His reluctant Luna

Who and what he wanted

*Melina*

I think I must be mad to still be here, to not have removed myself from this room, this man, as soon as I realize that he wants more from me than a romp between the sheets.

On the other hand, is he truly asking for something so awful when I am willing to give him my innocence, my naiveté? An incredible intimacy is going to pass between us, and am I going to balk at a photograph? And yet to think of myself captured for all eternity... He might claim no one else will see it, but how can I be sure? How have the past six years managed to turn me into such a doubting Thomas, to not trust a man’s word?

His hand is so large, so warm, so incredibly gentle as though he fears crushing my bones. No one ever makes me feel delicate. I have been raised to stand up for myself, to know that I am beneath no one. Yet I want to be beneath him.

His passion for the human body is evident when he speaks of its beauty. I have never in my life been made to feel beautiful. At least not by anyone outside the family. I am my father’s precious daughter, can do no wrong. But it isn’t the same as being looked upon with appreciation by someone who is no relation at all.

I give a nod, not much of one, but still he sees it, and his mouth forms a slow smile that seems to target the very core of my female essense. He pats his knee to alert me that he is going to place my foot there. Of its own accord to balance me, my hand goes to his shoulder, to his strong, broad, sturdy shoulder. I shouldn’t be surprised. He is an adventurer. He has climbed mountains, explored pyramids, danced among natives. His skin is darkened by the sun.

That becomes apparent when his hand rests next to my pale foot. Earth beside snow, good soil beside white sands. My toes wiggle and curl against his rock-solid thigh. Is there any aspect of this man that isn’t firm? I imagine how it might feel to run my hands over him, to test every muscle, to find no part of him that isn’t toned to perfection.

“Your foot is flawless," he says in a reverent voice.

“Not certain that’s something to brag about." I mumble.

He looks up at me, and I find myself wishing for more light so I could see the hint of green in his hazel eyes. “You have a fine arch, exquisite toes. The lines are good, giving you a most attractive ankle.”

“Which you wish to photograph.” I say.

“Yes.” His hand moves up, his other joins it, to circle my ankle and to ease up toward my calf.

If I allow him to bed me, his hand will be traveling much higher, will travel all over me. Whatever had possessed me to think I could be comfortable with a man in a situation such as this? Faye had been correct, blast her. The intimacy is too much.

I jerk my foot free, step back. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I’m not so bold after all.”

He unfolds his body in a way that is at once predatory, yet unthreatening. “Is this your first time alone with a man?”

I release a small scoff. "It's that obvious, is it?"

He chuckles low, but there is no joy in the sound. Rather, it seems to echo with disappointment. "I should have guessed," he then says, his gaze homing in on me, sharp and demanding. "Why?"

"Why is it obvious?" I ask.

"No, why are you looking to be deflowered in a place of sinners by a man you…" He scoffs. "I was going to say hardly know, but I don't know if that's true or not. Who are you, Lady V, that this would be your recourse?"

Confessing to Faye is one thing. To bare my soul, my frustrations to this man who could have any she-wolf he wanted, is beyond the pale. "Because I wanted to know what all the fuss is about. No one faults men for exploring their desires. Why should she-wolves not have the same consideration?"

"Because they are so much better than us." He says softly.

"Yet the carnal act equalizes us, don't you think?" I ask.

"You are a she-wolf of remarkable notions," he mumbles.

I release a quick breath of air in frustration. "You talk about how beautiful the body is and how we shouldn't hide it away. Why should what passes between a man and a she-wolf be shrouded in whispers and only talked about in dark corners? Why must she-wolves repress their natural urges?"

Oh, I should be quiet now. He is studying me like I have said something both profound and stupid.

"Do you have urges?" he asks quietly.

"Of course I do. And I don't believe it's wrong to have them. It's why I'm here." I half huff.

He trails the knuckle of his forefinger along my chin, and I almost remove the mask so he could outline the curve of my cheek.

"If I were any other man, I would assuage your nervousness and have you on your back in a trice. Unfortunately for us both, I don't bed virgins." He says with a small shake of his head.

Profound disappointment slams into me. I should take comfort from the regret in his voice. Instead, I am somewhat cross. Is even my virginity to be held against me? "Why?"

"Because I prefer it hard and rough. I want the she-wolf screaming from pleasure, not pain. A she-wolf experiences discomfort the first time. You deserve someone who has a bit more patience. As a matter of fact, it should be someone who has a care for you, someone who would place your pleasures above his own. It should be someone you love; even if that love doesn’t last past the coupling, it should exist beforehand." He explains.

"Your first time, did you love her?" I hold up my hand to stay whatever response he might offer. "My apologies. It's not my business."

His eyes grow warm, his smile becomes one of fond remembrance. "I was madly in love with her, for an entire fortnight. A farmer's daughter, with hair the color of wheat and eyes the shade of a new leaf in spring. There was nothing I wouldn't do to please her. Nothing she wouldn't do to please me. The moon was full the night she introduced me to the pleasures of a she-wolf's body. There was a new moon the night I discovered her in the hayloft doing the same for another fellow. But still, I can't look at a full moon without thinking of long limbs, warm flesh, and the fragrance of raw s*x. The first time happens only once, Lady V. Be a little in love with him."

Dear Goddess, I think I might have fallen a bit in love right here and now. Just a little. I can't help looking over at the bed with a touch of longing.

“Fa...," I stop myself mid-sentence. No real names, nothing to give away my identity. "My friend tried to explain to me why coming here was such an awful idea. She wasn’t nearly as eloquent as you."

"Hardly eloquent," he replies as he returns to the sofa and begins tugging on his boots. "I will escort you to your carriage."

I shake my head, "I took a hansom. Less chance of my adventures being discovered that way."

He stands. "I will have my driver give you a lift home."

"That’s not necessary." I tell him.

"I’m not going to have you wandering the streets searching for a cab this time of night, and I’m too indolent to go searching with you." He says.

I shake my head again, "My anonymity will be compromised."

"I will have my driver swear an oath not to tell me where he took you." He approaches me. "I may be a rogue, but I respect the purpose of this place. Your secrets are safe with me."

It's probably foolish, but I believe him. "What about your camera equipment?"

"I will return for it after I have seen you safely delivered from here." He tells me.

I stroll to the door, very much aware of his footsteps echoing behind me. I turn the key in the lock, wrap my hand around the knob, and stare at the dark wood.

"I don’t suppose you would at least kiss me?" I despise that I have been reduced to pleading, but to leave with nothing at all after all the planning, preparation, and risk seems doubly unfair.

"Have you never been kissed?" He asks.

Mortification swamps me, but it's easier knowing that he has no idea who I am or how old or how unappealing. "Never."

I'm aware of him moving nearer, the heat of his body radiating from him, enveloping me. Swallowing hard, I'm on the verge of turning around when his mouth comes to rest at the nape of my neck.

I barely recall that I had wanted his lips on mine, as I become aware of dewy moisture gathering in a small circle on my skin, warmth seeping into my muscles and bones, traveling slowly yet ever so intensely through me, a delicious shiver passing in its wake. If he could create such sensations with only his mouth...

What a fool I am to have changed my mind. How ridiculous I would appear if I changed it once again. But even if I did alter my course, he wouldn’t be the one to satisfy the cravings he was stirring to life. I am still a virgin, not at all his preference.

His hand comes around, his fingers brushing over my chin but settling in to turn my face back slightly, then his mouth blankets mine with unerring accuracy. His other hand cradles the back of my head while his tongue outlines my lips, before urging them to part. He takes the kiss deep, so deep, exploring my mouth as I imagine he has explored a good deal of the world, slowly, thoroughly, giving his undivided attention to every minute detail. He savors. He worships.

His guttural groan echoes between us, and I feel it rumbling through his chest, pressed against my back. Moaning, I am astounded by the intimacy of this prelude to something far more primitive. This man takes; he gives no quarter. In bed, he would have conquered me, and yet I cannot help but believe that I would have come away the conqueror.

I almost weep with longing as he draws back and lightly strokes his thumb over my tingling, swollen, and damp lips. Too many shadows prevent me from reading his eyes, his expression.

"You make me regret that I have an aversion to virgins," he says, his voice a low thrum that skitters through me.

"You make me regret that I turned cowardly," I reply.

"Not cowardly. You ensured you don’t awaken in the morning with regrets," he reassures me.

I ponder whether it's possible for a she-wolf to awaken with anything other than triumph after being with him. Reaching past me, he opens the door. “Let’s get a move on, shall we, before we both change our minds?"

I'm not convinced that changing our minds would be such a bad thing. He escorts me to the changing room. When a maid finishes helping me dress, I find him waiting in the hallway, his back to the wall, his gaze distant. I wonder where his thoughts have taken him. Still wearing my mask, I am grateful that he will never know the identity of the she-wolf who has made a fool of herself this evening.

Offering his arm, he leads me out to the street where carriages are lined up. We reach the coach bearing his pack’s crest. A servant and a driver stand near the horses, both coming to attention.

“Wilkins, you will be taking the lady home. She’s going to give you her address. Should either of you gentlemen ever tell me or anyone where you delivered her, I shall cut out your tongue.” With an ironic twist of his lips, he looks at me. “Sufficient to guard your identity?"

Even knowing it's likely an idle threat and he'd simply sack the man, I say, “Yes, thank you.” I whisper my address to the driver. The servant opens the door, and he hands me up.

“Good night, Miss V,” he says as I pause in settling onto the seat.

“How do you know I’m a Miss?” I ask. Although I'm not one who should be addressed as such. My mother is the daughter of an Alpha, but my father is without a rank.

“The way you hold yourself, the way you move, the way you speak. And the fact that you came here, hoping for something more than a common tupping. I hope at some point you find what you’re searching for,” he says.

Strangely, I'm no longer certain that I know precisely what it is I'm searching for. “I hope you get your photograph. I suppose you will go inside and find a willing she-wolf,” I say.

Slowly he shakes his head. “No. You were what I wanted tonight. I never settle for substitutes,” he replies.

He slams the door shut, and with a jerk, the coach takes off. I remove my mask, set it on my lap, and lean back into the plush padding of the carriage.

You were what I wanted tonight.

I wonder if he would have said the same if he had known who I am.