His brother’s Luna, his mate

So much passion

*Josie*

My feet are feeling so much better. Nathan’s massage has done wonders. It also helps that once he left, I called for my maid and changed from the stiff black crepe into my softest nightdress and wrap. Although I enjoy visiting with our guests, I welcome the opportunity to simply relax with my husband.

Sitting in a plush chair near the fire, I set my feet on a low stool and curl my toes. Unfurling them, I think of the callused hands that have stroked me with such surety, as though he has rubbed my feet a thousand times before, even though he has never once performed that intimate and luxurious service for me. I imagine those abraded hands skimming over all of me, how marvelous the different textures would feel, what a very different experience it might be. I rather hope they won’t go completely soft before we make love again.

Hearing the click of the door opening, I look over to see my mate stride in with two wineglasses dangling between the fingers of one hand and two wine bottles caught in the other. He staggers to a stop and stares at me, his gaze running the length of me as though he has never before seen me in a nightdress and wrap. Perhaps it’s simply that my condition is not as disguised as when I wear a dress. Self-consciously, I tug on the sides of my wrap, trying to close it over my belly and breasts, but it refuses to cooperate. “I have become huge while you were away.”

“No, not at all.” With his elbow, he closes the door before bringing the wine and glasses over and setting them on the small table before the sofa. I can see now that one is a bottle of red, the other white. “Our guests were completely understanding, and the servants should be bringing our dinner any moment now. I thought we might enjoy a spot of wine while we waited.”

“I’m not convinced spirits are good for the baby.” I mumble.

He suddenly looks incredibly uncomfortable, as though he had forgotten about my condition. “You are absolutely right. Not certain what I was thinking.”

“No reason you can’t indulge.” I tell him.

He wastes no time pouring red into a glass, lifting it toward me in a salute before taking a sip and walking to the fireplace. He looks at the fire, darts a quick glance to me, and returns his gaze to the fire as though not quite sure what to do with his eyes. “How are your feet?”

“Much better. It helped, I think, to change into something not quite so confining. Since it was to be only the two of us here, I didn’t think formality was required.”

“Of course it’s not.”

Shoving myself to my feet, I’m grateful the swelling has dissipated completely and I’m able to glide toward him without any limping or discomfort. I can’t be completely certain, but it appears he has ceased breathing as I near. “You should be as comfortable,” I murmur, taking his glass from that marvelous hand that has touched me so intimately and placing the wineglass on the mantel.

Slipping my hands beneath the opening of his unbuttoned jacket, I glide them over his shoulders, tugging off his coat. “You have broadened a bit while you were away.”

“Trekking through the wilds is strenuous work.” He mumbles.

The jacket begins to fall. I catch it before it hits the floor and toss it onto the nearest chair. Slowly, I free the buttons of his black waistcoat. “Your skin is darker.”

“The sun there is harsh.” He says.

I lift my gaze to his. “I could always tell you and Ethan apart because he wasn’t nearly as fair as you. Did you blister when you first arrived?” I ask.

“No.” He mutters.

I ease off the waistcoat, pitch it onto the jacket. Lowering my gaze, I begin unknotting his neck cloth.

“Josie, I’m not certain this is wise.”

I give him a speculative look. “To be comfortable?”

“To tempt me.”

A thrill shoots through me. Yes, we are in mourning, yes, sorrow radiates from him, but I still have power over him. I fling the neck cloth aside and cup his face between my hands, my fingers dancing along the back of his neck. “I missed you so much.”

I tilt his head down, rise up on my toes, and plant my mouth on his. His arm snakes around me, draws me nearer. His tongue slides between my lips as he adjusts the angle and takes the kiss deeper. I fairly melt against him.

Hunger. Urgency. A compelling need. They are all there. In him. In me. As though death hovers nearby, waiting, as though with enough passion and desire we could ward it off. A low growl vibrates through his chest, shimmers through my breasts, which are flattened against the linen of his shirt.

The heat between us intensifies. His hands travel over my back, my hips, cup my backside, press me ever closer. The hard, rigid length of him pushes against my belly, driving me mad with want and desire. It has been so long, too long. Once we knew I was with child, he insisted we refrain from any intimacy for fear his ardor might cause me to lose the child. Oh, he kissed me, held me, stroked me on occasion, but not like this. Not with this fierce need. I’m not certain what we shared has ever been as primal as this… as though he returned from his travels uncivilized, in need of taming.

A knock on the door has him lurching back as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. We are both breathing rapidly, heavily. Horror is reflected in his eyes.

“My apologies,” he rasps.

Disappointment slams into me because he is retreating, is regretting what has just passed between us. “None is needed. You’re my mate.”

“But the babe.” His gaze dips to my belly. “Did I hurt the babe?”

“Your son is a bit stronger than that.” Still, I take a step back as well and bid the servant to enter.

More than one comes in carrying trays bearing an assortment of covered dishes. I sit as a maid sets a tray in my lap. Nathan has retreated back to the fireplace, is gulping his wine with vigor while a young maid sets his tray on the low table.

“Will there be anything else, my Luna?” the first maid asks.

Staring at the fire, Nathan merely takes another swallow of wine.

“No, that will be all,” I say.

The servants leave, closing the door in their wake. My mate stays as he is.

“Nathan?” He seems lost. “Nathan,” I say more sharply.

He finally jerks his head toward me, his brow furrowed so deeply it has to be painful.

“Sit, eat,” I tell him.

“Are you certain I didn’t hurt you?” He asks.

“It was quite lovely actually. It’s been so long. I was beginning to fear you hadn’t missed me as much as I missed you.”

“Trust me. Not a night went by that I didn’t drift off to sleep without thoughts of you.”

“I’m selfishly glad to hear that. Were you tormented by those thoughts?”

“In ways you cannot possibly comprehend.”

I am being beastly to take such satisfaction in knowing thoughts of me have plagued him, but it is so incredibly satisfying. I smile softly. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

He gathers up the clothes I’ve strewn over the chair, takes them to the bench at the dressing table and then drops into the chair that puts him the length of the short table away from me. I had hoped he would sit on the sofa, on the corner nearest to me. Perhaps he hasn’t because he fears I’d be a distraction.

I would feel a bit better about things if I had the sense that he welcomes the distraction. Instead, I am left with the awareness that he regrets it.