A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing (11 page)

Trev raised up, almost panicked by his damnable
second thoughts. Raven stared up at him, a question in her eyes. Her expression nearly tore him apart. Already she allowed the slurs from that idiot ex-husband to creep into her mind…

She surprised Trev. Instead of giving into the damage the creep had done, Raven hooked one hand behind his neck and pulled herself up to him. Timidly she placed a kiss to his chest, used her right hand to push off that side of his shirt.

“Raven,” he began, struggling for the right words. “We’re strangers.”

She nodded. “For so long, I didn’t take risks. I was a prisoner of doubt. Yes, we are strangers, but I shall take my chances on you.” Reaching down, she dragged her hand along the inside of his thigh and then higher to his groin, flexing her fingers around his hard flesh. His metal zipper cut into his erection, which was aching to be free. “You, Mr. Wolf, want me. I want you. Let’s let tomorrow handle everything else.”

The small clock on the mantel chimed. Trev and Raven held still, breathless, while it rang twelve times. Midnight. A time of possibilities.

“The die is cast, lass. Remember I tried to be the gentleman.”

She leaned close and put her hot mouth on his right nipple, her tongue brushing the sensitive nub like a cat lapping cream. He wanted to laugh at her unexpected boldness, but that would require thought that had fled his brain when she put her lips on him. Even his bloody conscience was silent.

“Red, you really shouldn’t…ah…do…ah…that.” He blinked against the light swirling behind his eyes.

Rubbing her hand up and down his zipper, she asked, “You don’t like?”

“Like?” Replies were nearly beyond him as her agile tongue flashed out and drew a circle around his nipple.
“I hate…mmmmm…love it.” He frantically kicked off his shoes, and as he reached for his waistband, her hands were there helping, with him every step of the way.

Their eyes locked for an instant as blue-white lightning flashed. No matter what had propelled them to this point, a deep sense of rightness filled him. Perhaps it was a sense of destiny.

As he struggled clumsily out of his pants, Raven laughed at his less than graceful movements. He retorted, “You wicked wench, go ahead and mock me. It’s times like these that men wish they had those breakaway pants like Chippendales.” Cursing his stupid slacks, he finally flung them to the floor.

Raven lay back on the pile of pillows and watched as he climbed back onto her bed. “It feels rather wicked, me still in my stockings and panties while you are quite gloriously naked. You’re a beautiful man, Trevelyn Sinclair.”

“Men are handsome, not beautiful,” he corrected, stretching out alongside her.

She shook her head and wiggled her toes. “You are beautiful. Much too beautiful to be real—like some warrior prince conjured from a fairy tale.”

“I am real.” He slid his hand around her full breast, squeezing slightly and then brushing the distended nipple with his thumb. Unable to resist, he shifted so he could take it into his mouth, his tongue tormenting her a bit more skillfully as she’d done him.

Raven gasped, her fingernails biting into his back. “Trev, kiss me. Make love to me…
now.
”

Pushing up on his elbow, he judged her expression. “I’d be delighted, but I wanted to take this slow, make it special.”

She bit the corner of her mouth and then reached up and traced his lower lip with her index finger. “If we fail that the first time, we have all night to get it right.”

He stared at her luminous eyes, knowing he’d jump off the nearest cliff if she asked. “Buckle up, Red, it’s about to get bumpy.”

Trev kissed her softly, then deeper, their passion quickly flaring white hot. Keeping his weight on his elbow, he eased his other hand between her legs, dragging it tantalizingly up her inner thigh to that next-to-nothing barrier of the thong panties. Pushing the narrow strip of fabric aside, he eased his fingers through silken curls and then finally to insert one into her silken heat. Her hips bucked, but not in protest; rather a restless urging of more. She was tight, so he moved the digit out, back in, and then out again. As her inner muscles relaxed, he added a second finger to stretch her in preparation.

She wiggled her toes again, sending him the silent signal to speed things up. His body vibrated with a chuckle he suppressed. Shifting so that his legs were between hers, he raised his hips just enough to let the tip of his erection nudge against her core. Breaking the kiss, he whispered, “Next time, we will do this slow.” He eased into her body, her scorching fire welcoming every inch. “Very slow.”

“My, what a big—” Raven gasped as his flesh filled her. “Ah…
oh
…you have.”

He flashed a grin as he laced his fingers with hers and then pushed her hands beside her head. His whole body tightened as he flexed and drove deeper into her. “All the better to…”

Her inner muscles relaxed for an instant, then tightened like a fist about his burning erection as he started to withdraw. Trev’s spine arched from the pain and the pleasure. Lightning exploded overhead, followed by the deep rumble of thunder, the fury of nature matching the violence of their joining together. With each thrust into her, Trev had the strangest sense he lost another piece of himself.

When she moaned and arched against him, he lost control, his body bucking as he followed her into the
maelstrom of her climax. He threw his head back, fighting the blinding agony, that pleasure so intense it seemed to destroy and remake him. He howled his release. It was a sound suspiciously like a wolf finding its mate.

The wind slamming against the house disturbed Raven’s slumber.

Utterly peaceful, she fought to stay in that drowsy level where you’re still mostly asleep yet your subconscious perversely natters at you, that place where you cannot hide from truth. As she stirred, aches came alive. Mercy, she was sore—and in places she didn’t want to think about! But despite the stiff, nagging muscles, surrendering to Trevelyn had been worth it. Oh,
had
it been worth it. He was an amazing lover, taking not only his satisfaction but ensuring she’d reveled in their lovemaking measure-for-measure with him.

In a small protected corner of her heart—a young girl’s heart that never seemed to fully die, no matter what roughness life meted out—she held the silly wish that Trevelyn had been her first lover. How different her life might have been! Yes, they’d just met and she knew little to nothing about him, but she was falling hard for him. How could she not? He had played the gallant, rescued her from Alec’s barbs and humiliation twice, even snatching Brishen’s magical rocking pony from the fate of Alec’s “snot-nosed brat” slobbering all over it. The entire evening she had been terrified he would push her into an affair—which had been his intent. It wasn’t hard to spot the calculation reflected in those green eyes, if it was difficult to discern to what purpose. Then, oddly, he had done an about-face and given her a choice. She had a feeling even Trevelyn was baffled by his actions.

Raven knew why. Women always seemed to grasp
these things before men did. As he’d stood on the stoop and lifted the hood from her head, his expression of awe nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. The sexual predator she might’ve handled. The countenance of a man falling in love? That was another matter. How could her fragile spirit shield itself from that?

Snuggling closer to Trevelyn, she quietly savored the new sensations he brought to her, drank in the simple joys of closeness—like how good his skin smelled. Not cologne. No, this was something deeper—pheromones, she guessed; a primeval scent that told her Trev was the right one for her. She hadn’t felt this happy or content since…well, for so long now it was impossible to recall.

Rain still beat down upon her cozy cottage, as though it never intended to stop. It was a different sound now, driven, slashing, hard, as if switching to sleet. When she was a child it had rained that way—heavy storms for days on end, especially in autumn. She supposed it was a sign of global warming that you never saw those weeklong deluges anymore. But this downpour would certainly spill the creek beyond its banks and make her driveway a spongy mess.

She yawned and shifted restlessly in her bed, enjoying the cozy heat from the slumbering body sharing it. Trevelyn might have a rough time getting back to the main road in that low-to-the-ground roadster, possibly would be stranded a day or two. That likelihood brought a faint smile to her lips.

Well, there were a lot of fates worse than being housebound with a wolf.
“One very virile, sexy wolf,” she added in a low purr.

Lightning flickered close, and for a breath the eerie blue light overpowered the night and filled the room. Then darkness fell again, followed by the resounding crash of thunder. Stronger gusts of the storm buffeted the side of the dwelling, almost rocking the structure on its foundation. A strange popping and cracking caused her to glance
up, as if she had x-ray vision to see through the exposed-beam ceiling to the thatched roof, which needed replacing. Thus far it held the rain at bay, but gale-force winds might spell trouble. A thatched roof and so many glass walls were vulnerable to the extremes of nature.

Recently, Mac, her father, had renewed badgering her to move back to the safety of Colford, citing those very reasons. When she refused, he demanded she install a metal roof on the cottage. Maybe it was risky putting the decision off, but she clung to the old ways of her modest abode and simple life. She wasn’t a modern girl by any means. It was extremely odd that she’d done something as progressive—and dangerous—as taking Trevelyn Sinclair for a lover.

She’d been a virgin when she’d married at twenty-two, and hadn’t taken a lover since her divorce five years ago. Not that she harbored any lingering feelings for Alec; the debris field of their marriage had left her emotionally bruised and battered. So much so, she’d shied away from any emotional entanglements. One-night stands weren’t her nature, and an affair would require putting herself on the line. Thus, it had been easier to remain alone.

Well, she certainly had flung her beloved caution to the wind this time! Panic surged. What had she done? She knew so little about this man, or what would happen next. This night, despite his beautiful words, could very well mean nothing to him, while already she wanted more.

Unlike most people, Raven loved rain and oddly felt more alive in a storm. Some fey invigoration filled her, as though she could call down a tempest’s ferocity, absorb and channel it into her being. When she had lived with Alec in London, she’d often walked in rain showers just to get away from him. Their brellie-toting English neighbors deemed her a mad Scot, but she’d paid no heed to their raised eyebrows and shaking heads. Everything smelled so fresh, so new. Rain always gave her hope, as though the world was purifying itself.

Trying to find some inner balance, she lay listening to the downpour against the windowpanes. She usually found solace in that sound. Only, as blasts of air pummeled the tiny house, a disquiet crept in on little cat feet.

Ignoring her gnawing insecurities, Raven scooted up the bed until she was leaning half over Trevelyn. She wanted to watch him sleeping. Trev was an eyeful, begging the artist in her to capture his vital sensuality on canvas. The curls of his hair were wild; her fingers itched to reach out and touch them. She dared not awaken him, however. Not just yet. There was a little darkness left before dawn—not much, but she wanted to hold on to this night for as long as she could. Once the sun rose, the magic would evaporate and reality would return; and then like Cinderella her coach would turn into a pumpkin.

Curious, how fairy tales had popped up in their conversation all night. Perhaps, because the stories were an extension of human fears, dreams and hopes, they’d managed to strike just the appropriate chord. After all, it was easier to deal with wicked witches or evil ogres than boorish ex-husbands and psycho secretaries; and coupled with that was the deepest wish of most women: to live happily ever after with the prince of her heart…Fairy tales were whimsical and little prepared a woman to survive.

Uncertainty bubbling inside her, Raven felt pressed to get out of bed and prepare for intruding realities. Trevelyn was on his stomach, resting quietly, but when she started to sneak free, one of his long arms clamped over her hip, pinning her.

“Where you going?” he mumbled.

The question and his possessiveness tickled her, banishing a few of her qualms over them becoming lovers. “Where do you think? I’m running off to join the circus to be with Jo-Jo the Dog Boy.”

He pushed up on one elbow and flashed her a come-hither grin, one that made her heart roll over. “You don’t
need Poochy Boy when you have a real live wolf-man in your bed.” The glint in his eyes told Raven she’d better make her escape now, or in a blink she’d end up flat on her back under him…or over him. And while both scenarios were extremely appealing, she needed a few minutes alone. The man was overwhelming, potent and dominating.

“What I need is a trip to the bathroom and then to get something to drink. I’m thirsty.” She pushed at his arm until he loosened his grip on her. Snatching up her teal silk robe from a chair, she quickly wrapped it about her and belted it.

“Hurry back, Red. We still have a lot of ‘practice makes perfect’ to get in before morning,” he called after her. “I think you’re ready for that lesson in being lurid.”

Raven made a quick tour of the house to ensure no leaks had developed and to check on the greenhouses. High winds were always a concern for the huge panels of glass. Her father’s recent insistence on the new roof and safety glass would cost a fortune—likely he counted on that to drive her home. Yes, it would be cheaper to live in the Hall. Even so, Raven couldn’t bring herself to go back. She loved it here. Something about this cottage suited her soul.

Reaching down, she patted the silver-gray kitty rubbing against her leg. “Maybe after the galley opening. We can muddle through the winter, eh, Pyewacket? Then we can replace the roof.”

Her eyes were pulled to the door on the far side of the living room, the one leading to the smaller greenhouse where she painted. She usually loved being in the studio. The sun, hitting there mornings and evenings both, provided light perfect for painting. She was now drawn to the room yet almost scared to go inside.

Her marmalade tabby, Chester, hopped down off the back of the sofa and waddled over, wanting his turn at attention and nudging the gray puss away. Pyewacket
gave him an air swat but relinquished the position without true protest. Always sensitive to her moods, the gentle Chester was picking up on her fears. The cats were likely also puzzled by a male presence within their static domain, since none had stayed overnight before.

Ever since that odd vision of the couple making love had flashed into her mind at the party, Raven had experienced a strange niggling at the back of her brain. Like some half-forgotten memory, the fragment was waiting for the key to turn in the lock before, suddenly, all secrets would be revealed. She could recall the couple, the woman’s intense longing to hear the words “I love you.” The pain when they didn’t come. So strange: she had married Alec and thought once—mistakenly—that she loved him, yet in their months together as husband and wife she’d never once experienced such a profound love as this dream brought. But along with that pleasure came the sudden fear that it might be too late.

“What might be too late? I’m bloody losing it.” She started toward the door, half dreading what awaited yet still determined to exorcise her ghosts, prove to herself that she was allowing her imagination to run away with her.

Crossing the living room, she put a hand to the knob. The wind shifted directions, whipping against the side of the house until everything shuddered. Like some insidious intruder, it slipped through every crack in the stone walls, whispering and hissing its unstoppable presence. An instant drop in the temperature followed. Still, as Raven stared at the unopened door, she wondered if the chill was actually from her apprehension.

The top half of the door was stained glass, which allowed her to see slightly distorted into the room through the scene of fruit. The studio was unlit, but she easily made out the ghostly shape of a large canvas on an easel, off to the side. The image on that painting was burned in her mind. Not part of what she was preparing for the show, she’d begun the work one night after waking from
a troubled sleep. Wanting to avoid falling back into the vivid dreams, fearful of returning to the same painful images, she’d come downstairs to work. When she’d picked up her brush and begun slapping paint to the gessoed canvas, she hadn’t the slightest idea what she’d be creating. At first, it was nothing but dark swirls, similar to fog at midnight. As the minutes ticked away, she painted in silence on the upper right part of the canvas and slowly her stokes became a pair of eyes. No face to go with it, just the eyes. Over the past five months, the eyes had come into focus through her periodic brushwork, but she’d never added more than a forehead and a riot of black curls. Later, below, she had produced a warrior on a horse.

Almost daring herself, she pushed open the door and entered. Not bothering to turn on the lights, her bare feet moved silently across the cold stone floor to the square canvas. She hadn’t worked on it for a month, being too busy with preparations for the spring show, thus there was a sheet in the way. She stood hesitating, her hand poised, fearful to pull the ghostly material off her oil painting.

“Silly coward. It’s only a picture.” Her words echoed hollowly in the glass room. Despite her self-chiding, she stood there, too afraid of removing the sheet. Finally, with a deep sigh, she yanked it off.

Lightning, more distant now, signaled another cell was moving toward them. It flickered several times, the flashes unnaturally illuminating the room. Raven’s breath sucked in and held. She barely saw the part with the mounted warrior, for the eyes held her spellbound. As nature’s fireworks again lit the sky, followed by the loud crash of thunder, she experienced a time slippage. Once more she was sitting in the Lamborghini, staring at Trevelyn’s eyes. Now she knew why they were so familiar. She’d painted them months ago.

I love you.
The words the woman spoke in the vision. All the worship, the blackest despair over when she hadn’t heard them in return now flooded Raven. It was
nearly too intense to bear. How spirit crushing, to hold such a rare and wonderful thing in your heart and not have it shared! Extreme emotion washed through her, anguish so severe that she folded her arms across her stomach and choked back a sob, fighting to keep from losing herself in the strange madness.

“Raven!”

The vertiginous images and feelings were shoved back to a dark corner in her mind as her head snapped toward the open door.
Trevelyn.
She swung back to the painting, panicked he’d see. Frantically, she looked around for the sheet and found it fallen to the floor. Chester was sitting in the middle of it, cleaning himself, while Pyewacket had settled down for a nap. She snatched at one corner, trying to dislodge the fat cats, but silly Chester thought it a new game and clung to the sheet, setting his claws. Pye wasn’t moving and was dead weight.

“I’m going to make you two sleep with Marvin if you don’t get off,” she threatened, attempting to pull the sheet away from the obtuse felines.

“Raven! Where are you?” Trev’s voice drew closer. Impatient, perhaps a little worried.

With a second to spare, Raven dropped the sheet and grabbed the easel, turning it about-face so it would be hidden from view. Trev came through the door, a plaid blanket around his shoulders like a cape. Despite her concern over the painting, she had to smile.