Moonglow by Kristen Callihan
She made a little sound that had his fingers digging into his thighs for control, and then she moved, parting, revealing herself to him.
“Ah God.” His hands shook as he put them on her thighs. Framed by the slit in her combinations and a nest of honey-gold curls, pink lips, as pouty and plump as her mouth, glistened in the dim light. “I could eat ye alive, mo gradh.”
And then he did. Spreading her legs wider still, he kissed those lips, his tongue laving through her slickness.
“Ian!” Her back lifted off the squabs, mewling sounds breaking from her as she undulated against his questing mouth. She was honey and salt and so succulent the animal in him wanted to sink his teeth into her.
He gripped the soft abundance of her arse and hauled her closer. The way her hips gently rocked in time with his kisses drove him on, and he devoured her. His mind went dark, his flesh turning to liquid fire, and his heart threatened to pound right out of his chest. She was going to kill him.
Chapter Twenty-nine
He was going to kill her. Surely one could die from pleasure.
Daisy bit her lip to keep from screaming out. Slick and hot, his tongue lapped at her, each long lick sending heat coursing down her thighs.
Sagging against the seats she blinked up at the carriage roof, her breath coming in shallow bursts. Her damp palms clutched at the mass of her skirts for fear that they would slip and hinder his efforts. Dear God, nothing ever felt so good, so sinfully good as this. Sensation overwhelmed her, drawing her focus to the wet sounds of him kissing, sucking, to the air caressing her nipples still wet and throbbing from his earlier assault, and his tongue—his clever, devious tongue.
Her hand fluttered down to weakly cup the silky back of his head and keep him close. A whimper left her as he did something particularly decadent with his mouth, and she pushed herself into the kiss. He rewarded her by doing it again, a slow swirling glide that had her writhing. A growl rumbled low in his throat. His big hands clutched her bottom, holding her still.
She was utterly open to him, her thighs trembling and her sex pulsing. “Ian.” It was a plea.
He made a noise as if he were as helpless as she, but he did not stop, his mouth moving over her in a maddeningly steady rhythm, surely designed to torment.
In a haze, she saw his hand go to the fall of his trousers, his arm jerking as he worked to open the buttons and free his cock. Cock. She remembered when she’d learned that word. It was the same day she’d learned what it could do, how it made her feel, the heat and fullness of it inside of her. Before her marriage, she’d loved men, loved their bodies, their taste. A lump rose in her throat. She’d nearly forgotten.
Her gaze drifted down to the dark head between her legs, the sight of it making her insides clench. This man, this man above all others, drove her to distraction. She wanted Ian’s cock now, driving into her, taking claim. Heat rippled up her torso, and her pleasure spiraled toward a precipice.
“Ian…”
He tilted his head, the strands of his thick hair spreading over her thigh in an auburn fan. He blinked up at her, slow and languid, as if he hadn’t a care. But the devil lurked behind his innocent expression, sly and ready to tease. “Yes, sweet?”
Perspiration trickled between her breasts and down the small of her back. She licked her lips, forcing the words past her labored breaths. “I want…” She couldn’t say it. Her cheeks burned as she looked at him in supplication.
His breath stirred her wet curls, making her twitch. “What do you want?”
Oh, the horrid bastard. She tried to nudge closer, but he held her back.
“You.” She gasped as he planted another soft, searching kiss on her sex. “You. Now… God!”
Beneath the shadow of his lashes, his eyes were a blue flame, wicked and wild as they pinned her. “What is it that you want me to do?”
A shiver wracked her. He wanted the words. The look in his eyes told her he knew that deep down she yearned to say them, that the very idea of saying them made her burn hotter. Anticipation gathered in her limbs and made her heart pound as she thought of the words, the most sinful way to ask.
An evil smile curled Ian’s mouth. “Well?” His tongue snaked out to flick over her swollen flesh, and she arched off the seat.
“Please…”
Slowly, he kissed his way up her torso. His lips closed over her nipple, giving it a light suck, and she moaned. “Please, what?” he whispered around the trembling tip.
His hips moved between hers, and she felt him there, the crown of his cock pressing against her entrance. He did not move, but fisted the sides of her skirts as his forehead rested on hers.
His lips hovered over hers, his breath an unsteady pant. “Tell me.”
The carriage lurched, rocking as it turned up an incline, and Ian’s cock nudged against her opening. He grunted, his throat working on a swallow, but he held steady. Waiting. She closed her eyes for a brief moment. She could feel his power, the restraint that had the muscles of his shoulders shaking. When she opened her eyes, their gazes collided.
With a flush of white-hot heat, she said the words that gave her power and set her free. “Fuck me.”
His groan filled her mouth, mingled with her gasp as he plunged home, a smooth, gliding thrust that seated him to the hilt just as the carriage lurched to a halt. The penetration, the intimacy of it, nearly undid her right there, but the unmistakable sound of the coachman jumping from his seat made her freeze. A muffled curse left Ian as he too went utterly still.
Barely able to breathe or to think past the sensation of being filled with him, Daisy blinked up at Ian in horror. Ian stared back, his expression a virulent mix of pained impatience and growing wrath. Footsteps sounded just outside the coach door.
“My lord?”
“Leave off, George,” Ian shouted in a strangled voice. A bead of sweat trickled from his temple down to his twitching jawline.
He glanced at her and moved his hips a fraction, a slight pull that sent a delicious ripple through her core. Murmuring a sound of impatience, he grazed his lips over hers, intent on exploring, but the coachman’s strained voice ruptured the thick silence.
“But my lord…”
“I said leave off!” Ian’s plea broke on a groan, his head falling against her neck as he struggled not to move. “Christ, I’m going to kill him.”
“It’s Lady Archer,” said a frantic George. Daisy’s heart seized. “My lord, she is out of her carriage and headed this way.”
“Oh God!” Daisy shot upward, her nose colliding with Ian’s chin as she shoved at his chest hard. “Get off. Oh do!”
Dislodged, Ian fell back with a curse as Daisy scrambled to get her skirts down. Her bodice lay gaping, her breast swaying in humiliating fashion. Miranda was here! Her sharp voice was just outside the door as she argued with George to let her pass.
“Damned meddling woman,” Ian muttered as he tucked himself into his trousers. He moved to help Daisy but she smacked at his hands. He batted hers back. “I’m faster.”
Wasting precious seconds, they slapped at each other’s hands in a battle to re-dress her bodice until Daisy threw her hands up in the air. “Forget it. There’s no time to re-lace the corset, and the bodice won’t close without it. What are you doing?” she hissed as he began to pull off his coat. “Put that back on.” A knock rapped on the door, and she jumped within her skin. “Bloody hell!”
“Daisy? Are you in there?”
Ian’s smile was quick and tight as he kissed the tip of Daisy’s nose and then swung his coat around her shoulders. “Chin up,” he said as she struggled to put her arms through the long sleeves. He tucked a curl behind her ear. “And look the devil in the eye when she has a go at you.”
Miranda’s eyes widened as Daisy stumbled out of the coach, now parked in Ian’s drive. Daisy took Ian’s advice and met Miranda’s reproachful look with a lift of her chin, though she could not quite pull off the pose with the dignity she wanted as her hair was tumb
She clutched the edges of Ian’s coat tighter together. “Not a word,” she said when Miranda made to speak. “Not a single admonishment, Panda. Or I’ll march right by and finish what I started in the privacy of Northrup’s home.”
The strangled sound of a masculine laugh came from behind her as Miranda’s brow lifted. Ian, finishing the act of buttoning up, leaped down from the conveyance and gave her sister a courtly bow. “Lady Archer, a pleasure as always.”
Miranda’s mouth pursed. “I doubt it very much in this instance, Lord Northrup.” Her green eyes cut to Daisy, wonder and wariness warring within their depths, but she took a deep breath and her expression fell to grief. “Oh, Daisy.”
In an instant, Daisy pulled her into a hard embrace, heedless of her disheveled state. “What is it, pet?”
Miranda’s arms held her just as tightly. “Winston,” Miranda said against Daisy’s hair. “He’s been attacked by the werewolf.”
Beside them, Ian snapped to attention. “Where? When?”
Miranda straightened. “I don’t know. He’s alive but just barely. Archer is with him.” She turned back to Daisy, and her eyes glistened. For a moment, she looked like the little girl who used to follow Daisy and Poppy round the house, wanting to play. Their little sister, who was as annoying as she was dear. “Daisy, I’m so afraid for Poppy. If she loses Winston…”
Daisy’s insides clenched. Winston Lane meant everything to Poppy.
Chapter Thirty
Truth, it seemed, hurt. And Winston hurt. All over he hurt. A screaming, fiery pain that ate at the left side of his face and ripped into his arm and chest.
Winston tried to breathe and gurgled on his own blood instead, a salty, metallic sludge that made him gag.
“Easy, darling. Easy.” A cool hand touched his.
He fought a sob. Poppy. Her voice. Her touch. So familiar to him, it was like coming home. Home. Perhaps he was. The air was warm here, no longer cold and dank, the surface beneath him soft, not the uneven hardness of that dark lane where…
His hand lashed out, remembering the thing that attacked, the razor-sharp claws that tore into him.
A hand grabbed him, strong and steady. “Do not move. This is hard enough work as it is.”
Who was it? His mind raced for the answer. Dark voice. Deep. A liar. Something tugged at his face, pulling at his cheek. He stiffened.
“Win,” Poppy again. “Be still and let Archer sew you up.”
Archer. That bastard. Fire burned over his skin and down his throat. They were all lying bastards.
“Sher—Sheridan?” He had to know.
“Knocked out cold,” came Archer’s detached voice. “Beyond having a bump on his head, he’ll live.”
Winston shifted, wanting to get away from the voice that seemed to haunt him with some unwelcome memory.
“Christ, there he goes again. Poppy, if you would.”
Poppy’s hands came down on his shoulders. “Win. Easy. Please.”
He calmed because she asked him to and lay quiet as the pinch-pull at his face continued.
Water tinkled in a basin. And then came the cool feel of it along his neck and chest.
“Oh, Win.” Poppy’s voice, so soft. “Win, we’ll see you well. We will.”
He tried to focus. Slowly, the hazy outline of a head formed, a fiery nimbus of scarlet hair. Her severe brows were drawn tight. Poppy. His Hellenistic beauty, so strong and clean. His Boadicea, for he had thought of the goddess the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, fearing he’d never have a chance to win the fierce beauty who kept the world at bay with a glare.
Poppy. His wife, his one true partner. She’d never lied to him. Not her.
She leaned in close, her expression tender, though nothing could fully gentle the strength of her features. “Rest easy, Win,” she said. “It is almost over.”
Save it was just the beginning. The anchor of that knowledge fell upon his chest, dragging him down. His gaze came to rest on the glint of the gold chain she wore about her neck, the pendant well-hidden, as always, beneath her collar. But he knew its contours so well he could draw it in minute detail from memory.
That pendant, the tiny bit of gold fashioned into a goddess whose winged arms lifted up to form an arc like those of a phoenix rising. How many times had he seen it? Hell, he’d taken it between his teeth when Poppy rode him, her lithe body rising and falling above him, pert breasts bouncing in maddening rhythm. God, it made him crazed with lust when they made love in that manner.
He stared at the chain now, his hand curling tighter over the object he’d kept clutching since he’d torn it off his savior’s cloak. Metal bit into his skin, a taunt. His eyes lifted to his wife’s, and he saw her confusion and hesitation. Slowly he let his grip relax, and the little charm clattered to the floor at his side.
Poppy’s eyes went to it and then flew to his. For it was the same charm. How well he remembered the first time she’d let him see it, during the first time they’d made love. How she quoted the poet Apuleius: I am nature, the universal Mother, mistress of all the elements, primordial child of time, sovereign of all things spiritual, queen of the dead, queen of the ocean, queen also of the immortals…
Winston had never questioned why Poppy wore the charm. He figured it a fancy born from her love of books and myth. Now, as he held her gaze and saw her tremble, he could only look away. He closed his eyes to her, for he’d seen in her what he inevitably saw in everyone: a liar.
Ian was not surprised when Archer joined him on the steps leading to the garden terrace where he’d gone to wait, not wanting to interfere with Daisy and her sisters’ shared grief. Ian wanted to leave Archer House altogether. Hell, he wanted to haul Daisy back in his coach and finish what they’d started.
If he weren’t a randy bastard, he’d have admitted to being worried about the inspector. In truth, he rather liked Lane. Or at the least, respected him.
Ian stood and snubbed out the cheroot he’d been idly smoking in an effort to distract himself.
“I’ve a theory that smoking bodes ill for one’s health,” Archer said.
Ian gave a short laugh. “Seeing as I’ll live forever, I will forgo that worry.”
The man beside him chuckled in turn. “An excellent point.”
“And anyway, you are the one who looks like hell.”
Worry flickered in Archer’s eyes, and Ian’s hackles rose, but the look disappeared. Archer’s mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “It’s been a long night.”
“Tell me about Lane.” Ian might have assisted, but Archer had the matter well in hand by the time he and Daisy had arrived. Quite frankly, Ian doubted his wolf could cope with the overwhelming scent of blood and mad werewolf mixed together without turning Ian into a snarling beast.
Archer let out a tired sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Extensive damage to the left side of the face, left arm, and anterior torso. Four particularly nasty incisions across the face, one that nearly bisected the masseter.”
The masseter muscle being necessary if a man wanted to chew. “Christ.”
“I got it all sewn.” Tired lines bracketed Archer’s mouth. “Thank Christ he was out then, or it would have been a mess.” Archer took the cheroot Ian offered him with little more than a quirk of his lips.
When it was lit and blue smoke perfumed the night, he continued. “Must have put over a hundred stitches in the poor bastard. If he survives the shock and possible infection, he’ll be significantly scarred.”
They hung their heads for a moment, and Ian felt the tips of his claws threatening to break free. He wanted to tear into the beast that did this. Unbidden, he thought of Daisy and went cold.
“How did you find him?” Ian asked.
Archer finally turned his eyes to Ian. His expression grew tight and weary. “That’s the strangest bit of all. He found us. Gilroy answered a knock at the door, and there he was, unconscious and a
Ian frowned, looking off into the garden. Who would have brought the inspector here? More importantly, how did he survive? Ian knew enough about his kind to understand that a full-on attack would only end when the victim’s throat was torn out.
Tense silence filled the space between them. Was it ever going to fade? Did he want it to? Ian had been so angry with his old friend for so long that there were times he couldn’t remember how or why it had started. And then all Archer had to do was come near him, and Ian wanted to rip him apart, rage and the feeling of betrayal threatening to consume him.
Standing beside the man now, Ian experienced an odd discomfort. Though it filled his mouth with bitterness, he knew the feeling to be remorse. Point of fact, he missed his friend. Disgusted in himself, he kicked at a loose pebble on the edge of the stairs.
Archer’s voice broke through the quiet. “As to Daisy”—he dropped his cheroot and stamped it out—“she may want to stay—”
“She stays with me.”
Archer’s gray eyes widened as he looked back at Ian. “You’re falling for her.”
Ian’s back teeth met. “You think it impossible?”
“Not impossible, nor surprising. Simply inadvisable.”
Ian’s temper flared, tightening his gut and making his wolf rise. “I believe I said the same to you a while back.” And damn if his meddling wasn’t coming back to bite him in the arse. “It did not appear to change your course of action.”
The man refused to be cowed. “She’s mortal.”
Two simple words. And more than enough to lash him. Ian cursed and turned away. His fist curled with the urge to strike. Ice filled his veins. Christ. Unwelcome memories filled his mind like sticky pitch. Each beat of his heart hurt as he closed his eyes, trying to block the flood of images, but they came regardless. Una’s once smooth face lined with winkles, her once bright eyes dull when she looked upon him. Do not touch me, Ian. I cannot look at you without thinking of what I once was. Please leave me. I cannot stand the sight of you.