Castle of the Wolf

by Sandra Schwab

  His moist breath fanned over her, making her gasp. Cissy slung one arm around his head and buried her fingers in his thick hair. “What?” Now she finally understood why some of the people on Mrs. Chisholm’s cards had loony smiles on their faces.

  “I’d like to experiment a little.” He looked up so that he could meet her gaze. “Will you let me?” His fingers still played with her breast, gently kneading her flesh.

  Cissy stared at him, willing the sensual fog to clear from her brain. Tip-tap, his fingers moved against her. His eyes were darker than usual, and there was a slash of color high across his cheeks. His lips seemed somehow fuller, his expression almost vulnerable.

  “Will you let me?” he had asked. But what he had meant was, Will you trust me?

  Hope blossomed in her chest, a warm glow that seemed to fill her being. She gave him a wide smile. “Yes,” she murmured. “Oh, yes.” And she closed the distance between them to kiss him.

  She heard a chuckle rumble in his chest. “So much enthusiasm.” She wriggled against him, and he groaned a little. “Let me—perhaps I haven’t quite lost my touch after all,” she heard him mutter. His finger slipped under the neckline of her dress and into the valley between her breasts. “So eager,” he breathed, and kissed her neck, licked her collarbone.

  “Mmmm.” She arched against him. “Fenris…” And felt how his fingers became bolder in response.

  “Sweet Celia, so sweet… Let me…” Gently he turned her so that her back rested against his chest. His hands covered her breasts. “See how perfectly they fit into my palms?” he murmured against her ear. “How I’ve longed to touch your bare skin.”

  Cissy quivered at his words.

  His mouth played with her earlobe. “I’ve imagined what it would be like to touch you. At first your skin will be soft and cool like silk.” His hands stroked down her belly. “And here it’ll be as white as milk.”

  With a sigh, she pressed her shoulders against him and lifted her middle a little. Even through the material of her dress she could feel the heat of his body, surrounding her, enveloping her. She felt as if her body would slowly melt.

  “And then”—his voice dropped deeper and turned hoarse—“it will heat to my touch until it will be all covered in sweet dew.”

  Cissy’s skin prickled with the images he evoked. “The heat is already there,” she gasped. It made her a little afraid, the way her body felt, so strange and new, as if it were no longer her own. She hadn’t expected that, this curious new vulnerability.

  His fingers bit into her waist. For a moment, his breathing faltered, before he laughed a little unsteadily. “You are a delight, my sweet.” He pressed a kiss onto the crown of her head.

  “My insides are melting,” she told him, panting. She dropped her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. Her face burned. “I am afraid,” she admitted on a whisper, and shuddered, half with fear, half with delight.

  Fenris hugged her to him and rained soft kisses onto her neck and shoulders. “Don’t be, my sweet wife. There’s no need, no need whatsoever…” His voice changed, became low and sweet and tempting, flowed over her like caramel sauce. “Let me show you…”

  She lay against his chest, her eyes still closed, and let him pull up her skirts, let him touch her thighs with butterfly-like strokes. The muscles in her legs quivered under his fingers. But his gentleness increased her fear, for quite suddenly she was afraid she would lose herself in him, that he would wrap her up, overwhelm her, make her lose a bit of her soul.

  Her eyes flew open. She saw how pale her thighs were, his dark hands on them a sharp contrast. How could these be her legs? Miss Celia Fussell did not lie in forests like a wanton with her legs spread wide and the sun shining on the thatch of hair there.

  “Fenris,” she gasped.

  And then she noticed the pulse that had started in her flesh. And the dampness.

  Panic made her heart flutter.

  “Fenris!”

  She tried to sit up straight, to close her legs.

  “Hmm?” But his fingers were already touching her, and all thoughts of escape flew from Cissy’s mind. She could only lie back in his arms and gasp and sigh and moan, and let the feelings wash over her in rolling waves, until with a scream, she was pulled under and drowned in pleasure while her husband held her securely in his arms, one of his hands resting big and warm between her legs.

  Afterwards, when sanity returned, and with it propriety and her sense of shame, she could not meet his eye. Nothing had prepared her for this. The cards had shown nothing about the danger of losing one’s self, losing a little bit of one’s soul to the man who had touched her.

  And quite suddenly, the crisp spring air felt bitter cold. Shivering, she rearranged her skirts so they fell over her knees, her ankles, over all the places his fingers had caressed.

  “I think,” he said, “it is time to head back home.”

  They spent the drive to the castle in awkward silence, and as soon as they had reached the inner ward, Cissy fled inside, afraid of the things she might have awakened.

  Chapter 17

  The light of the single candle was reflected by the glass in the window, a ghostly flame in a sea of darkness. It quivered in the soft draft, its golden halo dancing over the walls and painted ceiling.

  Cissy sat alone in the golden light and slowly combed out her hair, the gentle swooshing of her brush and her breath the only sounds in the room. She remembered how her breathing had quickened that afternoon when pleasure had heated her blood. She remembered the sounds she had made then, the pants and moans, the sweet ache in her body, the hard wall of her husband’s chest behind her, supporting her, and his arms around her, strong and sure. He’d been a safe haven where she could come unraveled, where her world could splinter and be put together again.

  Let the birds sing, diddle, diddle,

  And the lambs play,

  We shall be safe, diddle, diddle,

  Out of harm’s way.

  Yet eventually they had left the clearing and returned to real life. And here, she was not free to pursue this joyful pleasure, but was bound by social conventions and restrictions like a bird in its cage, fluttering its wings in vain against the bars. A proper young lady did not writhe in her husband’s arms among the green grass, did not invite male hands to touch her flesh, did not crave the magic his body could provide. Yet she did.

  I heard one say, diddle, diddle,

  Since I came hither,

  That you and I, diddle, diddle,

  Must lie together.

  How could she be so wanton as to go to him, to go to his chamber, to his bed…? Cissy closed her eyes and painfully swallowed. How could she venture into the unknown, untutored? She would only stumble and fall. Oh yes, she had studied Mrs. Chisholm’s cards, had even pursued her husband, had imagined…all kinds of things. But the reality—the reality had been so different, so overwhelming, so overpowering. She had felt too vulnerable. As if she had been about to give him a part of her soul. Stupidly, she had never thought beyond the act itself, and had only wanted to forge a connection with her husband. It had never occurred to her that it could change her as well, that it would change the way she thought and felt, change her innermost being.

  And now that she knew…

  Cissy opened her eyes and stared at the pale flame in the window. It was bitter, this realization that, in the end, she lacked both courage and skill.

  “Another night perhaps,” she whispered. She lifted the brush and ran it through her hair once again. Down and down, it glided easily through the silken brown strands. Down and down, she let herself be hypnotized by its strokes.

  A knock on her door made her start.

  Her skin prickled and her fingers trembled when she reached for her robe. Her voice came out as a croak. “Y-yes?”

  The door swung open and revealed the tall figure of her husband leaning nonchalantly against the frame, arms crossed upon his chest. The breath caught in her throat.
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br />   “I say,” he said. “Here you are.” His eyes glinted devilishly as he looked around the room. “A cozy place you have here.” His gaze returned to her, and he lifted one eyebrow as if in silent challenge. “May I come in?”

  “What ho! what ho! thy door undo;

  Art watching or asleepe?

  My love, dost yet remember me,

  And dost thou laugh or weepe?”

  To remember a stanza from Bürger’s “Lenore,” who was abducted by her husband’s ghost, at that moment was rather unfortunate. Cissy suppressed a shiver. Drat. With emphasized carelessness she lifted one shoulder. “Of course,” she murmured. She watched how he ducked his head as he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. The click of the latch sounded unnaturally loud in the silent night.

  Candlelight flickered over his face and tinged his skin golden. He seemed too tall for her small chamber, and his shadow sprang up and stretched to the ceiling, swallowing the delicate floral pattern.

  Nervously, Cissy licked her lips. She felt like the little goats in the Grimms’ fairy tale when they realized the big, bad wolf had stepped over their threshold. Unfortunately, there was no grandfather clock in her room where she might hide. So she just lifted her chin a notch higher and watched him as he looked around the room once more.

  Tap-dam, tap-dam, his steps sounded on the ancient tiles. Tap-dam, tap-dam, tap-dam.

  “I seem to recall a bargain we struck this afternoon,” he announced to the shelf where she kept her books.

  He was still wearing his waistcoat, shirt and trousers, and Cissy, only scantily clad in her thin nightgown and even thinner robe, felt at a distinct disadvantage. She cleared her throat. “A bargain?”

  “Well…” He threw her a look over his shoulder. “More like a promise on your part. A nice selection of books you keep here.”

  Cissy forced herself to sit straight and still, even though her skin prickled as if a hundred ants were crawling over her body. “Thank you. But you already know I like books.”

  Tap-dam, tap-dam. “Yes, yes, I know. We talked about books some time ago, didn’t we?” Tap-dam, tap-dam. “Gosh, is that stove really green? One wouldn’t have guessed with all the dust and—”

  “You spoke of a promise,” she interrupted. Better to be impolite than to eventually scream with suppressed nerves. Or than to whack him over the head in late retribution for the cobwebs and the rodent skeleton she had encountered in this very room all that time ago.

  “Ah, yes, the promise.” He turned to her. “I seem to recall… Did you not promise to…” His voice trailed away.

  “Yes?” The word came out rather impatient, and Fenris, the ill-mannered lout, had the nerve to grin as she started to squirm on her seat.

  “Well, how shall I put it?” He tapped his forefinger against his chin. “Did you not promise me an…um…attack on my virtue?” At her incredulous gasp, his grin widened. “Seduction. Did you not want to seduce me, my pretty wife?”

  Cissy jumped to her feet. He was outrageous! But oh, how her body quivered and trembled as she recalled the feeling of his warm, large hands on her flesh, cupping her breasts, touching her between her legs. “I…” Seduction? How his fingers had teased her, slipped inside her. Cissy felt her cheeks flame. “I…”

  He put his hands on his hips, and his teeth gleamed in the candlelight. “Yes, indeed—seduction. I distinctly remember you promised to seduce me.” He cocked his head to the side. “I hope you have not changed your mind.”

  “I…” Yes, he looked most definitely like the big bad wolf, about to gobble up the small, hapless goat. Involuntarily, Cissy took a step back. “I…”

  “I really hope you won’t go back on your promise.” Slowly, steadily, he advanced, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Because, you see, my dear,”—he smiled then, a winning, charming smile, which did not fool her for one bit—“I was looking forward to it.” His voice dropped to an intimate growl, which snaked out and wound around her, ensnared her. It reminded her how he had crooned encouragements into her ear when she had burned up under his skillful fingers, when she had moaned and panted and…

  Cissy put her hands against her burning cheeks.

  How was one supposed to deal with this? With one’s memories? With one’s own wantonness?

  And still he advanced, Fends, that dangerous, dangerous wolf, who could only be bound by dwarves’ chains and who would eventually swallow the sun. But first, he seemed determined to swallow her.

  Cissy gulped. And yet, no matter how nervous she might be, her body called out to be consumed.

  Alas, the floor was old, the tiles worn out by many feet and made crooked by time.

  The knowing smile was wiped off her husband’s face as he tripped and stumbled and nearly fell.

  Cissy cried out and rushed forward to grab his arm and to steady him. With a bitter oath, he wrenched his arm free and stumbled to the bed, where he sat down heavily. His breathing harsh, he drooped forward and buried his face in his hands.

  “God, what a fool I am,” she heard him mutter, his voice so different from before. When he finally looked up, he seemed to have aged ten years. His face was haggard and the grooves around his mouth more deeply etched. “Such a stupid fool,” he murmured, his eyes burning into hers. “I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

  His words and the bitterness in his tone loosened Cissy’s paralysis, and she went to him. Her heart ached at his defeated expression as he looked up at her. “No,” she whispered. “No. Not a fool, never a fool, my wolf.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his, hesitantly at first, but then his hand came up and around her neck and held her fast while his mouth opened under hers. This was no tender, gentle kiss, but a hard onslaught, tasting of desperation. His tongue invaded her mouth, his free hand gripped her waist and he pulled her roughly between his legs. And it was this roughness which excited her, this urgency with which his fingers kneaded her soft flesh.

  Passion flared between them, and suddenly there was no more room to worry about wantonness. It was as if in the arms of this man she lost all sense of propriety. All Cissy could think about was the burning desire to feel his skin against hers. She tugged at his shirt, fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat and helped him to push the robe off her shoulders. And all the while his lips moved under hers, their mouths moved together, hot breath mingled, seared her lungs.

  She could not wait until he had divested himself of his shirt and waistcoat. Instead she spread them open and splayed her hands over his chest, tunneled her fingers through the springy dark hair there. Oh yes, how she had dreamt of doing that! He groaned, and his muscles tensed. His hand lifted to cup one of her breasts in imitation of what she did to him. How exquisite a feeling, his large, hard hand over her vulnerable softness! When his thumb roughly rubbed her nipple, a shaft of quicksilver delight shot through her and exploded in the secret place between her legs.

  As her hand glided over his belly, she felt the ridges of his sculpted muscle. They bunched under her touch, and her fingers tingled with pleasure. When Fenris started to place hot, open-mouthed kisses against the tender skin of her throat, her body melted. It seemed only natural to slide her hand to the waistband of his trousers and lower, where his erection pressed up against the material. He had brought her so much pleasure this afternoon, and she wanted to touch him in the same intimate way, to return his intimate gift. The heat of him almost seared her skin when she tentatively closed her fingers around him. Like a small animal, his penis moved against her palm.

  “No!”

  He suddenly grabbed her wrist—tightly enough to leave bruises.

  “No,” he repeated, his breathing harsh. Dumbfounded, Cissy stared at his heaving chest, where beads of sweat glistened in the curly black hair. He shook her, and there was anger in his voice.

  Anger and something else.

  “Not out of pity!” he growled hoarsely. “I don’t want you to touch me just because you pity me!”

  She lo
oked up then and met his gaze. His eyes burned, and for once his face was stripped naked of all masks. His torment and desperation were there for her to see. His terrible, terrible fear of rejection.

  Leopold’s taunting words echoed through her mind. All that vileness: How much had Fenris overheard? And what had his snooty brother thrown at him on earlier occasions? For how long had this festered inside Fenris?

  Her heart clenched with compassion, and tears welled up in her eyes. Naïvely she had thought a kiss enough to release this beast from his evil spell. Only now did she see it was not nearly enough. What he needed would demand so much more courage than a simple kiss, even though none of the kisses they had shared could be called simple. The desire between them ran deep, and Cissy counted on that.

  She took a deep breath and, as she slowly expelled the air, she cast away the last remains of her maidenly shyness. Between them, there was no room for it. Not here. Not now. Not when she needed to teach him how well he was desired.

  Slowly, she lifted her free hand to cradle his cheek. “Pity?” she repeated, her voice strong and steady. Her thumb caressed his stubbly skin. “There is no pity.”

  For a long time, he simply stared at her, his expression so lost that her heart ached for him. Then he shook his head, dislodging her hand. “No!” he said wildly. “No!”

  “No pity, Fenris,” she insisted, and again laid her fingers against his cheek.

  “No!” It was as if he could not understand that he could be desired.

  “Never pity.” Slowly, very slowly, she leaned forward and kissed him. This time the kiss was tender and sweet, just the merest brush of her lips. “No pity, Fenris,” she repeated against his cheek, and rained butterfly kisses against his temple, his brow, his eyelids. When she lifted her head a little, he gazed at her, his heart in his eyes. He looked like a small boy, yearning for something unreachable.

  She smiled a little. “Don’t you know that?” Her fingers played with the hair over his ear, while her thumb drew soothing circles on his temple. The intensity with which he hung on her every word was endearing—and heartbreaking. “Don’t you know, my wolf?” she whispered against the corner of his mouth, blinking away sudden tears. Her hand glided around his head, her fingers sinking deep into his thick, wavy hair when she tenderly cupped the back of his skull.