again and sank back, trembling, shuddering in desire.
Bad wolf. Damn wolf. Don't you dare. Oh.
Mac breathed heavily, hot and moist, on the vulnerable skin of the join between her thighs and groin and her blood leapt, pounding shiveringly through her. She gulped. Her muscles twitched, legs kicking involuntarily under a second, light touch of air. Then he gave a long, silent sigh, his warm breath stroking over the wet crotch of her panties, teasing over the sensitive skin underneath. She flinched, twisting, desperately trying to drag her hips from his immovable hold.
Her eyes opened, and she was staring straight into the confused gaze of one of the young waiters standing against the opposite wall, watching her.
Mac licked delicately at her covered labia, a very gentle stroke of the tip of his tongue, and her whole body shivered to his touch.
God knew what her expression was, it felt agonised, and the young waiter started towards her smoothly, although still clearly puzzled. Frantically, she shook her head at him, then closed her eyes as Mac's tongue stroked slightly more firmly along the length of her wet crotch.
She was going to kill him. Or die. Hopefully both.
Her breath hitched audibly as he began to lap gently against the soaked cloth, ripples of pure arousal pulsing down her spine with each stroke of his tongue, her mind beginning to cloud over, want cresting over the hot embarrassment.
She dissolved back against the seat, spine alternating between melting delight and firing little prickles of unease through her, while her mate brushed little kisses along the edge of the wispy little piece of satin between her legs. Then, still holding her firmly, he began to probe the wet fabric with his stiffened tongue, inhaling her scent, and rubbing the tip of his tongue in teasing little whorls over the sensitive lips underneath.
Someone whimpered, the sound just audible. Damn.
Damn that felt good.
Better. Best. Oh god, she was going to melt. Yes. That. There.
"Is everything to your satisfaction, Madam?"
The words echoed in her head - her brain overlaid with yes, no, yes, no, yes yes yes, more, until she slowly realised that Mac had lifted his tongue off her.
So that she could reply to the head waiter hovering beside her.
But she couldn't talk. Never mind the bitten-off head of the teaspoon in her mouth. She just - couldn't - talk. Gemma swallowed down the melted chocolate and drool pooled in her mouth, opened her eyes and beamed over-exuberantly up at the man, nodding emphatically.
He blinked, and turned away without a hint of his thoughts in his expression.
Maybe he just thought she was a bit excessive in her love of chocolate mousse.
Please don't.
Mac ignored her and dove back into his dessert. Her breathing was shallow, however hard she tried to think of overcooked cabbage, and tax returns, grey rainy days and smelly socks. She couldn't hold onto her anger, or her obstinate denial of arousal, and her embarrassment, awareness of the audience watching her meltdown was fading away again under that oh so skilled tongue.
Her head rolled back over the back of her chair backrest and she just held back a groan. Her hypersensitive nose could scent his enjoyment, the thickening oh-so-male lust while he ran his tongue gently, again and again over the wet fabric, the echo of the sensation in her swollen labia too much. Not enough. More. More. No. Not here.
But all she could do was sink back and endure, shivery, embarrassed delight rippling through her as she tried to prevent any noise from escaping her. Any further noise. He slurped a long, luscious wet lick up over the dripping length of her slit, and if he hadn't been holding her steady, she would have writhed off the seat.
Not a sound. Not a sound. Not a sound, she shrieked inside her own head. She couldn't quite remember why. But - why could she never stop herself from challenging him?
Because he was an arrogant asshole who deserved - oooooooh.
Her thoughts fractured as Mac slurped his slow, sensuous way up her slit again.
Gemma was clenching her teeth together to prevent herself biting her lip off, as her mate continued to slowly, thoroughly lick over her soaking wet panties, pressing the sheer fabric with his strong, wriggling tongue into her pulsing folds, soaking them with her juices, then sucking them back into his mouth to luxuriously savour sucking the taste from them.
Again.
And again.
Gemma was melted over her chair like a statue by Salvador Dali, hoping desperately that it just looked as though she'd had an incredibly good meal. Her legs were quivering while her mate continued to torment her further. She felt his teeth slide ever-so-gently under the elasticated side of the material, and her ears absorbed the very quiet snip as they easily sliced through the fabric.
The quivering in her legs was spreading to her stomach, and further up into her chest as she shuddered with the rising anticipation, just feeling his very light breath on her wet, sensitive folds. Then a small, almost inaudible whimper escaped again as she felt the light, relishing slide of her mate's tongue over the naked, swollen, pulsing protrusion of her lower lips.
Oh.
Mac.
Please take me back to our rooms, she conveyed.
A faint niggle of irritation lingered in her head, and she stubbornly held on, held back. She knew he wanted to hear the word aloud, and the word hovered on her tongue while her breath sighed from her again. But she wouldn't say it.
He was miles, miles too good at getting his own way.
His stiffened tongue slid deeply, probing between her wet folds, into her aching, begging passage, and he swirled it around inside her. Then he clamped his mouth wide over her cleft, sliding his tongue back out of her pussy as he sucked hard, slurping up her moisture.
Her back arched and she heard a faint groan. Damn. Thank god he was holding her down.
Not here. Don't make me come.
Mac stuck his tongue back in, still sucking and began to thrust the hard length in and out, in and out, suckling hard between each penetration, enjoying the ripple of her thighs under his hands as she twisted, the flush of endless moisture soaking down her warm passage into his delighted mouth.
In.
Out.
In. Oh.
Out.
Oh Mac.
His tongue was now deep, deep, and he wasn't withdrawing it to suckle, just fucking her with it, encouraging more and more of her delicious liquid to baste his tongue, quietly savouring her arousal.
Then he slid his abundantly coated tongue out of her, and gently began to slide the tip up, up over the throbbing lips toward the hard, pulsing, aching nub waiting, ready to burst at the head of her cleft.
No! she thought desperately.
Don't make me come!
If he so much as touched her there, right now, she was going to scream like a banshee and buck in her seat as though electrocuted.
The lightest touch of his breath against the nub hummed through her, firing her, pushing her over the edge of the cliff as she clung desperately with her fingernails. She'd forgotten why, she just knew that she couldn't, couldn't come.
Then his tongue was retreating, back towards her pussy, and she felt a sudden rush of yet more liquid gushing down her passage towards his appreciative mouth.
Damn, she thought faintly, she so wanted to come.
One day she would win this one.
His tongue was slurping in her wet folds again, delving deep, swirling around, and she could feel the pressure building, building inexorably anyway, the unbearable, unstoppable tight knot pulling in her stomach, the pulsing of blood swelling those engorged lower lips as he lapped over them.
"Mac, please don't make me come here."
The breathless words whispered from her mouth, too quiet for anyone except a wolf to hear.
His musk was overpowering her, manifestation of his hedonistic enjoyment of the taste of her melting on his tongue. He swirled it again, and clamped his mouth over her and suckled, hard. Gemma almost screamed as she felt the flash of lightening down her spine, the heave of her hips suddenly smothered under a black wash of rage.
Then she was staring at the ceiling, held immobile under that implacable grip on her mind, shaky with rage and fear and burning, boiling lust. She realised that she would have turned into a werewolf again, if it weren't for that unbreakable hold.
And she still hadn't come! Close, so close, but - noooo. Ooooh.
Scared, trembling and angry, she heard a quiet apology whisper past the beating of the blood in her temples, even as the slightly tart tinge to his scent soothed down her spine. "I'm sorry, picchu," Her wolf gently folded her knees closed. "I got momentarily carried away - you taste so damn delicious," he explained.
The urge to tear into rage retreated further under the softly spoken words, she could feel the shame he conveyed with it, reinforcing the sharp scent of his remorse. Mac was ashamed that his delight in her taste, her response, had led him to lose touch for a moment, slacken his self-control, misjudge and push a bit too far.
Gemma's anger melted - she just loved the fact that Mr Control lost it for even a moment, with her.
Just as he loved it that she did, all the time, with him, he responded silently.
Smug wolf.
I said please three times now, she thought slightly grumpily at him, melting back bonelessly against the chair, and felt a wash of love melt over her in return while he carefully fitted her shoe back on.
The brush of cool air around her calves and the fabric falling back on her thighs told her that he had departed, but she didn't move or open her eyes. She was fighting, fighting the begging, seething urge inside herself, aroused again by the brush of the cloth against her hypersensitive skin. She'd never been left this close to the precipice. So close. So close Too heavy. Please, please. She felt on the verge of screaming.
She smelt him approaching again, felt him twine his fingers into hers as he slid into the seat opposite. It helped.
A very little.
"Can we please go now?" she murmured desperately, eyes still closed.
"Are you sure you don't want to finish your dessert, picchu?" his voice was way too carefully smooth.
Her eyes shot open and she glared into the teasing sparkle in his, then pulled her left fingers free, lifted her napkin, and picked the head of the teaspoon from her mouth, depositing it defiantly beside the bitten-off handle.
He shook his head sadly, and she caught a vague blur in the corner of her vision as the pieces disappeared into his pocket.
"That might be a little difficult to explain."
Suddenly she was aloft, in his arms, swung around and carried toward the double doors to the hall. She felt a rush of blood wash across her face as the other diners looked up; a smattering of clapping rose to a full-volume thunder when Mac smiled at them while he carried his fiancée through the crowd of approving humans.
His reminder was clear in her head under the echoing noise. The first two times you said please, you only said it in my head, Gem. You know that if you really mean something, you have to vocalise or make it visual. Physical submission, whether through action or speech, reinforces mental. You know this.
Um. Yes. Well. She did know that, but - hah. That'll be the day.
You want me to submit to you?
He slanted a gleaming eye down at her: No, I prefer you to keep challenging me. Then I can respond in kind.
Gemma shut her eyes, trying to hold back the fire which leapt through her veins in response to that look.
But I do want you to learn the mores of the society you now belong to, Gem. If you step out of line, your Alpha will correct you, and you have to acknowledge acceptance of that correction through submission, even if all that is is an apology. You are a deadly, powerful creature now, my little wolfmate. We have to live within certain standards.
Wanting chocolate mousse is wrong? she grumped back at him.
Mac was smiling as he carried her through the doors into the lobby.
Teasing your Alpha has consequences. You were issuing a challenge. I simply responded to it, to remind you that however much I adore you, I am an Alpha.
Humph. Like she could forget, with every female within a half-mile radius constantly drooling at him.
The brunette now on the reception desk had perked up at the sight of Mac. Conveniently not noticing what he was carrying.
Your Alpha, he reminded her. Also your mate.
Gemma smiled a little ruefully. Why was there this happy little curl in her stomach that her smug wolf had won? Again.
The quivering, melting demand between her thighs was burning higher, aching through her, and she could barely think. Something about his damn incorrigible need to win everything was heightening her lust, already at boiling point. And now his musk was intensifying because of her readiness, melting into her, making it so much harder to bear the pulsing, screaming desire aching through her. She pressed against him as he crossed the foyer to the lifts, biting his doublet, and conveyed: Just one thought now, together with the surge of rich, intense desperation pulsing in her empty pussy, the memory of the feel of him surging inside her; the longing for that heavy, deep possession.
His heart bounded, mating-doft swamping and drowning her as it pulsed with his lust, and his pace faltered in the middle of the echoing, marble floor. His mind growled into hers, Picchu, I'm finding it difficult enough sticking to "humanly possible" speed here in public. Please don't push me further.
Say it aloud, she sent back.
"Please," he murmured instantly, on a deep growl.
Disappointed, she forced her fingertips back out from under his doublet while he stepped into the lift. It was damn difficult.
She was a little surprised to find that he had said please so readily.
Wolves follow example, picchu. I wouldn't expect you to do anything I won't.
The lift doors closed silently when he flashed his card over the sensor.
Her stomach lurched, but not because the metal box began to move. Mac dropped his pretence of calm and plastered her urgently to the side of the small cubicle, one clawed hand ripping at his codpiece binding. A pulse of excitement rocked her small frame when his arms were suddenly sweeping her legs and the ridiculous swathe of fabric up above her shoulders, exposing her wet, needy entrance.
A surge of wanton liquid washed from her passage at the sound of his heavy, excited panting while he leaned in closer. Her hands gripped urgently at his shoulders while she moaned, "Please!" to the urgent question in his mind. The thick girth of his throbbing cock probed, parted her, and then he was in, filling her, drilling into her, fucking hard, rutting her up against the smooth wall, grunting slightly while he panted his need.
Gemma screamed as she exploded in pleasure on the third stroke, her desperate, banked lust pulling, sucking her into an unbearably intense moment of blissful release. She moaned, groaning as her mate continued to pound into her hard, panting hoarsely. Then the lift doors pinged open. Mac's fingers clamped into her buttocks as he thrust deep into her soaking passage, then he spun and stumbled through the doorway with his cock still buried deep, landing on his knees and elbows just over the threshold in the short, private hallway. He flattened her hips into the carpet, raising himself on his straightened arms while he continued his urgent, desperate thrusting down into her, after only an instant's pause.
A little ripple of delight crested over her skin even as she sank back into rising urgency while her hips lifted to meet his. She had never seen her wolf this ungainly: bursting with impatience. She did get to him too.
So hard. So fast. His eyes were darkening, swirling black, hollow with pleasure while he fucked her wildly across the deep carpet, his thick cock stretching her, penetrating, claiming. Gemma ached her back up forcefully, grabbing his arms and screaming again as a second orgasm exploded from no-where, rocking her with the bolts of pleasure shooting through her small frame. Mac's forceful rhythm began to break up into a staccato series of desperate jerks of his hips, deeper, deeper, and he let out a long howl when suddenly his arms stiffened, back arched and he slammed down into her one more time, forcing his cock as deep as possible. His heart was thundering, breath heaving in gasps as he shuddered, his seed spurting thickly into her, again, and again. He groaned in pleasure, rocking his hips gently. Eventually he stilled, relaxing his taut arms and bent to rest his head down on her shoulder, closing his teeth gently over the marks of his bite with a final, satisfied grunt.
Wow.
So much for Mr Control.
Much later that night, Gemma was slowly pulled out of her sensual, sated dream by the burn of unease shimmering along her skin. The void beside her on the mattress teased at her senses, and she slowly became aware that Mac was sitting on the side of the bed, his head in his hands. His whole frame was trembling, and she might have thought that he was crying, but for the tight burn across her skin. The scorching edge to the air reminded her of the night when he had healed her with the Wolflord's shiele. Power was burning through the room, pouring into the night, dancing across her skin. Only this time, it was aimed elsewhere.
Unease burned through her. A sense of threat loomed, and the swirling specks of berserker rage darkened her vision. She pushed them back, rolled and shuffled towards her mate on her knees, gently laying a hand on one trembling shoulder. Her palm felt scorched by the energy pouring off him, but he seemed unaware of her touch.
"Mac?"
Silence. Echoing silence, into which he drew a shuddering, pained breath, a flicker of awareness briefly crossing his gaze, then the green faded back into the black. Gemma's eyes were caught by his. The flaring black was deep, beckoning, shimmering flecks of energy constantly rising at the edge of his irises, edging together to swirl, a tiny galaxy in the black core, and then sinking, sinking out of sight. They began pulling her with them, her mind swaying unsteadily under the wash of the constantly circling flow of power.
"Mac?" she half-whined, skin shuddering as her mind was tugged by the strong current, blackness encroaching while she clung desperately to control. Something was so, so wrong. He was so far away. So deeply buried.
A second, longer green flicker shot and swirled into the black galaxy. Her mate swallowed, and after a long pause forced out a terse, hoarse choke, "He is - torturing her. Worse than usual."
Nick. And Natasha.
Nicolas Grey was torturing Natasha Vanilchov. Sickness rose in a vile wave from her stomach at the images which flitted into her head, that memory of the hatred in Nick's eyes, the feel of the menacing body pressed against hers. Maybe he was forcing her into rut. Unstoppable, the black wave of fury reared and crashed through Gemma, rage blanking out her reason.
Rage. Rage. Rage.
At some point within the echoing blank frenzy, Gemma dimly felt a hot pulse of excitement pull her mind toward the surface. The fight had brought her naked form squirming up against his hard length, the scent of his musk, the feel of his cock thrusting rigid against her belly breaking through the insanity for an instant while her lust surged.
Then rage swamped back in. She pulsed with her fear of it, the strength of it: the loss of herself. Please, no.
Rage. Insane rage.
Gemma arched her back as though to break in two, screaming in intense, unrestrained ecstasy as she lifted her head off the bed, straining with all her might against the bonds holding wide her wrists and ankles. Her body was convulsing in pleasure, bursts of intense sensation rocketing through again and again, unstoppable, almost unbearable. She moaned, long and loud, and shuddered against her mate, sobbing, the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as her body was lifted and crashed into another blast of feeling. The pleasure peaks racked through her again and again, slowly, slowly subsiding. Wow. Wow. Oh. Oh please. Oh yes. Yes.
Mac was breathing harshly, lying atop her, quivering with restrained lust, his hard cock buried deep and throbbing inside her.
What the hell?
As the diamond-hard points of pleasure began to subside, Gemma tried to curl into a sated, bewildered, panting ball around her mate, wrung out from the shattering pleasure. But she was prevented from moving more than a few millimetres by the torn sheets tied tight around her furry blood-stained wrists. In the soft light of the dawn, Gemma saw one of her mate's razor claws slash through the cotton holding her left right. Dawn?
She watched, stupefied, while he cut free her other arm, lifted himself off her, and then ripped the cloth holding her ankles, before rolling her into a cuddle in his strong embrace.
It was dawn. Hours later.
She ached all over. Like she had punched her way through a hard, physical workout. Her claws were all caked with blood.
Her heart shivered. Mac's blood.
What the hell?
"You wouldn't stop fighting me, picchu," Mac murmured into her hair. "And you kept hurting yourself, trying to break free. The bonds are softer."
For hours?
She'd attacked him. She'd attacked him before, but not like this insane frenzy. The madness of the werewolf that all wolves feared. Hours of it. Shuddering in revulsion, Gemma gradually awoke to awareness of the scents exuding from her mate. They tingled in her nostrils, tugging her into the need to comfort him. Mac was exuding shame, worry, anger, fear. Chiefly shame.
"I'm sorry, Gemma," his voice was low, tormented. "I asked but - you couldn't answer."
Her mate had to fight to get each set of words out, the shame throttling him.
"I couldn't soothe you. And you were so scared of the rage."
Cold, cold memory of that fear. The ever-lurking fear. Of herself.
"That one time I sensed you trying to get free, it was the lust that pushed you close enough to hear. So I thought -" He broke off.
Hours.
Hours of rage.
But - Mac. She realised, slightly incredulous, that her mate was apologising because she hadn't agreed to sex. He was practically writhing in shame.
Although it seemed to have been sex, lust - love, which had dragged her back to the surface.
"I'm sorry," he murmured again, voice broken.
Gemma rolled over and hugged her mate fiercely, burying as close to him as she could.
"Idiot," she growled into his fur. "Idiot wolf." She couldn't believe how ashamed he was about this, "You have my blanket permission to fuck me, your songmate, your fiancée, whenever you wish to break me out of that. Without asking."
His skin was shuddering lightly under the soft pelt. Gemma slanted an eye up at him, recognising that hollow look of bleakness in his eyes. Hmm.
"Unless I'm eating chocolate," she added.
That worked. A broken little hitch of a laugh sounded in the air, and Mac rolled her back underneath him, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder, breathing harshly.
She ran her fingers gently through his thick hair, her mind sinking into calm. She knew the chance of her going permanently insane was real, but she wasn't going to go down glumping and gloomy. If she was going down at all. She had a damn good reason to stay sane. And happy. His tawny hair soothed beautifully against her fingertips.
"Neither of us know what we're doing here, Mac," she reminded him softly. "But I promise that I will do my utmost to come back to you."
He hugged her tighter to him.
"You just have to promise to fuck me like that," she suggested on a teasing note. "I think I'd come back from the dead to orgasm that hard."
He tilted his head up, resting his chin on her chest above her breasts, and just looked deep into her eyes from the echoing depths of his own. Her heart felt as though it would burst. Her songmate. A glimmer of his usual sparkle was rising in the depths.
"Actually, I'd come back to you if you were paralysed, and the only bit of you that still worked was your left eyebrow," she whispered.
His straight mouth crooked slightly, then he waggled that brow at her suggestively. They both smiled, and rolled to cuddle together.
A while later, Gemma broke the peaceful silence. "But we need to kill Nick," she growled.
The air seemed to thicken. The silence grew, the echo of her words pounding in the dawning light. Her skin began to tense at the feeling growing heavier in the still room.
"We?" his voice was resonant, a challenge in the word.
Gemma had to struggle to force her reply out into the heavy sense of clashing clouding the air. Her throat was locked, but she gathered all her strength and pushed.
"We," she eventually growled, harshly. "Alfamme matches Alpha."
The silence was reverberating with intensity. She could feel her mate quivering in anger against her back, but there was also a tinge of - pleasure? - edging his scent. Mac seethed quietly for a long time, then sighed quietly and settled himself behind her, hugging her closer.
"Yes," her mate agreed softly. "We'll go hunting, once you've mastered the urge to obey his cub and we've found a way to track him."
A flush of startled pleasure melted through her, and she snuggled back against him, kissing his wrist softly. Her wolf agreed with her. They would work as a team.
To kill Nick and free Natasha Vanilchov.
Gemma pushed back the black rage that hovered, trying to close in, and hugged Mac's arms tighter to her.