Wolf in Waiting

by Rebecca Flanders

  I said breathlessly, “I think you mean it!”

  The blaze of his emerald eyes was my answer, the heat of his fingers on my skin. And for a moment—just a moment, mind you—I was swept away by the possibilities, the fantasies he could make come true because, to him, they weren’t fantasies at all. Sunshine on exotic shores, expensive meals, luxurious accommodations, swimming pools with bars—he did say bars, didn’t he—in them. And me, with him. He had asked me. Not some nubile young thing of his own status and background, not some sleek and gorgeous female who might one day become the chatelaine of Castle St. Clare, but me. He might already be regretting the impulsiveness of the invitation but he couldn’t deny making it and how could I refuse?

  I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth, tempered as they were with a light laugh. “I don’t think so, Noel. But thank you, anyway, for asking me.”

  He insisted, undeterred, “Whyever not?”

  Oh, he was not making this easy. I turned away, reclaiming my glass of wine. “Well, for one thing, what would people say?”

  He started to make some brusque, impatient noises of dismissal but I caught his eye deliberately. “For another,” I said gently, “we have responsibilities.”

  I felt like the evil auntie in the movies who tells the child there is no Santa Claus. Although I should not in any way wish to compare Noel to a child, it was painful to watch the enthusiasm go out of his eyes, and in another blink, the sardonic smile return.

  He said, “I think, Victoria St. Clare, that you could use a few lessons in giving in to the impulse of the moment.”

  I knew he was right about that.

  “I also think that I could probably use some instruction in the art of responsibility,” he added with a lightness that was forced, underscored by an edge of weariness that broke my heart to hear. “Which I believe brings us back to the conversation we just left, and that must be my cue to depart.”

  He went to the chair on which he had left his coat, while I desperately tried to think of some way to entice him to stay…or to at least bring back the twinkle in his eyes. He picked up his coat and glanced out the snowy window with something like a grimace. While we had talked, the gray afternoon had faded into night, and it looked colder and emptier than before. I was glad to be inside.

  He looked around my apartment, a brief sweep of his eyes that seemed to take in more than simply what he saw. “You have a pleasant life here, Victoria,” he said, “with your funny human friend and your lazy Sunday afternoons.” The note of wistfulness in his voice surprised me.

  “It’s not Fiji,” I said, trying for a smile.

  “True. But it looks pretty good to me right now.” He started to pull on his coat.

  “Noel.” I took a step toward him, just a little hesitant. “I can’t offer you a swim-through bar…but I do have a bathtub that’s big enough for two.”

  Perhaps this shocks you. A human probably would not invite her boss to share a bath upon the occasion of his second, perfectly informal visit to her apartment. This is simply another cultural difference.

  Our attitude toward nudity is, of necessity, far more casual than yours, and the sharing of a bath is something two werewolves might do with as little thought as two humans sharing a swimming pool or a hot tub. Certainly there was nothing sexual in my invitation, nor anything implicit in his acceptance—or rejection—of it.

  Still, I didn’t want him to think I was imposing upon our familiarity or forcing my company upon him. So I held my breath for a second or two while he appeared to think it over.

  “Bubble bath?” he inquired quite seriously.

  I nodded.

  “And is there any more of that very excellent Montrachet?”

  I relaxed. “Another whole bottle. And Godiva chocolates in the fridge.”

  He let his coat drop. “My dear,” he said, “I am yours.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Noel

  To say I was surprised by Victoria’s invitation would not have done my emotions justice. Surprised, delighted, eager…surprised. And to think, only moments earlier I had accused her of a lack of spontaneity. If there was one thing for which Victoria St. Clare had demonstrated an amazing aptitude it was keeping me off-balance.

  That’s not an altogether undesirable trait in a female.

  There are some among us who have an aversion to water; it renders our tracking senses useless and distorts our sense of hearing and can be, when cold and salty or falling from the sky, aesthetically disagreeable. However, exquisite sensualists that we are, few of us can resist the allure of a warm bath or a steaming hot tub or a well-heated pool…especially when shared with a friend.

  She ran the bath while I found the wine and the chocolates. Following the sound of running water, I carried our refreshments through the darkened bedroom and into the bathroom. There I stopped, letting my eyes feast upon the sight, and I can’t say whether I was more taken by the visual enchantment of the steamy, candlelit room, or by the sight of Victoria’s naked form, bending from the waist as she sprinkled bath salts over the frothing jets of water that filled the wide, sunken cedar tub.

  She was more beautiful unclothed than I had imagined her to be. Her skin was porcelain smooth, her muscles sleek and firm. The delicate knobs and ridges of her spine beckoned to be caressed, her slim waist and the bold flare of her hips were fashioned by an artist’s hands. Her breasts were full and perfectly round, the nipples pink and rose-rimmed. They drew my gaze in tenderness and admiration as she half turned to me, giving me a smile over her shoulder.

  “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” she said, indicating the room.

  I brought the wine and the confections to the ledge of the tub and gave my attention for a moment—the briefest of moments, I assure you—to my surroundings.

  There were several fat, variously colored candles stacked at one edge of the rim of the tub, their fragrances mingling vanilla, raspberry and citrus with the herbal scent of the bubbling bath salts. In addition, there were two tall, painted iron sconces situated in opposite corners of the room, each holding six more wide, low-burning candles. The effect was ethereal and delicately romantic, a flickering glow of misty yellow light that seemed to become one with the steam from the water and the scents that mingled in the room.

  After a moment, I realized that the ceiling above us was glass, and, using my night vision, I could see beyond the reflection of candle flames to the spatter of snow, some flakes clinging and others melting to form a lacework of light and dark over our heads. There was an enclosed shower and spa in the corners of the room, and I could smell the earth and greenery of tropical plants. But for the most part my attention was captured by the play of shadow and light on the walls and the ceiling and the curves of Victoria’s body.

  “It is impressive,” I agreed, sliding off my shoes and stripping my sweater over my head. “Do you know, Victoria, you aren’t a fraction as wealthy as I am, but there are certain elements of luxury to your life-style that, frankly, I’ve never even thought of, much less enjoyed.”

  She chuckled throatily. “They say you don’t need money if you have enough imagination.”

  I stepped out of my trousers and underwear. “Who says that?”

  She smiled and extended her hand to me. “Some silly human.”

  I took her hand, descending into the steamy bubbling water first, then helping her in. We steadied ourselves against each other on the slippery surface, thighs and abdomens brushing, then sank into the water, carefully arranging our limbs so as not to interfere with the other’s space.

  Ah, to describe the experience. Winter outside, dropping its musical little snowflakes against the glass over our heads. Steam and floating candlelight inside, liquid heat surrounding and enfolding us, seeping into every raw and aching muscle in my body. I sank back, closed my eyes and surrendered myself to the sensation completely.

  “Better,” I murmured. “Better than Fiji.”

  “Well, closer, anyway.” />
  She leaned forward and filled our glasses with wine, momentarily parting the froth of bubbles that covered her breasts and giving me an all-too-brief glimpse of their loveliness again.

  The tub was large and easily accommodated two people who were as tall as we. I stretched out my legs on either side of hers, she nestled her feet against my thighs. We lifted our glasses to each other. I was more content at that moment, more relaxed and free of care than I had been at any time since Sebastian St. Clare had first sent me on the fool’s errand to find his missing heir.

  I smiled at her for no reason at all except that she had given me this peaceful moment, and the wine, and the shape of her breasts outlined by bubbles. “So this is how you entertain yourself.”

  She laughed and reached for a piece of chocolate. “Hardly. My human friends wouldn’t understand.”

  Her gaze fell momentarily on the gold medallion I wore around my neck. It was etched with a shadowed moon, the emblem of the St. Clare Corporation, and all the senior werewolves wore them. She, of course, did not, which was only another subtle reminder of the difference in our status. I wished I had taken mine off, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

  “One of the disadvantages of human friends,” I observed.

  She lifted one smooth, glistening shoulder in a philosophical shrug, but it struck me, for the first time, perhaps, how lonely she must be. A bath was one thing, a simple pleasure shared between werewolves, but how many other things, simple and complex, was she unable to share with anyone? The peculiarly sharp and clear view of the world that only werewolves can know. The camaraderie of being with others of one’s own kind. The quick wit, the cultural heritage, the private jokes. The truth about her nature.

  “How odd…and wrong, I think, that a person should be judged by her ability to reproduce. You are so very much more than that.”

  “How good of you to notice,” she returned, teasing me.

  I leaned back in the water, resting my elbows on either side of the tub, and smiled as I sipped my wine. “I try to be observant.”

  Her small white teeth bit into the chocolate, then she flicked a sliver off her lower lip with her tongue. It was a gesture I found fascinating, even—oddly enough—erotic. She noticed me watching her and hesitated. “Will you have some?”

  I slipped my hands beneath the water and encircled her ankle, lifting her foot up out of the water to rest on my chest. I heard her sweet catch of breath, the quick light pattering of her pulse, and it thrilled me. Bubbles dripped from her leg and foot like meringue.

  She watched me, curious and alert, as she popped the remaining morsel of chocolate into her mouth. I tugged gently on her foot, lifting it higher, and she let herself slide deeper into the water. I leaned forward and licked the last few bubbles off her toes, spoiling the taste of my wine, then drew my tongue along her instep. She giggled and curled her toes, pulling away a little. I took her heel in my mouth, encircling it with my tongue. Her giggles turned into a murmur of pleasure.

  Smiling, I dragged the arch of her foot along my jaw, tickling her with the light stubble of my beard. I slid my hand over her leg, cupping ankle, calf, the slender, perfectly formed knee, as far as my arm would reach, and the tactile sensation was exquisite: satin and pearls, heat and suppleness. She closed her eyes with a sigh of pleasure and sipped from her wineglass. Her toes curved and caressed my face. I smiled.

  This was not sex play, though it might seem so to a human. Still, to go further would have presumed an intimacy which I was not quite sure we possessed, even though I would have very much liked to. So it was only polite to inquire, as I lowered her foot back into the water and rested my hand alongside her calf, “Do you mind?”

  She leaned forward to reach for another chocolate, the sparkle in her eyes playful and seductive. “Do you?”

  I put down my wine on the ledge and in a swift movement calculated to disarm, I grasped her thighs beneath the water and pulled her toward me. She gave the expected startled laugh and squeal of protest and I felt eighteen years old again; I laughed, too, as she settled her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. Her eyes were like diamonds, her skin like velvet. She had pinned her braid around her head in a deceptively innocent coronet, but humidity had curled a multitude of damp, escaping tendrils to frame her face. Her lips were parted with laughter and her breath was sweet with chocolate and wine. I loved having her near me.

  “My wine,” she protested, and gestured toward the glass she had left on the opposite ledge. “And you’ve got bubbles on my chocolate.”

  She lifted the morsel to show me and I said, “Chocolate isn’t good for you, anyway.” I wiped off the bubbles that clung to the surface of the bonbon with a soapy fingertip.

  “Isn’t it?”

  I lifted my wineglass to her lips. “So I’m told.”

  She sipped from my glass, pressing the confection against my lips. I opened my mouth and took the chocolate inside…and her fingers, licking them, smearing them with chocolate. When the outer layer of the rich dark chocolate was softened with the heat of my mouth, I took it out with my fingers and dipped it in the wine. I offered it to Victoria, and she licked off the wine with a sweeping circular motion of her tongue, bright eyes captivating me. I took the morsel from her lips, and drew it across her clavicle, down the fragile indentation of her sternum, and across the swell of her left breast. I drew the slick chocolate trail in a spiral around the aureole and the nipple, which became engorged with my touch. Then, flattening my hand to melt the chocolate, I elongated the trail across her chest and to the other breast, decorating it in chocolate.

  “You,” she murmured, her voice thick with delight, “are quite insane.”

  “Inventive,” I corrected, and fastened my mouth to the quick hot pulse of the artery in her neck, drawing a moan of contentment from her.

  I traced the path of chocolate on her skin, licking and sucking, teasing sometimes with quick flicking motions of my tongue or long slow circular ones. Salt and perfume and chocolate tantalized my taste buds, and underscoring all, the musky, evocative singular taste of Victoria. I could have inhaled it, drowned in it, lived on it and never hungered for more.

  I could hear the flow of her blood through her veins, the pumping of her heart, powerful and sure, its rhythm guiding my own. Her breath, whispering through her lungs, sometimes quick and shallow, sometimes long and deep. The pop of tiny bubbles all around us, the music of the snow tinkling on the glass ceiling above, a symphony on a stereo far away, the rush of traffic, a foghorn, wind across the river, the hiss of flame meeting candle wax, the beat of Victoria’s heart, faster now, her moan of pleasure as I licked the spiral of chocolate from her breast, teasing the nipple, suckling there.

  Her hands threaded through my hair and tightened on my scalp, indicating her pleasure. Fingertips moved down the column of my neck and spine, a sweet caress that brought a tingling to my skin and a slow, melting heat to my muscles. Ah, her touch. Her intoxicating touch.

  With our mouths and our fingertips we caressed each other, turning each other in the water, the sounds we made sometimes smothered laughter, sometimes groans of unabashed sensual pleasure. The candles guttered with the water we splashed, the sound of our intermingled breaths merging with the sound of falling snow and the murmur of the water jets, the hiss of melting wax, a sensory symphony, a feast for the ears.

  With my fingers I explored the secret crevices of her femininity and felt her shudders of delight, her sighs of contentment. It broke my heart to think no one had ever done this for her before. And when she turned to me, stroking the sensitive area between my thighs, taking my nipples between her teeth…ah, she was so sweet, so guileless. Ecstasy swelled within me.

  There is no secret to it, this playful dance of pleasure which we performed so effortlessly, so gracefully. The nipping, the stroking, the teasing, the caressing. Such an easy thing, a kind of innocent eroticism, if you will, that was nothing more than an expression of the natural af
fection for one another which is endemic to our species. I had enjoyed such play dozens of times, hundreds. Sometimes matters take their course and arousal leads to transformation which, for an unmated werewolf, is the pinnacle of a shared sensual experience. Most of the time, pleasure is simply that—delightful and entertaining, leaving both participants relaxed and renewed. It need be nothing more. With Victoria, I had certainly intended nothing more.

  But I hadn’t counted on the effect Victoria would have on me, on my mind, my body. I should emphasize that I am generally the epitome of discipline and self-control; for a male of my status it would be unacceptable to be otherwise. But the touch of her fingers, the caress of her lips, the steamy herb and floral scent of her that seemed to seep into my skin and ignite a fever in my blood…I didn’t expect it.

  Before I knew what was upon me, I clasped my hands around her arms, hard, pressing her into me. Wet naked flesh against hot flesh, softness yielding against hardness; my mouth covering hers and her tongue, boldly mating with mine, tasting her, drinking of her, drawing her inside and melting into her. My skin was tingling, stretching, my muscles hardening. Strength flowed into me, expanded inside me, power penetrated every fiber and cell.

  I stood in the tub, bringing her with me, water cascading from our entwined bodies in a single gossamer sheet. Her arms and legs were tight around me, our mouths locked together, our hearts but a single, rolling thunder-beat. Effortlessly I lifted her out of the tub, and the fire in my blood was so hot the water dried on my skin, dried her skin. I kissed her, I drank of her, I inhaled her. And she responded; I know she did. Her muscles, longer. Her breasts, harder. Her temperature rising, her breath an ocean in my ears, her scent sharpening, her nails digging into my back, piercing the skin.