Her unexpected mate

A kiss for the ages

*Aaron*

Her eyes flare slightly, her lips parting, and my c**k react as though she has reached down and slid her fingers along the entire length of it. Christ, what the devil is wrong with me ? I enjoy women but have never lost my head over one, yet something about her calls to the baser instincts in me, the wolf who wants to claim, protect and yes, strike down any other man who touches her.

I have been a stranger to jealousy until her, and now that the emotion has introduced itself, I do not much like it nor do I understand why it is gadding about. She is correct. I do not know her at all. To feel anything toward her other than mild curiosity is foolish beyond measure.

Other women wear masks in my place. A few have still never removed theirs. But the mystery of them doesn’t intrigue me. She does. immensely. irrevocably. intensely. I want to know everything about her, inside and out.

No, I do not. I want to seduce her, bed her, forget her. As easily as she apparently plans to forget me. And there's the rub, the reason seduction is required is because I want her begging for it, recalling me with her final breath no matter how many men come after me.

She claims to want to be bedded, and the way she had said it with no emotion whatsoever, as though it is a given that I will jump to do her bidding, had at once intrigued and angered me. Aaron Tempest does not bend to the will of the high packs. Unlike my mother, I will not be used for their pleasure. I might provide pleasure, but it is always on my terms and my terms alone. I know nothing at all about my mother but has learned enough about my sire to know the poor woman probably had little say in the arrangement. The same can not be said of me. I am always in control, always in charge, always have the ultimate say.

I might not have had any choice in what they did with me when I was born, but by the Goddess, I have absolute control now. No one dictates my actions, except myself.

I wonder if the woman standing before me had once had no choice either, if perhaps it is the reason she is here, because now as a widow she has the power to determine her destiny and her activities. So she seeks what she has never had: passion.

For surely she wants more than an emotionless coupling.

“My knees are quite steady”. She finally says, and I can’t prevent myself from

grinning at how long it had taken her to recover from my vow and to come up with a retort.

“I intend to turn them to jam”.

Her pink tongue darts out and licks the lower lip I fully intended to devour shortly.

“You’re quite cocky”.

“It’s the reason you chose me”. I say.

“I will admit to finding you fascinating”.

“Have we met before ?” I don’t think so. I would have remembered that mouth, the shape of it, the full lower lip that gives the impression of being in a permanent pout, the bow shape of the upper lip, thinner, half the plumpness of the lower. Her mouth will provide a nice cushion for mine.

“No, but I’ve seen you from afar, heard tales of your … prowess”.

I pinder for a moment. “l have a policy of kissing but never telling. I have always assumed ladies, especially those who wandered about above the riff-raff, kept their affairs secret”.

“No one has ever spilled any secrets. It’s simply the way your name is always spoken on a sigh that led me to believe you have hidden talents. Then, of course, there is all this. Why provide such decadence if you are not willing to partake ?”

“Perhaps my preference is to simply watch from the shadows”.

“An onlooker ?” She shakes her head. “No, I see you as an active participant. There’s too much maleness in you”.

*Senya*

And that maleness is directed at me with a smoldering gaze that nearly has me tripping over my feet. I am accustomed to lighthearted banter and flirtation, not looks through half-lowered lids that has every pore in my body steaming, every inch of my skin sweltering, my n*****s puckering, and the secretive place between my legs begging for me to crush it up against something, against him. His hand. His thigh. His crotch.

Dear Goddess, where did those thoughts come from ?

As though my body has written its needs across my pupils, he shifts his hand until the edge of his palm rests against the lower portion of my back and press me slightly, with just enough force, enough determination that I am keenly aware that his body is reacting with needs similar to mine.

My earlier question is unerringly answered. He is interested in bedding me. Desperately, if the hardness that greets me is any indication.

Then he eases away, leaving me to wonder if he had been teasing me or staking a claim. The latter I decide. A man who threatens bodily harm to his employees is not one to reveal his desires unless he is assured that they will be reciprocated.

The music finally comes to a halt, and so do we. This time we do not wait around. Instead, he places my hand snugly in the crook of his elbow and leads me from the dance floor, from the room, into a darkened corridor, and sweeps me along a maze of rooms, hallways, and passages. He is intimately familiar with every inch of them as he needs no light to guide him. Strange how I do not hesitate to follow, how my steps are as sure as his. I trust him. It is an odd sensation to give myself wholly over into a near stranger’s keeping.

I have spent a good bit of my life wary of people’s motives but have no cause to be suspicious of him. He might manage a den of vice, but he is honest in what he offers and he has been honest with what he is on the verge of delivering. No games from him.

I wish I could claim the same.

The echo of grinding metal alerts me he is opening a door. The action barely slows him as he push the wood aside, creating a crevasse through which he pulls me into a dimly lit hallway. I hardly have time to note doors beyond them before he is escorting me up a set of stairs lit with a lamp here and there.

At the landing, I can see more stairs beyond, but he ignores them and drags me through an open doorway into another corridor and then into a room that contains a red velveteen fainting couch. He releases his hold on me and I wander farther inside.

Paintings of solitary women, solitary men, couples, and groups adorns the walls. Suggestive statuettes of naked couples caressing or kissing are nestled in the corners.

The snick of a door closing, being locked, causes me to swing around. His arms crossed over his chest, he leans against the door and simply watch, wait.

I turn my attention back to the fainting couch. For some reason, I had assumed he would require a massive bed, that we would roll about in it and well, my imagination had never taken me beyond the rolling. The couch seems inadequate. Is it even called being bedded when it is done on a fainting couch ? Or is it being fainting couched ?

He is the expert, I am the novice, in spite of my seven years of marriage.

“Not exactly what I was expecting”. I say honestly, facing him.

“I thought you would appreciate the couch when your knees give way”.

“As I mentioned before, my knees are made of stern stuff”.

His grin is cocky and all male. “Never challenge me, sweetheart, unless you are willing to deal with the consequences. Remove the mask”.

“No”. I state it firmly, resolutely.

“There’s no one here to see you, to recognize you”.

He will see me, although he probably wouldn’t know precisely who I am. Still, I suddenly feel a need to remain incognito. Baring my face would make me too vulnerable, would make me feel exposed. What I am doing is wrong on so many levels, and I need to remain as secretive about it as possible. “I can’t”.

I had expected him to give me an ultimatum, to force me to remove it in order to gain what I want. Instead, he merely pushes himself away from the door and prowls toward me, determination darkening his eyes.

Quite suddenly, I rather wish I had moved nearer to the couch because the desire, the want, the need reflected in his expression already has my knees threatening to buckle.

Then his hands are gently cradling my jaw, his thumbs meeting at the shallow dimple in my chin, creating the top part of a heart turned upside down as he holds me. It is silly to keep the mask on, and yet it affords some sort of protection, some sense that I am in charge, when the reality is that I haven’t been since the moment he had approached me.

No, before that. From the moment he had begun striding toward me. That is his power, his strength, his allure. He takes command and holds on to it.

That thought alone is enough to have my knees weakening. I have never been this close to a man who seems fully capable of ruling hearts. I will not give him mine. All I will grant him is use of my body, and in giving him that, I will be using him as well.

Holding my gaze, he lowers his head only a fraction, and I cease to breathe as my stomach quivers in anticipation. I lick my lips, taking satisfaction as his gaze

dropped to my tongue, dampening what he will soon be tasting. Strange how the

smoldering in his eyes makes me feel powerful, allowing me to regain some control.

But when his mouth lands on mine, I realize it has all been an illusion. I have no control, whatsoever. No thought, no scheming, no goals, only taking pleasure from this simple exercise, a mating of lips and tongue, breaths and sighs. His fingers skimming along my jaw, my chin, over and over, as though he seeks to permanently embed their shape within his palms. The goal accomplished, his hands gliding along my throat, over my shoulders, and down my back, pressing me nearer as his arms cocoons around me. Mine circle his waist, my hands spreading wide over his broad back, and I resent the coat he wears that prevents me from outlining the corded muscles I am rather certain composes him. But that opportunity will come shortly, for surely he would at least divest

himself of his jacket before taking me completely.

But that is for later. For now there is only the kiss proving all my previous claims

regarding the makeup of my knees to be false as he plunders, slowly, sensually,

thoroughly. The man knows his way around a woman’s mouth, knows how to explore, how to titillate, how to come to know it intimately. I suspect he could sketch the inside of my mouth to perfection should he put his mind to it. He leaves not so much as a hairbreadth unmapped. All the while, he gives me the freedom to learn all the textures that make up this one aspect of him.

Roughness, silkiness, hardness, softness. I take delight in each discovery as our tongues parry, not with animosity, not as though they are embroiled in

battle, but as though they are engaged in an ancient ritual, the start of a journey that will prove them equals.

His actions strike at my poet’s heart, bringing to life yearnings I have never before dared to awaken. I had known they were there, but I have hidden them away, forced them into slumber for fear I would offend my husband if he knew the hunger that gnawed at me in the quiet hours of the night when I had lain alone in my bed, after he left, when the tears would fall.

I stumble because my legs, blast them, do give out. Without moving his mouth from mine, he easily lifts me into his arms and carries me the short distance to the fainting couch where he lays me down, kneels on the floor beside me, and continues to r****h my mouth. His groans echo around me, reverberating through me as he holds me with one arm positioned at my back so my chest meets his, his other hand cradling my head to give him the angle he needs. I do not want to consider how many women he might have kissed in order to perfect this move.

All I want is to take advantage of it.

I have always thought kisses were a perfunctory thing, a greeting to the day, a signal one is retiring for the night. But he makes it involve all the senses, all aspects of my body, not just my mouth and my traitorous knees, but my curling toes, and my dampening core, and my erratic heart.

He drags his mouth along my face where the mask gives way to flesh, then along my throat, over my collarbone. I whimper when he nips at the swell of my breast. When he closes his mouth over my n****e through my clothing, the remainder of my body melts.

He goes still, so still. I am certain he continues to breathe, because I feel his hot

breath penetrating the cloth, moisture gathering around my n****e. Then he eases back, cradling my face once more, and holds my gaze. “It’s time for you to leave, sweetheart”.

I shake my head. “But you haven’t bedded me”.

“How very astute you are”.

“Isn’t that the purpose of this room ? Isn’t this where the men with the red buttons bring the ladies to bed them ?”

“It’s where they bring the ladies who want to be kissed thoroughly. It’s where they bring the ladies who want to be fondled”.

“And those who wish to be bedded ?”

“We have other rooms for that, rooms with large accommodating beds”.

“So that’s where you will take me now”.

He shakes his head. “No”.

“But I want to be bedded. I have told you that, confessed to it. I won’t object to you taking me”.

“You might want it, sweetheart, but you don’t desire it. I won’t take you to a bed until you do”.