A Highland Werewolf Wedding - By Terry Spear Page 0,62
that rock-hard erection. She was imagining him entering her, making love to her, mating with her like two wolves would for life. Did he still want to do that with her?
She’d felt his hand slip from her ass, and she’d let out a slight moan in protest, not intending to, trying to pretend she was asleep. It hadn’t worked.
Maybe he was still asleep. She missed having his hand on her skin, feeling sexy and dangerous and ready for more.
She tried to move her leg off him without disturbing him, but as soon as she lifted her leg, he groaned in a half dissatisfied, half husky way. She glanced up at him. He was smiling down at her smugly, his face covered with a shadow of stubble.
“Ahh, lass,” he drawled with his sexy Scottish burr, “seems I chased Flynn away for you last night.”
He ran his hand over her arm, the silky fabric sliding up and down, his touch gentle and loving.
She quickly moved away from him, yanking down the gown so that the hem was around her ankles again. “You… weren’t in on this with your ghostly cousin, were you?”
Cearnach laughed, the sound rich and husky. He reached over, tugging playfully on a length of her hair. She breathed in deeply and smelled his delightful masculine scent. Now her own light scent mixed with his. She never imagined she’d spend the night in a male wolf’s bed when he wasn’t her mate.
She sighed. “Bathroom?”
“In there,” he said, motioning toward her side of the curtained bed.
She sat up and pulled aside the black velvet curtains and for the first time really saw his chamber. One wall was covered with swords and dirks and shields—some old and battle-scarred, some shiny and new. His chamber made her think of an Old World armory that would have been the prized possession of a museum on Scottish weaponry. She thought he should have a suit of mail to make the room complete.
Large, bulky dark oak dressers and armoires filled the room. On top of one, a brass framed picture of Cearnach caught her full attention. He was crouched among a dozen Irish wolfhounds—some lying at his feet, two looking up at him with adoration, some standing beside him, four sitting in a semicircle around him with eyes focused on the camera, and three pups climbing on his lap. He gave the impression that he was the alpha leader of a pack of wolfhounds, his elusive smile and the twinkle in his eyes as he looked into the camera making it appear as though he was observing her. Who wouldn’t love a man who loved animals?
Her gaze shifted to the remaining walls, which were covered with sketches of intricately carved Celtic knot designs for the wooden handles of daggers.
“My hobby,” he said, watching her as she turned to look at him. He motioned to the sketches. “I design them and sell them to shops looking for hand-carved individual creations.”
“They’re beautiful,” she said, marveling at the detail on the handles of the weapons. “You did all of these?”
“Aye. Our smithy makes the blades. I work the handles.”
“They’re truly artwork.”
“Thanks, Elaine.” He cast her a small smile. “Not all lasses would appreciate my collection.”
She gave his bared upper body an appreciative look. “I do.”
His smile widened and he leaned across the bed to grasp her arm in response to her comment. She quickly hopped down from the high bed and hurried into his bathroom.
“Coward,” he teased in a husky, sexy voice.
“I’m not a coward,” she said from the bathroom, finding it as luxurious as the other that she’d used when she shifted and dressed in the borrowed clothes. This one was all in black and white streaked marble, the counters and the floor in solid black stone, and the shower in white. She ran her hand over the cool, sleek marble.
She peered out of the bathroom at him as he now sat on her edge of the bed, smiling at her in the most wicked way, his chest and legs bared, his erection outlined as it stood at attention underneath the satiny fabric of the boxers.
She said, “I’m trying to protect your reputation.”
“My reputation,” he said, his voice taking on an even huskier tone.
“Oh, aye,” she said, attempting to copy his delightful brogue.
“It’s already in tatters.” He smiled at her.
She chuckled. “Which has nothing to do with me, and I want to keep it that way.”