Hungry Like de Wolfe

by Anna Markland

  He shoved aside comments from Tessa that he’d never given much thought to before, mildly perplexed that memories of her half-hearted response in bed would resurface now.

  But the fire burning in his veins for Anne was far more intense than anything he’d ever felt for Tessa. How he’d ever believed himself in love with the faithless cow…

  Love?

  Was he falling in love with Anne? Did she feel anything for him? He took off his blazer and gathered her into his arms, knowing without a doubt that he was the first man to enter this bedroom in three years. It flashed into his mind that she’d removed her wedding ring. It gave him hope. She didn’t fight him, but she was tense. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he reassured her. “I’m a little out of practice myself.”

  She nodded, fiddling with his tie. “I don’t want you to be disappointed. I was never much good in bed.”

  A notion flitted into his subconscious that Geoff Smith and Tessa Mulberry would have made a perfect couple. All take and no give. “Undress for me,” he rasped. “I want to see all of you.”

  Her already heated face turned a lovely shade of pink, but she looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. He swore to kill Captain Smith if he ever met him. Oh, wait! The bastard was dead.

  He untangled her arms from his neck and eased her away, hoping his smile would give her confidence. “Strip for me.”

  She flared her nostrils and stretched her neck. The pleasant reaction in his balls warned that going slow might not be such a good idea.

  She unbuttoned the waistband of her skirt and shimmied the garment off her hips. It pooled at her feet and she kicked it away, wobbling on high heels. He thought tights had replaced suspenders and stockings, but he was wrong and his throbbing cock scolded him for his ignorance. “Christ, Anne,” he growled in a voice he barely recognised as he hurriedly unbuckled his belt.

  Seemingly emboldened by his drooling, she turned her back to him and thrust out her bottom. The stockings had diverted his attention from the black thong. He couldn’t help but notice it now. Though the show wasn’t over, he had to put his hands on her cheeks. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

  She purred when he traced a finger along the sheer fabric that barely covered her rosette.

  He stepped back, praying he could stay the course without stalking and devouring her like Duran Duran’s hungry wolf. “Breasts now.”

  Once the blouse was unbuttoned and cast aside, she hesitated and looked at him warily. He licked his lips, awestruck at the bounty that swelled in the confines of her lacy black bra.

  It was his duty as a gentleman to help her clear the final hurdle. He slipped the straps off her shoulders and cupped her breasts, lifting them, relishing their delicious weight.

  She reached behind to undo the hooks, arching her back when he brushed his thumbs over the rigid nipples. When she pressed her hand to his rock hard arousal, Tarzan’s call of the jungle echoed in the back of his mind. However, if he bellowed out his triumph he wouldn’t be able to suckle the pale nipples, and that was his more immediate need.

  She seemed to find her confidence as he suckled and before he knew it his trousers were round his ankles and she was lifting him out of his boxers.

  “Clever girl,” he growled, moving his fingers to the sliver of fabric between her legs. “You’re already wet for me.”

  But then it occurred to his fevered brain she was having some difficulty extracting him from his underwear. “You’re big,” she murmured apologetically.

  Now his conundrum was how to strut like a rooster, thump his chest like a gorilla, be shuck of the boxers and thong and thrust into her wet heat before his cock exploded.

  He shoved the underwear down over his hips, stepped out of them and the trousers at the same time, and scooped her up.

  He perched her on the edge of the bed and parted her legs. His need was urgent but he had to taste her first. He peeled off the thong and stared at the moist pink heaven that would soon welcome him. He fell to his knees on the carpet, parted her outer lips with his thumbs and sucked her juices like a man who has wandered in the desert and finally stumbled upon the hidden oasis.

  Her sweet nub swelled beneath his tongue. He clamped his arms around her thighs as she writhed and moaned. She raked her fingers through his hair, called his name over and over, until she dug her nails into his forearms and keened out a long, slow release.

  She suddenly fell silent, and he worried she had passed out, or stopped breathing, or both, but then she spread her legs wider and in the sexiest, sultriest voice he’d ever heard said, “Come inside. Now.”

  He got to his feet and rushed to retrieve the condom from his blazer, wondering why the hell he hadn’t had the foresight to have it ready. The trembling in his hands made it difficult to tear open the packet. “I’m out of practice with these fucking things,” he yelled.

  She smiled like a woman who’s just had a great orgasm. “I’ll help while you take off your shirt and tie.”

  Anne had never understood Geoff’s insistence on condoms. Having children was something he always promised to discuss later. They had plenty of time.

  Except time had run out for him, and here she was smoothing a condom onto an engorged penis that could only be described as magnificent.

  Geoff took care of himself and she hoped Blaise hadn’t sensed it was the first time she’d ever attempted the task.

  She wasn’t too worried as he stood with legs braced, breathing heavily, watching her handiwork. He was lost in a testosterone laden world, humming an off-key version of Hungry Like the Wolf deep in his throat, and it hadn’t occurred to him he still wore his shirt and tie.

  Her inner muscles pulsed on the glow from the mind-boggling orgasm.

  When she declared the sheathing complete, he raked his hair off his face, stalked onto the bed on all fours, lifted her hips and settled himself between her legs.

  MADNESS

  Blaise paused for a fraction of a second, tempted to ask Anne if he might remove the condom, though he had to admit he’d never enjoyed being sheathed quite so much.

  He felt her heat, but she was in his blood and he wanted to touch her intimately without the latex between them.

  However, the expectancy in her glazed eyes indicated she couldn’t wait any longer either, so he tabled the discussion for another time, and thrust.

  She held her breath and whimpered. He supposed there must be some discomfort when a woman hadn’t had sex for three years, so he somehow found the wherewithal to hold still. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “As you said. Out of practice…but don’t stop.”

  Relieved, he withdrew until he was at her opening then thrust again, more slowly, deeply. She put her hands on his chest and clenched her inner muscles on him.

  He liked it so much he did it again, then she matched him stroke for stroke as madness took over. He plundered and took, suckled and kissed, babbling like a maniac until she screamed out his name when she climaxed again. He pumped and pumped, draining the last drop of seed from his body. Unlikely and absurd as it was, he half-hoped the condom had failed and they’d made a child.

  Exhausted but supremely happy, he collapsed on top of her, his head full of images of healthy toddlers with curly blonde hair.

  It was a few minutes before he realized he was drooling on her neck. He raised himself up on his forearms. “Sorry. Too heavy.”

  She looked sleepily content. “I didn’t mind your weight.”

  “You’re still clenching on me,” he said.

  She smiled. “It’s involuntary. You got me all excited.”

  His sated cock slid from her body and curled up in the warm nest it had made for itself. “That was the idea.”

  Anne stretched her arms above her head, wishing they hadn’t had to use a condom. She shivered when Blaise lifted off her and lay on his side, one arm bent to support his head. He put his arm around her and drew her back into his warmth. She nuzzled her nose in the soft dusting of
dark hair on his broad chest.

  She wanted to tell him it was the most exhilarating sexual experience she’d ever had, but his satisfied grin indicated she might have screamed words to that effect at the height of her euphoria.

  She listened to his breathing, to the steady thud of his heartbeat and knew she was in trouble. Now she’d found this man, how could she risk losing him? The future never held any guarantees but her body and her heart told her Blaise was the right partner for her.

  She wasn’t sure how long they lay together when he checked his watch. “Much as I hate to kiss and run, the last train to Virginia Water leaves Waterloo at ten to eleven.”

  His yawn told her he’d prefer to spend the night. But that wasn’t possible. “How long does it take?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Half an hour to forty minutes. My car is parked at the station and it’s another ten minute drive home.”

  She made a show of checking the bedside clock. “So if you leave now you’ll have plenty of time to make it to Waterloo Station.”

  He removed his arm and sat up with his back to her, his arms around his bent knees. She’d disappointed him and wanted to make amends. “I have to get up early in the morning,” she explained.

  Her heart lurched at the confusion in his eyes when he turned to look at her. “Why?”

  “I’m taking the 8 o’clock train to Wolverhampton.”

  He smirked. “Why would you want to go…”

  The moment the reason dawned on him, she toyed with abandoning any further digging into the past.

  “I thought you said you’d verified everything and were ready to sign off on the research.”

  Avoiding his angry gaze, she slid off the bed and retrieved her robe from the back of the bathroom door. “No,” she replied, swallowing the lump in her throat, “I said you were definitely descended from Sir Gaetan.”

  He got to his feet as she tied the belt of her robe, then his face reddened when he glanced at the condom. “Just a minute,” he growled, disappearing into the bathroom, boxers in hand.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, her heart in knots, listening to the sound of running water. Professional ethics were pushing her to track down Gaetan de Wolfe’s parentage, but integrity wouldn’t warm her bed, wouldn’t lift her to the heights of bliss.

  She stood when he emerged from the bathroom several minutes later. “Please don’t be angry.”

  He retrieved his trousers and pulled them on over his boxers. “You couldn’t tell me this before we slept together?” he hissed.

  He grabbed his shirt and tie when she handed them to him and pulled away when she tried to help him button the shirt. “I don’t understand why you’re so angry. Does it really matter if your application is rejected?”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, then sat on the edge of the bed to slip on his loafers. “You obviously don’t get it,” he spat.

  He picked up his blazer and headed for the stairs. She heard the door slam as he left the house.

  He was right. She didn’t get it and her confusion only added to her heartbreak.

  Blaise wedged himself into a second class seat on the commuter train to Virginia Water, gripped the arms and took a deep breath. Getting from Pimlico to Waterloo had taken a half hour of walking and changing stations twice on the Tube. There’d been no time to think, to analyze what had happened.

  One minute he’d been buried deep in a moist sheath, his happy cock held in the warm pulsating grip of a woman he was falling in love with. Next minute she’d betrayed him. Did she not realize what was riding on his acceptance into the Sons of the Conquest?

  The train pulled out of the station and the steady clickety-clack of steel on steel gradually helped slow his frantic heartbeat and dull the ache at his temples. As they picked up speed, outlines of buildings loomed from the darkness then were gone. Blurred street lights flashed by, level crossing sirens wailed, moonlight shimmered on waterways.

  He dozed off, but reality suddenly hit home and he was wide awake. He pinched the bridge of his nose. How could she know when he’d never told her? She probably thought he wanted to join for the prestige.

  As if!

  And still she’d wanted to sleep with him!

  Once more he had let his emotions get the better of him. Now he would have to explain to her why it was vitally important his application be accepted.

  If she ever agreed to see him again.

  EXPLOSIVE INFORMATION

  Anne was up and dressed well before the alarm went off at five the next morning. While filling the dishwasher after the ill-fated dinner before going to bed she’d come to the unwelcome conclusion that acceptance into the Sons of the Conquest was more than a passing fancy for Blaise. For some reason it was vitally important to him, and he wanted it desperately enough to sleep with the researcher he thought could make it happen.

  Trying unsuccessfully to fathom his motives had kept her awake most of the night, but of one thing she was certain. She’d been a fool to think a man like him would be interested in a woman with so much emotional baggage.

  She’d already booked and paid for the train ticket on line, but what was the point now of going all the way to Wolverhampton? A long list of less complicated projects awaited her attention. She could make up some excuse to cancel the appointment she’d made at the Archives. Blaise would most likely turn the project over to some other, less ethical genealogist in order to get what he wanted.

  But, damn it, she didn’t have it in her to leave something important unfinished, and then there was the nagging inkling that there was more to Gaetan de Wolfe’s story. She’d learned over the years that when it came to breaking down brick walls in family tree research, you often had to trust your hunches.

  She resolved to go to Wolverhampton and see the commission through to completion, whatever the end result. If Blaise chose not to accept her findings and refused to pay the fee, so be it. She’d learned her lesson. Evidently, he wasn’t her knight in shining armor. The probability stung like a slap in the face.

  After a quick breakfast of some tasteless cereal at the counter, she gathered the materials she needed, stretching an elastic band around a handful of sharpened pencils. Pens weren’t allowed in most county record offices and she doubted the Wolverhampton Archives would be any different. She hefted the computer bag over her shoulder, left the house and hailed a cab.

  “Euston Station, please,” she told the cabbie after climbing in the back.

  “Righto, miss!”

  The express train left on time, and less than two hours later, she glanced up at the clock as she exited Wolverhampton Station. If asked, she could describe the intricate designs made by raindrops across the carriage window, but had no idea of the cities and towns she’d traveled through.

  According to Google Maps, the Archives were only a short cab ride away on Whitmore Hill and she’d be there in good time for her appointment at ten o’clock. She’d explained her area of interest to the archivist in a telephone call and hoped pertinent documents had been found for her to peruse.

  She presented her identification to a grey-haired docent of indeterminate age. Sylvia gushed an enthusiastic Black Country greeting. “Alrite, Bab? You’ve had a journey.”

  She smiled in reply, appreciative of the warm welcome.

  Sylvia issued her a pair of nitrile gloves and led the way to a research cubicle. Clearly the woman had looked forward to her arrival. It boded well.

  “If people don’t find what they’re looking for here,” Sylvia explained, “they go to Stafford. It’s only fifteen minutes by rail and the trains run frequently.”

  That made sense, since Wolverhampton was formerly in the county of Staffordshire before the counties were reorganized in 1975. “Thank you. I appreciate that, but I didn’t make an appointment there.”

  She hadn’t planned on having to go to Stafford, but if that’s what it took…

  The guide leaned over conspiratorially. “I don’t think you’ll
be going to Stafford.”

  It seemed the woman had found something she thought would be of interest. Her hands suddenly felt too hot in the nitrile gloves. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said, eyeing the documents spread out on the display table with a sense of anticipation only another researcher would comprehend.

  Sylvia lay a loving gloved hand on one of the scrolled parchments. “I might suggest starting here. Can you read Latin, or do you need me to assist?”

  She cringed. “I was afraid of that. I have A-Level Latin, and I’ve done similar research, but I’m out of practice.”

  The blue eyes lit up. “Well, then,” she said, “this is an account of the battle of Wellesbourne written by Antillius Decimus Rubrum.”

  Anne wheeled a chair up to the table. “And he was?”

  “A Briton descended from members of an ancient Roman legion. His people still spoke Latin at the time of the Norman Conquest.”

  “Gosh, and I thought I knew all there was to know about eleventh century Britain.”

  Sylvia preened. “Antillius helped the Normans in their struggle to subdue the Mercians.”

  “But I understood Gaetan de Wolfe married a Mercian princess after he became Earl of Wolverhampton.”

  Sylvia carefully unrolled part of the parchment. “He did. Her name was Ghislaine. She was the sister of Edwin of Mercia.” She pointed to a line of script that looked like hieroglyphics. “It’s all here. Gislayn uxor Gaetanis, with the date, but that’s hard to make out exactly.”

  Anne peered at the ancient writing Sylvia pointed out. “I see.”

  “Antillius was very thorough. It was a Roman trait you know. He’s even given the details of Gaetan’s parentage.”

  Anne’s heart lurched. Here was the point of no return. The woman in love warred with the professional researcher, all the while knowing in her heart which would inevitably win. She pulled her chair closer, peering at the indecipherable script.

  Sylvia glowed. “Look. Here. Gaetan filius bastardus Daciae mulier nobilis ab Vasconia et militis Normanorum.”