Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)

“It’s a wolf,” she said stupidly, pointing at the animal, which stood preternaturally still. The flames from the hearth caused its eyes to gleam and flicker against the backdrop of dark, sleek fur.

“Yes, I realize that,” Margaret commented wryly as she smoothed a snowy white tablecloth over the small table. “His name is Royal. I’m baking a cake, and I won’t be able to join you for dinner, so I brought him along. I thought you’d like some company.”

Isabel stepped closer into the room, her gaze wary on the wolf.

“He’s a pet, then?”

“A pet?” Margaret asked, glancing up from her task of laying out a place setting. “Of course not, he’s just Royal. Come, dear, sit down. I have Coq au vin for you, and a nice salad.”

Steam puffed up when Margaret lifted a domed metal cover. Isabel approached the table and sat, her attention drawn by the mouth-watering fragrance of chicken, subtle spices and wine. The wolf’s eyes remained fixed on her.

“Are you sure he’s safe?” Isabel asked as she picked up a heavy silver fork.

“Quite so. Now, are you all right serving yourself if I run off to the kitchen?”

“Believe it or not, Margaret, I’m quite used to feeding myself. I’m also used to eating alone, so you can take your friend over there with you when you go,” she said with a small smile. She lifted the cloth from a basket and inhaled the scent of fresh-baked rolls. She groaned. “Lord Delraven better release me by tomorrow, or I’m bound to gain fifty pounds on your cooking.”

Margaret looked pleased. “Well you could use a little meat on your bones. Now, when you finish with your dinner, just put the tray in the hallway near the door, and I’ll send someone to pick it up later.”

Isabel paused when she saw Margaret hadn’t moved from her position. Her brows quirked in bewilderment when she noticed Margaret looking at the wolf and nodding her head toward the door in a pointed gesture.

The wolf remained unmoving.

“Oh, just leave him,” Isabel said, shaking her head bemusedly. She groaned again when she put the fork in her mouth and the savory chicken practically melted on her tongue. “Make that sixty pounds,” she muttered, her eyes closed in gustatory ecstasy.

Margaret chuckled and bustled out of the room.

She’d eaten nearly half of her meal when she glanced down and jumped in alarm, dropping her knife to the china plate with a clatter. The wolf never flinched, but stared up at her, sitting on his haunches just a foot away from her chair. She’d never seen it move from its position near the fireplace. She saw her own startled expression in the depths of the wolf’s unusual eyes.

“Are you hungry?” she whispered. She picked up her plate and placed the remainder of the chicken on the carpet next to her chair. “There you go.”

The wolf lowered its head, sniffed, straightened and looked at her.

“You must not have very good taste if that doesn’t appeal to you.” She ate a mouthful of salad. They engaged in a staring match while Isabel chewed. Doubts began to rise in her under the animal’s steady stare. Was Margaret entirely certain the creature was safe?

He was an unusually large wolf, after all.

She pushed back her plate and turned in her chair. She lifted her hands, and then placed them hesitantly in her lap. She’d been tempted by the texture and gleam of the wolf’s thick fur.

She’d touched dogs and cats before with naked hands. Unlike touching humans, the experience was usually a positive one for her. Something made her wary about petting the wolf, though, despite her strong desire to do so. Perhaps something told her that touching a domestic animal and a wild one was two different things.

Maybe the wolf sensed her ambivalence because it made a whining sound when she stood from the table and walked toward the sitting area before the fireplace.

“What is it?” she asked the wolf as she plopped down in the corner of the deep, cushy sofa. She brought up her legs and placed her cheek on a velvet pillow. The large wolf followed her, spun around when he reached her knees and sat down on his haunches, facing her. Isabel laughed.

“You’re an intense one, aren’t you?”

Her smile faded after a moment. She jerked her gaze off the wolf’s eyes with effort and stared into the flames.

“So how did you end up here, Royal?” she mumbled to herself, growing deliciously relaxed following the good meal and the heat from the flames. “Are you a captive in Sanctuary, as well?”

The wolf’s front paws both shifted forward an inch before he stilled. He gave a low, plaintive growl. She lay there quietly, her limbs feeling heavy, her skin growing warm from the emanating flames. The arousal she’d been experiencing to various degrees all day long seemed to swell now that she had nothing to distract her from it.

She lifted her gown and robe to her belly and lowered her panties to her thighs. She sensed the wolf watching her, but she didn’t acknowledge its attention as she removed her right-hand glove, careful not to touch the rich fabric of the couch. Her cream was thick between her labia when she inserted the ridge of her forefinger there and stirred.

She laid her head back on the pillow, swimming in sensual lassitude. The silence hung thick around her, broken only by the occasional pop from a burning log or the wet sounds her fingers made in her abundant juices as she pleasured herself. In her mind’s eye, a fantasy lover with a shadowed face and burning eyes stared down at her while he fucked her. She was restrained, helpless to prevent his forceful possession. His cock plunged deep in her, deeper than she’d ever experienced in her life. He thrust into virgin territory like a conqueror staking his claim.

She struggled beneath him, not because she wanted to escape, but because his lovemaking was so intense, so powerful, it overwhelmed her.