Page 62 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
She looked back over her shoulder. He was naked from the waist up, and the sight was enough to make her knees weak. His muscles rivalled the oak for shackled power. His chest was broad with pectoral muscles that seemed marble, pale, and unyielding. His stomach was flat as paving stones, with every muscle of his torso clearly delineated and accentuated.
Her head whipped back around as he looked up, now blindfold. She felt sure he would sense her gaze upon his nakedness. His hands blindly reached for and found her shoulders. She guided them down to the buttons.
Silently, he undid her dress, standing close enough that she wanted to lean back, to feel that naked perfection of the male physique press against her. Press against the thin shift she wore beneath her dress, inadequate protection against his powerful masculinity.
The dress released her. She pushed it down, wriggling her hips to send it to the ground. Tristan’s hands came to rest on her hips. His head lowered until his lips found her shoulder. They touched thin cotton but might as well have been against her skin.
Christine let her head fall back and her lips part in a sigh of pure ecstasy. Thought fled. They stood surrounded by ancient nature and became members of a primitive tribe, engaging in the most primal of acts.
A hand slipped around her waist, fingers spreading against her stomach. His lips found her neck. Kissing. Biting. He moved herdamp hair aside. She made to turn in his arms, to face him, but he held her still.
“I cannot see, but you can. That hardly seems fair. Either we be so or neither do.”
Christine laughed softly. “Very well. Give me a blindfold,”
She stooped and picked up his shirt, placing the sleeve across her eyes and binding it around her head. Then she turned, blinded as he was. His hands ran over her face, and he chuckled.
“Very inventive,” was the last word he uttered before kissing her.
Christine’s senses whirled. She found herself against the tree, its roughness pressing against her, but dwarfed by the hardness of the body that pinned her. Tristan’s hands explored her body, caressing her spine, fondling her derriere, tracing her ribs, and then encapsulating her breasts with round, firm squeezing.
She gasped and whispered against his lips, which seemed hungry compared to her own. A desperate desire filled her, made hotter and more consuming because she had never experienced anything like this before. Her nails raked his back, his sides, and his chest. Her lips explored his face, bit at his earlobe, and latched onto his neck, making her feel like a wild beast.
His hands wove through her hair, pulling her head back to him, finding her lips once more. Through it all, she felt the hard maleness of him, pressing against her, insistent andundeniable. It awakened something eternally feminine within her. Something which demanded action, the only action possible when confronted with that primal, masculine lust.
When his hand touched her between her legs, pressing against the material of her shift, she cried out. The world had become empty except for them. It did not matter how loudly he made her cry. There was no one to hear. Or perhaps everyone. She did not care if the population of London stood around the tree.
His skillful touch brought forth lip-biting, knee-trembling moans. He pulled at the bottom of the shift, gathering the material into his fingers, exposing more and more of her body. Cold air touched her stockinged legs. Chilled her thighs where the stockings came to an end. Caressed her womanhood when the material reached her waist.
Then Christine was lost, clutching at the tree and clutching at the oak-like body that held her against it. He was pressed so tightly she could not slip a hand down to reciprocate the touch he gave her. She did not dare to go so far, even though she was carried away by pleasure as she was. Waves of it coursed through her body. Then tongues of fire were lapping at her senses, and she buried her face in his neck as she cried out.
Nineteen
The storm burned itself to silence, leaving the gardens drenched and glistening. Christine’s skirts clung damply about her knees as she crossed the threshold of Greystone beside Tristan. The heavy oak door closed behind them with a sound like a sigh. Candles sputtered in the draught, releasing a faint scent of beeswax and smoke.
Tristan set the small iron key upon the marble console in the hall, its ornate bow catching the faint light.
“One mystery solved,” he said, brushing rain from his sleeve, “and another beginning.”
Christine’s hands were trembling, though whether from cold or the memory of his mouth against hers in the damp shade of the oak she could not tell. She turned away, forcing composure.
I have given myself to him. Given him more than any man has ever had. I am vulnerable, and I do not know that it is something I dislike.
The thought felt wanton. Wild. Civilized people did not engage in such acts outside of wedlock. But then, was the Wolf Duke civilized? Or was he as wild and untamed as his moniker suggested?
His eyes met hers, and the memory of their shared intimacy sparked between them. It set Christine’s heart beating faster, reminding her that some semblance of equilibrium and control must be achieved before anyone else came across them.
“The Dowager said the clues would lead us to the heart of Greystone. That must mean the library.”
He regarded her with that unreadable half-smile of his, the one that could be amusement or challenge.
“You seem very certain.”
“I am certain of nothing where you are concerned,” she murmured, gathering her soaked shawl.
“Then allow me to improve my standing.”
He picked up the key and strode toward the west corridor. She followed, her slippers whispering on the polished floor, awarewith every step of his nearness, the heat radiating from him despite the chill.
