ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories)

by Hawke, Jessa

  Sighing, she closed her dressing gown over the provocative ensemble that she had added to her chest just before leaving Dudley Manor. Her clever fingers had worked the lace into an over-dress for the white silk corset, made without whalebone so that it hugged, rather than constrained her curves. Her low-sloping, full breasts were held up by delicate triangles of fabric, the thin straps contrasting beautifully with her collarbone and shoulders. When Henry entered, Anabelle was perched on the edge of the bed like a nymph, a mix of sensuality and innocence that caught at him, somewhere in his nether regions, but also with a pang to the chest.

  It was unreal, much like a dream often is. Everything rolled together when he saw her, the image of the girl he kissed in the hay and the beautiful woman she had become. His Grand Tour had offered him multiple opportunities in which to indulge himself with female favors, but never once had Henry found himself actually nervous. He moved to her side on the bed, heart thumping in his chest like it was he who was the virgin, not she.

  “I'm scared, Henry,” she whispered softly, unable to look him in the eyes.

  He reached out for her small hand, clasped it in his. “You never have anything to fear from me, Anabelle,” he told her, and when she looked up at him, he leaned in and lightly feathered a kiss on her lips.

  She sank into it. It was not that there was no hunger in that kiss. It was simply that it was a kiss of a different sort. In that kiss, in that melding of soft mouths together, Anabelle gave her consent, she poured her trust into the boy who was once her childhood friend and would now become her lover. She reached up her hands and cupped his face in them, that dear, sweet face.

  It lengthened as slowly, Henry parted Anabelle's lips with his tongue. She received him bit by bit, sucking it into her mouth and rolling it like candy. He moaned lightly and drew her body towards him. One of the sleeves of the dressing gown fell off her shoulder, exposing bare skin offset by silk. Looking down, Henry betrayed his face to Anabelle, and the look on it as his eyes took in one half of her corset-clad body thrilled her, allowed her to feel the power of her womanhood; she had never imagined a man could look at her that way, much less a man who impressed her in so many ways. Lifting his chin with her finger so that he was looking her right in the eyes, Anabelle untied her dressing gown, stood, and let it pool to the floor.

  In sight of her, Henry had forgotten how to breathe. Curves, generous curves, everywhere, with skin as smooth as the silk on her corset. Willing himself to slow down and not throw her on the bed and ravage her there and then, he raised a hand to one of her beautifully rounded hips and drew her closer to him. One last look up at Anabelle's expectant face and he buried his head between the mounds of her silk-covered breasts, breathing in the heady scent there.

  Anabelle's breath hitched. There was something so primal about his touch that it was all she could do not to lose her self-control as she clasped his head closer to her chest. She heard the smack of a little kiss and his hands traveled up her calves, the backs of her thighs, and finally, pleasingly along her backside, which Henry kneaded in his palms. She knew that he could feel her heartbeat accelerate, and the thought of it appealed to her. His hands did not stop their exploration there; nimbly his fingers climbed up the smooth skin of her back and climbed up into her hair.

  The pressure of his fingers was rapturous; he buried his hands in her head, massaging her scalp until Anabelle found herself weak in the knees. Was it possible that something could feel so good? she wondered. She leaned her head back into his fingers, and the image of their stance in her mind electrified her; she let loose the softest of groans, and finally, Henry looked up. There was a wicked glint in his eyes, had Anabelle had hers open to see it; instead, she felt his hands curl over her shoulders and deftly slide the thin straps of her undergarment off her shoulders, pulling them down to her waist until all her creamy soft curves were bared to the room.

  He drew a sharp breath and she looked at him. Grabbing a hold of her right thigh, he pulled her forward so that her knee was on his left side, upsetting her balance and causing her to have to rest more of her weight on him. He pressed his hand into the small of her back, arching her so that her breasts thrust more prominently into his face. As he stroked a hand down each of her beautiful globes, he willed himself not to lose his composure, to savor this moment with her. Her head did a slow rotation on her neck at the sensation of his hand on her, drawing circles around each of her breasts until she gasped aloud and squirmed, willing him to touch the center jewels with her entire body, yet not with her words.

  One hand on his shoulder and Anabelle was bent over his head. Henry slid his hand lower and lower on her abdomen until his fingers skirted the edge of the tantalizing little girdle to which her stockings were attached. One long digit skimmed the top of her stockings, brushing against the silky skin inside, and Anabelle whimpered. Spurred on by the sound, Henry touched her higher and higher until he had laid his hand flush against her most secret skin, feeling the soft promise of her through the fabric of her undergarment. Anabelle drew in a ragged gasp.

  In a fluid motion, Henry upended them both. Anabelle barely had time to blink before she was on her back and her bare breasts were laid out before Henry Princely like a feast. Moving her up until her back and head were cushioned against the lush pillows, Henry drank her in. Positioning himself above her, he dipped his head down for another kiss, this one hungrier, more full of purpose. Anabelle felt the blood rush to other, more sensitive areas of her anatomy, warmth and excitement pooling intoxicatingly between her legs. She had never felt this way before, never believed that this feeling could be possible. Still, there was an ache somewhere deep in her stomach that nagged at her. Surely, there was more?

  Stroking her cheek, Henry smiled. She was so tender and lovely, his young wife, and, what mattered most, she was allowing herself to be so completely vulnerable to him. And then Anabelle turned her head towards his hand and his opinion of her changed forever.

  Capturing his index finger with her bottom lip and teeth, Anabelle instinctively drew it into her mouth. Running her tongue up and down the digit, Anabelle began to suck, the pink pucker of her lush mouth riding up and down the digit, slowly at first, and then faster. Quite suddenly, she was a new person altogether, someone so utterly seductive and primal that Henry knew he could not contain the tightness pressing against his breeches for much longer. As she parted her lips to release her tongue and run it in circles around his fingertip, Henry caught a mischievous little glance that she threw up at him and knew that Anabelle was playing a game. Frankly, one that he enjoyed a great deal, but he could not help the competitive spirit that rose up in him. He would be damned if his wife would best him at so intimate a game.

  Removing the teased digit from her mouth, he bent to swiftly kiss her before she knew what was happening. Dropping his face down to hers, he peppered her cheeks and forehead with kisses, her eyelids closing against him, her heartbeat thrumming against her throat. As he reached her chin, the kisses slowed, and when he reached the curve of it where it joins the neck, they became altogether deliciously tardy. She smelled musky and excited, and the faint dew of her perspiration tasted wonderful against his lips. The small kisses lengthened and as a slight whimper rumbled in the back of her throat, Henry flicked his tongue against the sensitive skin and reached up to cup her breast in his hand.

  Anabelle moaned. She could feel him kiss all the way around her neck and reach up into the spot behind her ear, lazily drawing a circle with his tongue until she stopped worrying that the noises she was making were decidedly unladylike. Everything was just a wash of sensation; she was only vaguely aware of a dampness that was building between her legs. Catching the plumpness of her earlobe in his teeth, Henry gave it a gentle nibble, then bent his head below to kiss the breast in his hand.

  The smattering of kisses went around the entire fullness of each breast until Anabelle was aching. She squirmed, pointing the centers of her breasts up at him, ignoring the satisfied chuckl
e that rose out of him, wanting him only to touch the most aching parts of her, the rose-tipped heated centers that were begging for relief. It seemed endlessly long before Henry obliged, flicking his tongue against the puckered buds of her nipples once, then twice, watching her back arch and hearing proud Anabelle groan aloud. A glance above revealed a forehead puckered in concentration, and to relieve her, he gathered her nipple into his mouth and sucked.

  Sweet, hot relief filled her even as the ache inside of her worsened. Without knowing she did so, Anabelle wrapped her long legs around Henry's waist so that he had no choice but to flop his weight on her body. As he tried to get up, she clutched his head to her chest, willing him to continue licking her, whimpering and growling softly as he gathered the teased pucker of each of her nipples between his teeth.

  “Easy, sweetheart. You need to wait only a little bit longer,” he told her. At the widening of her eyes, he realized that the moment would soon be upon them, and the excitement in his chest traveled to all the reaches of his body. His erection was already stiff against Anabelle's leg; he was ready. She had not touched him overmuch, but enjoying the sweetness of her body had sufficed for this time. But not before one last game.

  Pulling gently on her wrists, Henry willed Anabelle to sit up; when he placed one of her hands on his excited member, he gritted his teeth before he gave the both of them a premature surprise. “Undo them, 'bell,” he told her, in reference to the breeches that stood as one of the only remaining barriers between them.

  Caught in a mixture of exhilaration and shyness, Anabelle did as she was told, knowing that the moment of final joining was on the brink of occurring. Once she was done, and Henry was at last freed from his final confines, Anabelle leaned back on the pillows and enjoyed her first view of her fully nude husband.

  He was beautiful, and the unexpected rush of possession that filled her was unexpected. He was hers, this man, he was! From the smattering of hair on his chest to his lean hips, to the legs that were roped heavy with muscles. He was hers, this possessor of a cock that stood straight up and was proudly ruddy-tipped, he was hers, this man who dropped down to his forearms to kiss her again, to unsnap the garters from her belt and to move her undergarments all the way down her legs. Henry Princely was hers—actually hers! --and he was kissing his way down her calves to the heated center of her above which he poised himself, eyes locked on hers as he nudged her with that part of his anatomy that God had intended for him to use. The quiet rumble of fear in her throat was dislodged by the look of love in his eyes, replaced instead by a mixture of trust and anticipation as carefully and slowly, Henry entered her, filling her up past the point where she thought she could be filled, breaking past the single moment of pain, and answering that deep unending ache inside of her that she had had from the first moment he had ever kissed her.

  They were joined; neither could believe it. Anabelle was stretched comfortably tight, and as Henry moved inside of her, she gasped aloud. She clutched him inside of her, terrified he was going to leave, and he chuckled again and told her to relax. She did, and he parried, thrusting up inside of her smoothly as a knife cuts into butter, teasing the inner mouth of her so deliciously that it was not long before she was bucking against him, searching for something, seeking a kind of release she did not know about yet, only sensed with the whole of her being. Grasping her hipbones in his hands, Henry slowed her, drawing out of her until he had almost left and then thrusting back in, higher and higher, faster and faster, until both of them were shuddering, both of them wet and gasping and aching.

  “Oh Henry,” she cried, her eyes huge, her brow damp with sweat. “Oh Henry, please.”

  And he held back no longer, increasing the tempo between them until he felt her soar, felt her body shudder around him and under him, heard her cry pierce the air and experienced release himself, falling against her with his name on her breath as she said it, again and again, incomprehensibly and lost to the world.

  * * *

  Marriage suited Anabelle happily. She could not make sense of it, since she had not seen a proper one growing up, but she supposed that running her own household for so many years had prepared her for this exact role.

  It had been a delicious month being married to Henry Princely, most delicious of all the nights. She had expected a terse marriage of convenience growing up, then had resigned herself to no marriage at all, but it seemed that she had gotten far more than she had ever bargained for. There was nobody who she laughed with as much as Henry, and nobody who she could have imagined enjoying her days—and nights—with more.

  He was tender. The way that he explored her body and encouraged her to explore his made her understand—he was in no rush because he truly expected to spend the rest of his life with her. The soaring heights he brought her to were beyond her wildest dreams, but it was also that he gave her the courage to explore his body. Anabelle was standing in the kitchen, preparing the menu for the week, when she was struck with the memories of the nights past, so hot and heavy that she almost doubled over at their force.

  The way Henry's chest looked, dappled by the shadows of the fire in his study, where they made love on the fire. To protect her from rug burn, and also, he joked, because his skin was much tougher than hers, he had lain on the ground before her. Anabelle smoothed out the paper in front of her and was struck by the fact that she had done the same motion over her handsome, nude husband just a few nights ago, running her palm gingerly over the lean muscles in his hips and stomach until he took her gently by the hand and pressed it firmly against him.

  “Any way you want to touch me works, sweetheart,” he told her, his eyes half-closed, his voice tight. “Don't be afraid to try anything. But for God's sake—” here he opened his eyes—“be gentle.”

  She chortled aloud, but looked at the man beneath her in wonderment. Dancing her fingers up the muscled belly to the wide expanse of his chest was delightful; he was built so differently than she was. As her fingers tangled a little in the dusting of hair on his chest, she wondered what he smelled like, tasted like there. She bent her head and buried it; he smelled of musk and man, and slightly sweet, like a freshly baked bun. It was utterly delectable, and, unable to resist, she kissed him there. Beneath her right hand, she could feel his heartbeat accelerate ever so slightly, and the knowledge that her inexperienced touch could excite him so was wonderful.

  She scattered kisses all over his chest, including the small nipples that puckered underneath her touch. Dragging her mouth over the smoother skin at the sides of his torso, she allowed herself to taste him there with her tongue and felt him suck in a sharp breath at the sensation. A glance upward revealed his face at complete and utter ease, eyes closed, enjoying what she did. Anabelle felt a rush of her own power, and disbelief that this beautiful man was actually hers. Wrapping her hands where they fit so neatly in the curves of his muscled upper arms, she planted a kiss at the smooth skin of his lips and felt his mouth open beneath hers.

  Anabelle moaned a little at the memory, thankful for the fact that she was alone in the kitchen with none of the servants around to hear her. Suddenly, she quite wished she had somebody to share this with, despite the fact that she knew that what she had was private between her and Henry. Relations between her and her sister had been mended somewhat after Anabelle's wedding, but there was a distance between them that she did not know how to broach. Her sister was still seen often in the company of Lord Haversham, and it appeared as if she was headed down that perilous path come hell or high water. When she revealed her worries to Henry, he asked her simply if she thought that her sister would actually risk tarnishing her reputation to such a degree that she would do something foolish with the rakish young man. Anabelle sincerely hoped not; after all, she had to have something right in raising her sister.

  Her thoughts drifted again to her hot nights with Henry; Lord, but what was he doing to her? She could not think straight every time that she walked into a room with him in it these days. She reca
lled that at his sharp intake of breath, she had allowed her hand to stray, almost innocently, to below his waist, where a certain part of him had fast firmed up and whose silken skin required her attention. It was a shock, still, to feel the hard press of that organ against her hand, particularly when it stood in such stark contrast to the softness of the sack beneath, and she shifted the weight of that sack in her palm, hearing Henry groan above her in appreciation.

  She allowed her hand to skim over from there to his shaft, enjoying the contrasting sensations, and was interested to discover that the head of his cock—oh how wonderfully she blushed at the word!— was silken too, and incredibly sensitive to the touch. As she wrapped her fingers around him, feeling the muscles there, too, a few drops of liquid appeared at the exit of the organ, dampening her fingers. She enjoyed the feel of it, and used it to spread moisture all around the head of his cock, which seemed to drive Henry quite wild. With her fingers dancing in a kind of massage, she continued to touch him there, amazed at how his breath seemed to escalate and change from a steady cadence to a chaotic one. Amazed still at how suddenly he wrested the sheet she held to her chest to free one plump, pink-tipped breast while murmuring for her to continue on. Doing her best to ignore the feeling of him playing with her there, stringing her own desire tight as a drum as she played with him, making a ring with her hand once, then stroking him, cock to balls, over and over until his breath hinged on a catch and a hot, creamy liquid came shooting out from him and onto her, wetting her hands, stomach, and breast with an incredibly large amount of Henry's juices.

  “Oh!” she cried, astonished at the amount that came from him and how positively wicked it made her feel to be marked thus. “Oh, well, that was quite a lot!”

  Still shuddering with the effects of his release, Henry opened an eye and laughed a shaky laugh. “Pineapples, my dear. And celery.”