His reluctant Luna

Finding beauty

*Liam*

I don't know who is more shocked: her at my request or me for her use of the word ‘copulating.’ Ranked she-wolves tend to dress the act up with genteel words like ‘make love,’ and I have never in my life made love to a she-wolf. I bed, I fornicate, I copulate. It's refreshing to be with a she-wolf who is realistic about our purpose in being here.

Still, based on the sudden widening of her eyes, she might very well be prepared to copulate, but posing for me is another matter entirely. Not uncommon. My request generally causes hesitation. "Before you say no, allow me the opportunity to explain."

"It's perverted! No explanation is necessary." She huffs.

Perhaps her forthrightness is not to be welcomed after all. "I assure you that what I have in mind falls well outside the realm of perversion. Please, have a seat before the fire." Giving her no chance to decline my invitation, I march over to the table and lift a decanter. "I have never known a she-wolf not to prefer champagne." I pour the scotch I had reserved for myself into two tumblers, lift them, and face her.

She hasn't moved.

The disadvantage of not knowing her identity is that I have no history of her with which to map out my strategy. It's also a challenge that I embrace. Most she-wolves want to be with me badly enough that they are willing to do anything I ask. But not her. I'm taken off guard by the thrill of being in the presence of one who isn’t so quick to fall into my arms.

Since she knows who I am, she has to run about in my posh circle, which means that in all likelihood she is from a high pack, maybe an Alpha’s daughter. Or possibly married to one. Insufficient light prevents me from determining if there's a fading indentation on her finger from the recent removal of a wedding band. Not that it matters. Her presence indicates that she is either unhappy, curious, or bored. She-wolves come here for all sorts of reasons. Men for only one: They want a willing partner who is unlikely to be infected with the wasting wolf disease. Men pay a membership; she-wolves do not.

With a slight tilting of my head, I indicate the sofa. "Please."

I watch the delicate muscles of her throat work as she swallows before gliding over to the sofa and tucking herself into a corner. Every movement is poised and elegant. Her deportment has not been left to chance. She has been trained. Definitely from a high pack.

Settling into the opposite corner, I extend the glass, grateful when she takes it. I stretch my arm over the back of the sofa. An unfurling of my fingers would have me touching her skin, and I am tempted to do exactly that, but I fear my boldness would make her more skittish, and my desire for the photograph comes first. She doesn't flinch or retreat, but her eyes are alert, watchful. I like that she isn’t afraid, but neither is she stupid.

"I’m not one to hurt she-wolves," I feel compelled to say.

"I should hope not. My father would kill you. Extremely painfully and very slowly." She tells me.

No husband then, or perhaps a bastard who didn't care. I arch a brow. "You would confess to being here?"

She lifts a pale, delicate shoulder. "I could suffer through his disappointment much more easily than I could suffer through not gaining retribution for being wronged." A corner of her mouth hitched up. "On the other hand, I might just kill you myself." She gives a quick nod. "Probably would. I would find immense satisfaction in it, come to think of it."

She takes a sip of the scotch, a glittering in her dark eyes as though the notion of doing me in pleased her, and for a moment I almost forget about the photograph, as desire stronger than any I have felt in a good long while pierced me. I almost ask her to remove the damned mask, to reveal herself. To tell me why she had chosen to come here tonight. Instead, I honor the purpose of this place to hold secrets sacred.

"You certainly don't seem to lack confidence," I muse.

"No, I have never been accused of that." She says.

But I hear in her voice that she has been accused of something, been found lacking in some regard. I almost follow that trail of inquiry, but this place is not a confessional, and I'm not here to lighten anyone else's burdens. Merely my own. To that end, I swallow a good portion of my scotch, welcome its fire, allow it to work its heat through my chest. "There is beauty in the human form," I say quietly.

Her gaze comes to rest on me, and I think there is beauty in the eyes as well. I curse the mask that shadowed hers. Brown perhaps. But intelligent. I would like to see them in the sunlight. I would like to see them smoldering when she was lost in a vortex of passion, when her body was reaching for the peak, when it flung her off it. "Yet we hide it beneath layers of clothing as though it’s something of which we should be ashamed."

"Our bodies are personal, private." She says.

"I won’t take that from you. All I want is your legs." I tell her.

As though she were a schoolteacher in need of having my knuckles rapped with a ruler, she narrows her eyes. "A she-wolf’s ankles are not to be shown."

"And yet at this very moment you're barefoot." I point out.

"I was told it’s the way it’s done here. Yet you’re not." She says.

"Would you like for me to be, to even things up a bit?" Before she can respond, I tug off my boots and socks, stretch out my legs. "As for your ankles, it’s silly for pack Society to believe that a little showing of the leg is going to turn a man into an uncontrollable savage, unable to tame his baser instincts." I lean toward her, grateful when she doesn’t recoil. But then something tells me that she isn’t one to retreat. "The body should be celebrated. Every line, every dip, every curve. Everything comes together so perfectly. It’s a marvel really. I take great pleasure in the beauty of it. There are nude statues considered great works of art, nude paintings that people can appreciate, that very nearly bring them to their knees because they are so remarkable. Photography can be just as artistic, just as enthralling when done properly. I don’t know who you are. No one will ever know that you posed for me. No one will ever see the resulting image, except for me. It’s for my private collection. You won’t remove the silk. I’ll simply slip it up a bit past your knees. I’ll work with the shadow and the light. Then you’ll be captured in art."

She shakes her head, “That’s not really why I came here.”

"You came here for s*x," I say.

She opens her mouth, closes it, sighs, "Well, yes, to be perfectly blunt about it."

"You shall have that as well. A photograph before, perhaps one after if you are up for it. One in silk, one in sheets. We will be telling a story." I suggest.

She shakes her head, "It seems wrong."

Not to me. I get up, go to the fire, and stare into the writhing flames. How can I explain to her what it’s like to constantly dream of mangled bodies? After twenty years, there are still nights when I wake in a cold sweat, nights when I hear the screaming winds racing over the moors and imagine that they are my parents’ cries. I haven’t slept through the night since I was eight years old. I think if I can just replace the ghastly images of severed and contorted limbs with beautiful perfection, that eventually the nightmares will lessen. Perhaps they will even go away entirely. "What is wrong with appreciating the beauty of a shapely leg, a well-turned ankle, the arch of a foot, the curl of small toes?"

I wouldn’t photograph anything that would make a she-wolf feel awkward or taken advantage of. I just want peace.

"I’m sorry, but I’m simply not prepared to be on display in that manner for eternity," she says with absolute conviction in her voice.

I'm torn between admiring her for standing by her convictions and cursing her for her stubbornness. Turning, I take a step toward her and hold out my hand. "All right, then, if you are not comfortable being photographed, let’s get on with what you came here for. Iwill make do with that."

Without taking my hand, she stands swiftly and I can fairly see the anger shimmering off her. Why the devil do I find it so damned attractive? She-wolves never express displeasure with me, no matter how badly I behave.

"Make do?" she asks tartly. "I have always heard you were a charmer. Now I have to wonder what other rumors regarding you are false."

“A good many of them, I suspect." I mumble.

She huff angrily, “Well, I’m certainly not going to climb into bed with a man who doesn’t desire me, who is simply making do."

She spins on her heel. I grab her arm to stay her actions. The heated look she directs my way could have felled a lesser man. Damnation, it only makes me want her all the more. There is fire in her, smoldering, never before banked. She is here for something that is as important to her as the photographs are for me. I would bet my life on it.

“A poor choice of wording on my part. I’m disappointed that you won’t pose for me, but trust me, I am not disappointed that we are going to... copulate." I tell her.

I curse the blasted mask that prevents me from seeing if she is blushing, curse the shadows that prevent me from seeing the flush of her skin.

“You don’t desire me," she announces.

“Not desire you? Are you mad? I have never desired anyone as much. I have an artist’s eye, and while the silk may cover you, it still manages to reveal everything about you. That’s why I knew you would be perfect for the photograph.” I tell her.

“Perfect?"

She speaks the word as though she isn't quite familiar with it, as though it had never been applied to her. "Yes, perfect. You are not tall, but you have a good deal of leg. Based on the way the silk folds around them when you walk, I believe I would find your calves to be quite fetching."

“Fetching?”

Again doubt, I'm beginning to wonder if a troll exists beneath the mask. But then, as much as I love lines, angles, and curves, I have never judged by appearance alone. She is more than a face or legs or body. Her presence here is testament to that. Shy misses don’t wander these halls, step into bedchambers. She is a she-wolf who knows her own mind, knows what she wants, and goes after it. In truth, I find that aspect to her more alluring than anything that I might discover beneath the silk, or even the mask.

“I don’t photograph just anyone,” I tell her. “Only those I find pleasing.”

“And how many is that, my Alpha? Based on your reputation, I suspect at least a hundred." She says.

I shake my head, “Not even a dozen."

She seems surprised by that declaration. “Did you not think you were special?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t so much as nod, yet I see the truth in her eyes. She thinks herself lacking. Was that the reason behind her coming here tonight? Because she wished to feel appreciated?

“Is it possible you might change your mind about posing for me?” I ask.

“I couldn’t do anything so lewd." She says, shaking her head.

I give her a small smile, “It’s very tastefully done, I promise you. The most intimate aspects of you will remain covered. Shadows will hide a good deal as well. The focus will be your legs.”

“What do you do with the photographs?” She asks.

“I don’t use them for any sort of erotic stimulation, if that’s what you’re thinking. I simply appreciate beauty.” I explain.

She looks slightly confused, “Beauty? In my legs?”

Going to one knee, I wrap a hand around her ankle. “Allow me to show you.”