“Mine,” he growled. “You are mine, Gwen. Say it.”
“Yours,” she gasped.
He covered her, caging her body with his legs and arms. A whirling vortex sucked at his sanity. Every touch, every sound, every smell left him reeling. Her scent inflamed him; he dragged his tongue across her neck, pressed his open mouth to the fleshy mound of her shoulder. She tasted of salt, of honey, of feminine mystery.
His body was on fire for her. His shaft jabbed between her legs, the broad head finding the entrance to her body. He surged forward and penetrated her, touching the barrier that was proof no man had preceded him. His teeth scraped her skin. Her head dropped, and tilted slightly, like a wolf bitch offering her jugular to her mate.
His teeth sank into her flesh. The same instant, his hips jerked forward. He surged into her heat, driving through her maidenhead, impaling her with one deep, primitive thrust. A cry tore from her throat. The sound filled him with savage satisfaction. Gods, she was tight. Her slick, hot passageway closed on him like a fist. Held him. He licked her shoulder and tasted her blood.
Reality slammed into him.
“Hades.”
What was he doing? He was rutting on Gwen like an animal. Gods, had he lost his mind? Had her magic crippled his brain? He started to withdraw, then stopped, frozen by her strangled cry.
“Nay,” she gasped, reaching around with one hand, her fingernails biting his hip. “Do not stop, Marcus. Finish it.”
Finish it.
The words set him ablaze again. The top of his skull felt as though it had separated from the rest of his head. Blood rushed hot and urgent to his groin. He grasped her hips, hard, and slid into her a second time, the head of his phallus dragging on the hot walls of her slick inner passage. The pleasure was so sharp, so intoxicating, that the smithy walls might have collapsed around him and he would not have noticed. He closed his eyes, his world narrowing to his cock, to the flex of his fingers on Gwen’s hipbones, to the shuddering surrender of Gwen’s sweet body.
His hips jerked again and again, pulling and plunging. The rhythm took over his will; only death could have stopped him. A bright light burned in his mind, then spread to fill his body. His stones grew heavy; Gwen’s inner passage contracted.
He thrust with all his strength, one last, glorious time. She let out a strangled cry, her body convulsing in his hands. His world exploded in a rush of pleasure so intense he was sure he’d been lifted off the ground. For a moment he hung suspended in a place of perfect bliss; the next instant he collapsed, barely managing to avoid crushing the woman under him. He rolled onto his back on the warm stone floor, snagging her about the waist and pulling her on top of him to sprawl across his chest.
His heart pounded convulsively. Gwen trembled. They were both struggling to gasp air. Sanity, as unwelcome as it was, crept back into his skull.
Jupiter and Apollo.
What had he done?
Coward that he was, he waited until she lifted her head and spoke his name before he dared to open his eyes. The sight of her made his heart contract painfully. Gods, she was lovely. Her braid had come completely undone. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like pure moonlight. Her face was flushed, her cheeks red, her mouth swollen. Her eyes were clear and gray. He searched them intently. Incredibly, he saw no anger.
His shaking hand stroked up her arm. She flinched when he reached her shoulder. With a muttered curse, he lifted her hair and stared at the wound he’d inflicted. He’d
bitten
her. Gods. Bitten her, and used her more violently than he’d ever used any practiced whore. To add to the insult, his body was not even ashamed. He was still hard. He wanted her again.
“Gods, Gwen. I’m sorry. I have never in my life treated a woman so shamefully. I … I don’t know what to say.”
Her hands smoothed over his shirt, her fingers playing with the curling hair below his throat. “Do not apologize to me, Marcus. There is no need.” She kissed his lips. “Do ye not realize what ye did? Ye stopped it.”
Stopped it? He’d stopped
nothing.
He hadn’t been able to. He’d let the basest part of his nature consume them both. He’d torn her clothes from her body, not even stopping to remove his own. He’d bitten her, put bruises on her body. And Gwen looked happy about it. Or, more precisely,
relieved,
as if his unforgivable assault had lifted some incredible burden from her shoulders. He pushed himself up on one elbow, suddenly aware they were lying atop a layer of ash.
“You should be furious with me. Or crying.”
She shook her head, a smile touching her lips. “Ye do not understand. The wolf wanted freedom. Ye stopped it, after I had already begun to shift. That has never happened before.”
Suddenly, he remembered. “But why would you call the wolf here? Now? You promised—”
“I did not call it.” She looked away, biting her lip.
He reached up and touched her mouth, smoothing the ragged skin. “Then what happened? Tell me.”
“I misled ye, Marcus. I promised not to call the wolf, but that was a promise I could not make. I do not control the wolf. Not entirely. Aye, I can call it, and sometimes do, but most often … the magic comes unbidden, especially when my emotions rise strongly. I cannot control it.”
Marcus sat up the rest of the way, shifting her into his lap. His erection prodded her bottom. “You can’t control when the wolf will emerge?”
“Not entirely. Not since my time in the cave. I spent so many nights in the wolf’s body, my human soul had begun to fade. Now when the wolf wants freedom, my Light cannot always subdue it. But ye …” She blushed and started to scramble off his lap.
Reluctantly, he let her go and rose.
She stood twisting her fingers together. “My Deep Magic has never struck so quickly and violently. Never have I been able to stop it once it’s gotten so far. But when ye turned on me …” She clamped her lips together, her cheeks flushing bright red. Ducking her head, she searched the floor for her tunic. When she found it, under the anvil, she stared at the shredded garment as if she’d never seen it before. Hugging it to her chest, she looked back at him.
“The wolf yielded to ye, Marcus. Surely ye felt it.”
“I did. But what does it mean?”
“I hardly know. I did not even think such a thing was possible.”
His gaze traveled over her. Her cheeks were still flushed, her pale skin smudged with soot. The imprint of his fingers was on her hip; she’d have a nasty bruise there tomorrow.
He touched it gently, his remorse sharp. “You’re going to be sore.”
“It does not matter.” Her fingers clutched the ruined tunic. “But how will I explain to Rhiannon that I ruined her tunic?”
“No difficulty there. We’ll blame it on the soot and sparks from the furnace. My clothes are destroyed with alarming regularity.” He approached her, relieved when she didn’t flinch. Not willing to give her more chance to protest, he lifted her off her feet and into his arms.
“What—? Put me down, Marcus.”
“Aye, my lady,” he said, imitating her Celt accent. She snorted, and he grinned. Striding across the smithy, he rounded the wooden screen and laid her gently on his bed. Easing the ruined tunic from her fingers, he scooped a blanket off the floor and offered it to her instead. “Wait here.”
He returned a moment later with a filled washbowl, a linen towel slung over his shoulder. He set the bowl on the trunk next to the bed and dipped the rag in the water. “You’re a mess.”
“This water is hot,” she said with some surprise as he dabbed at the soot on her face.
“I keep a full cauldron in an alcove on the far side of the furnace. The water heats while I work. It’s useful for washing up.”
He finished cleaning her face. She sat up, and he drew back her hair from her neck, exposing his bite. He washed the wound, frowning.
“I can’t explain what came over me,” he muttered. He kept his head down, running the cloth over her shoulders and arms, washing away soot and sweat.
“Magic,” Gwen said. “Did ye feel it?”
His hand stilled. “I felt something. Light. Some tingling.” He met her gaze. “Lust. Was that magic, too?”
“I do not know.” Her gaze drifted to the furnace, where a faint aura shone. Her pulse quickened. “The iron. May I see it?”
“The bloom is too hot to pull out. Give it some time to cool.”
The towel dipped between her breasts. He bent his head, circling the rag around her areole. Her nipples puckered to tight buds. She let the blanket slip to her stomach. His mouth went dry; he tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Dimly he was aware of her easing the rag from his fingers.
She rinsed it in the warm water, then, with light strokes that he felt deep in his belly, washed his face. “Ye are a fright as well.”
“I never said you were a fright.”
She guided the towel down his neck. “Take off your shirt.”
He obeyed, shucking the garment and tossing it on the floor. His
braccas
followed. Naked, he held himself very still as she stroked the rag over his chest. She instructed him to turn so she could reach his back. He did.
When the rag dipped to his waist, he stood and captured her gaze. “If I make love to you again, will the wolf remain in its lair?”
A shadow passed through her eyes. “I do not know.”
“There’s only one way to find out, then.” When she didn’t answer, he added. “I want you, Gwen. I want to make love to you. Not mount you like a rutting boar.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. “Tell me you want that, too.”
“But the wolf—”
“I’m not afraid of the wolf.”
“Ye should be.”
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps lust had eaten all the sense in his brain. It made no difference; he wanted her again. Desperately. Wetting the clean towel, he bent over her, stroking a circle around her navel. Her belly quivered; she made no move to stop him. He tugged the blanket completely away, revealing a triangle of white-blond curls.
“Lean back, Gwen, and part your legs for me.”
Slowly, she did as he requested, lying back on the mattress. She wasn’t certain, he could tell, but all doubt had fled Marcus’s mind. He’d forced the wolf’s retreat once. Surely he could do it again. If not … well, it was a risk he was willing to take.
He dipped the wet towel between her legs. She flinched a little; she must be sore, after the way he’d he used her. He clamped down on his self-loathing. She’d said his roughness was due to magic—it was an excuse that meant little to him. A man’s actions were his own, and Marcus could not deny he’d reveled in his harsh treatment of her body. His orgasm has been the most intense he’d ever known. Had Gwen even found release? He didn’t know—he’d been so lost in his own pleasure that he hadn’t been aware of hers.
He could correct that, at least. Kneeling before her, he ran his hands up her legs, parting them more fully, opening her completely. He placed a kiss high on the inside of her thigh.
“What … are ye doing?” she asked unsteadily.
“This,” he said, and covered her with his mouth.
The shudder that shook her body was so strong Gwen found herself grabbing fistfuls of blanket. Marcus’s mouth was hot, his lips and tongue relentless. He nipped and licked and suckled, consuming her intimate flesh in a way she had never dreamed was possible. It was too much; she couldn’t think. She tried to bring her knees together.
She couldn’t. His broad shoulders were between her legs. His hands had slipped under her bottom, lifting her, giving him better access to take whatever he wanted.
Give
whatever he wanted. Swells of pleasure cascaded over her, each one higher than the one before. She clutched at his hair, not knowing whether to shove him away or pull him closer.
He lifted his head and slipped a finger inside her, pressing deep. She gasped at the invasion, gasped again when a wave of indescribable pleasure broke over her. A second finger joined the first, stretching her. His mouth covered her again, seeking in her folds for the hard nub from which all sensation radiated.
He went on and on, driving her to ever-increasing peaks of pleasure, then drawing back until the sensations faded. As soon as she caught her breath, he began again, pushing her toward some unknown goal. The rough coupling on the floor of the smithy had been nothing like this. That had shocked her—first with pain as her maidenhead broke, then with brief, violent pleasure when Marcus exploded inside her. But this … this rise and fall of bliss, this sweet aching pleasure, was completely unexpected. Was this what lovemaking was? She had never imagined something so … personal.
The low points of her pleasure were shallower now, the peaks more pronounced. Each one hung higher, endured longer, was more intense. There was something just beyond, something that frightened her. It was akin to the joy she felt when the pain of her shifting fell away, leaving her wholly in the body of the wolf. It was a wild joy, an abandon she associated with Deep Magic. She was afraid if she reached for it, claimed it as her own, it would rouse the wolf.
A sharp wave of bliss crashed over her; she all but drowned in it. She twisted to one side. “Marcus … nay …”
“Come for me, Gwen.” His voice was ragged, his breath hot on her belly. His thumb found the place where his mouth had been. All coherent thought spun away. “Let go. Let me give this to you.”
It was beyond her power to deny him. She gave herself over to his care, to his lips and tongue, to the heat of his body and the urgency of his desire. A bright light shattered behind her eyes as she came apart in his hands, carried on the brilliance of a pleasure so deep, so intense, that she was sure what she was,
who
she was, had ceased to be.
And through it all, even when Marcus moved over her and slid inside, the wolf did not stir.
She woke some time later wrapped securely in Marcus’s arms. His bed was not meant for two—she was sprawled half atop him, one leg flung over his thigh. The fire in the furnace had dimmed to a low glow.
Through the smithy’s single window, she saw the sky had faded to pale gray.
For a time she listened to the sounds of the farm drifting through the open window. Birdsong, the bark of a dog, the call of a voice from the stables. The scent of rain and the promises of spring teased her nostrils. For the first time in years she did not want to be anywhere other than where she was.