ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (311 page)

                      Nicholas chuckled in between her legs, but kept her hips down.  Sliding a pillow beneath her, he angled her up into his mouth, where he began an assertive lapping all over her nether regions.  When he found the spot that made Ania thrash more than usual, he concentrated his efforts there, sliding the ribbed muscle of his tongue against her sweetness, and the noises that she was making cued him in that he had found a spot that was particularly enjoyable for her.  She whimpered and grasped his dark head in her hands, pushing his face harder against her sex, and there was something building in her like music, like the rising tide of the ocean, and it was as wet as the ocean, and it built inside of her until her legs trembled, and how did he know this?  How was it possible, but oh, she was not going to consider this now, not when this delightful feeling was building inside of her, plumping her breasts and pointing her nipples towards the sky, not when she was going to—

                      Convulse all around her new husband’s head.

                      Ania lost herself.  She knew in that moment, what all the thrashing in the rosemary bush was about.  She could feel her face screwing up, her mouth rounding out to a smooth O, and she could feel Nicholas drinking in the juices of her joy—was that even an appropriate term, oh who cared!—and knew that she could never feel this close to another person in all of her entire life.

                      When she was done, Nicholas lifted his head from her, and his lips shone.  Rather than scandalizing her, she found the sight to be appealing, and when he lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss, he tasted—why, he tasted just like she did in her most secret of places, and the thought brought a smile to her own lips, for it was all just too deliciously wanton.

                      “Oh Nicholas, what a wonderful mouth you have,” she sighed, and heard his deep and hearty chuckle low in his throat as he scooped her up into his powerful arms, where they both lay content for several very long minutes, savoring the moment together as he had just savored her.

                      There were many beats of silence before Ania ventured, “Penny for your thoughts, wolf man?”

                      Nicholas smiled.  “I was just thinking,” he said, stroking her hair, “That although I have done this before, I have never quite felt so close to someone while doing so.”

                      She did not like that he was bringing up past paramours, but she did appreciate his honesty.  For in that moment, he was more than just Nicholas Connols, her husband.  He was also her friend, willing to share anything.

                      And if he was willing to share anything, so was she.

                      “Nicholas?” she breathed softly, stroking his soft dark hair.  He murmured against her chest where he had laid his head and she swallowed hard.  He was still roused; she could feel desire for her body emanating from his entire being as he attempted to nuzzle awake her own lust once more, but she was far too preoccupied with her newly born monumental decision.

                      “Nick, I need to tell you something.”

                      He looked up, and there was a note of alarm in his brown eyes.  Well, she could hardly blame him.  What husband wanted to hear those words from his wife?

                      “You hated this.”

                      “No.  No!” she cried, tilting her face up to give him a kiss.  “I loved this.  I-I can’t imagine wanting to share this with anyone else.”  His face went slack with relief and he scooped her up in his arms for a tight, warm hug.

                      “Then speak and be not afraid.”

                      Ania swallowed hard.  “Nick, I cannot tell you how amazed I was that you read the serials of the Illustrated Lady.”

                      Amusement crossed his dark features.  “I suppose it is unusual for a gentleman of fine society,” he replied, peppering her neck with small, soft kisses.  Ania squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to concentrate.

                      “No, Nick, that’s not it,” she said, still stroking his head.  “I was amazed because...well, because I have never met one of my aficionados in person before.”

                      Nicholas chuckled again, but his kisses were slowing as her wording began to sink into his brain.  “Ania, you mean
an
aficionado.”

                      “No,” she answered him, her heart in her throat.  “I mean one of
my
aficionados.”

                      At this, Nicholas lifted his head from Ania’s body and looked her in the eyes. His gaze was stern, and Ania could see her own slender fingers poised above his head.

                      “What are you saying?” he demanded.

                      “Well, it’s just that... you shared something so... so intimate with me that I felt like I could share this with you.  Those serials you like so much by the Illustrated Lady?”

                      He nodded.

                      “I am she.”

                      There were several beats of silence as Nicholas’s eyes widened and his body grew cold.  The desire that had only moments before allowed Ania to believe he would be receptive to this information faded, and she felt his demeanor stiffen.  As she reached out for him, Nicholas drew away, stood from the bed, gathered his dressing gown, and left her bedchamber.

                      For good.

*                    *                    *

                      It had been a week of stone-cold politeness between the Duke and Duchess Connols when Margaret Cromwell burst into their dining room, eyes rimmed with red.

                      Ania was buttering her freshly baked bread and Nicholas was perusing the latest paper—a bold choice, given the stony silence between them after that fateful night when Ania had revealed her secret; their manservant had barely had time to announce that the Duchess Connols’s sister had arrived when Margaret had pushed open the French doors and heaved herself crying into the chair beside Ania.

                      There was momentary confusion and chaos as Ania dropped her bread and attempted to console the weeping figure beside her.  But her sister’s slender shoulders and curls continued to shake, so much so that it was difficult to make out a single word she was saying.

                      “Margaret,” Ania finally said firmly, “I am sorry to see you so upset, but for heaven’s sake, you must tell me what is wrong so that I may help!”

                      Margaret lifted her swollen, wet face, and blubbered out something incomprehensible.  Ania shook her head.  “Again, Margaret.”

                      “He-he doesn’t love me!” wailed her sister, and buried her face again in Ania’s shoulder.

                      “Who doesn’t, darling?” Ania asked, although she well suspected she knew; however, she did not want to be presumptuous of the recipient of her sister’s attentions.  From the muffled depths of her shoulder, Ania heard her sister mumble a name.  “Hmm?”

                      “L-lord Turnquist,” came the faint reply.

                      At this, Nicholas put his paper down and forsook the pretense of not noticing that there was a weeping lady in his breakfast room.

                      “Why do you think he does not love you?” he asked.

                      “Oh!” cried Margaret, realizing for the first time that she and Ania were not completely alone.  “Oh, Duke Connols!  I had not realized you were here.  Please forgive me for intruding on your morning in such an improper way.  I will go—”

                      “You will stay and finish your story,” Nicholas replied evenly.  “If it is important enough to interrupt my wife’s breakfast, it is important enough to be dealt with.”

                      Ania’s heart soared at the mention of herself as his wife.  Ever since she told him of her secret, she had not been entirely sure that he would want her to continue on as such.  “It’s all right, Margaret,” she said, hardly daring to tear her eyes away from her seductively imperious husband.  “Nicholas knows of my relationship to Lord Turnquist.”

                      Margaret’s eyes widened, and then she heaved a huge sigh, understanding that everyone in the room was now aware of her rather delicate situation.  Seeing no other way out, she began to unfold the tale.  “Everything had been going so swimmingly as of late.  I would deliver Ania’s installments and we would talk for the better portion of two hours, about love, philosophy, and music.  I was sure, I was so sure!  And then he announces—he announces—” Here, Margaret ended on a hiccup.  Ania watched Nicholas register the new information, although his face remained impassive at the news of her sister’s involvement in the entire scheme.

                      “What did he announce, darling?” Ania finally asked.

                      Margaret looked up at her and a fresh wave of tears threatened to spill out.  “He announces that he is leaving to India for a year!” she cried, and the waterworks began anew.

                      Ania was slightly taken aback by this news.  Shooting Nicholas a desperate glance, she immediately turned to comfort her sister.  “Silly goose, that does not mean he does not love you!  Have you ever even asked him if perhaps he feels something for you?”

                      Margaret looked at her angrily, her tears stilled for the moment.  “Do you think me a total fool, Ania?” she demanded.  “I asked him right away, I said, ‘What about me?’ And he just looked at me strangely and then said of course he would miss our little conversations together.  As if I were a complete stranger!  It was utterly humiliating!”

                      Ania’s heart swelled in sympathy towards her sister’s plight.  “It is terrible to lay your heart out to someone and have them demonstrate indifference, I know,” she said, stroking her sister’s back.

                      At her words, Nicholas visibly jerked.  He had not expected such frankness from his wife, and although she had not addressed him directly, he could not doubt that her words carried a double meaning.  He watched the two sisters huddled together in a picture of abject misery and a number of thoughts occurred to him.

                      Blond, long, and languid David Turnquist was in his study pouring over the paper when his manservant announced that a Duke Nicholas Connols was there to see him.  Putting down the paper with surprise, he issued the order to have him shown in.  He had heard about the nuptials between the contributor to his newspaper and the rakish duke, but he had not been expecting a personal visit quite so soon.  Was it possible that the lady had informed her husband of her creative endeavors?  Lord Turnquist thought she was a bold lady, indeed.

                      There was an air of danger coming off the darkly colored duke as he entered the study.  He looked for all the world, a man on a mission with a secret quite close to his heart.

                      “Duke Connols!  To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Lord Turnquist from behind his heavy oak desk.

                      Nicholas looked him right in the eye and decided to be forthright with it all.  “What’s this about you going to India?”

                      “Ah, I see you have heard of my latest exciting endeavor!” cried Lord Turnquist, obviously well pleased with himself.  “Yes, I have been meaning to go for ages and see what adventures lay in that rather hot area of the world, and I thought since I have no attachments as of yet, I may as well take advantage of the situation.”

                      The duke’s expression darkened considerably, and the newspaper man wondered if he had said something amiss.  “No attachments?” asked Nicholas.  “And what of Margaret Cromwell?”

                      “Ah, the Lady Cromwell.  A delightful girl, really, with such a sharp mind.  Was it from her that you learned of my upcoming travels?”

                      Nicholas met his gaze squarely head-on.  “Out with it, Thunrow.  Why have you lead the lady to believe your attachment was more than it is?”

                      Lord Turnquist turned an alarming shade of pale at these words, but recovered nicely.  “I assure you, I did nothing of the sort.”

                      “Come now.  Allowing her to be party to her sister’s secret, paying her attention, having long ambling conversations right in the Cromwell’s sitting room.  Surely you do not imply that this was all in the lady’s imagination?”

                      “Well, no, but surely you must understand my point—”

                      Nicholas’s fist slammed down on the desk, making both the inkwell and the owner jump.  “Out with it, Turnquist.  How do you feel about Margaret?”

                      “What I fail to understand, Connols, is what business it is of yours how I feel or do not feel about her.”

                      “She is my wife’s sister, Turnquist.  And if I have to face another breakfast that has both of the ladies upset over one of your remarks, then I promise you, I will not be the only man left dazed.  Do we understand each other?”

                      Young Lord Turnquist’s face underwent a rapid color change and he sat in front of the darker duke quite pink in the face.  It seemed several minutes before he collected himself, and when he spoke, all traces of politeness were gone from his voice.  “See here, Connols.  I will profess to you that I have admired the lady for quite some time.  Quite the mind!  And attractive, as well, but surely you can understand that given Margaret’s involvement in her sister’s subterfuge, I cannot take the lady for a wife.”