The Wolf in the Cloister (The Wolf and the Nun Book 1)

by Emily Leverett

  “Stop it!” she insisted. She twisted again, rolling onto her back and kicking at him. She caught him in the shoulder, knocking him back, but not hurting him.

  He seized her other ankle and jerked it forward. “You’re a menace!” he insisted. He pulled her ankles forward, dropping them in time to climb onto the bed, straddling her. He managed to catch her wrists again before she clawed his face. He forced them to either side of her face, pushing them into the mattress and dropped his hips, pinning her thighs to the bed too.

  She wriggled and writhed against him, but there was nowhere to go. Finally, she stopped.

  “Are you quite finished?” He leaned down, his hair falling over his face and onto hers.

  Her face was flushed, and she was breathing hard. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his own, the heat of her body even through both of their clothes, and he wondered if she felt him, too. If she felt the pounding of his own heart, racing with surprise, his muscles wound like springs, taut for the joy of battle, and his arousal, pressed against her, and, until this moment, unnoticed by him.

  She swallowed, panting too, and if she noticed, she made no move to show it. Finally she met his gaze. “For now,” she managed, her voice rough.

  “Excellent,” he said, but he didn’t move. There was no way he was letting this terror loose, not until he was well sure she wasn’t going to start smacking him again. “Now, then. What the hell is the matter with you?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Marie glared at him. What was the matter with her? A sheen of sweat covered her body, and the heat from him wasn’t helping. The weight of him pressing against her, touching her almost everywhere, was distracting. Especially his lower body, pinning her against the bed. An innocent might not understand what that hardness was, but she was no innocent, and her body, traitorous as it was, was responding to it. If he wasn’t a liar, she might well lean up and press her mouth to his.

  “You lied to me.”

  “When?” he demanded. “About what?” He frowned. “Was the party you saw when you arrived not enough to make a reasonable estimation of my character?”

  “That party was nonsense, and you know it!” she snapped. “You weren’t even attending before I got here—you were skulking by the fire with your fox friend. And you went straight to your room after I left your company! I saw you in the window.” She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. His smirk was back, that knowing smile that infuriated her and more.

  “You were watching me?” He leaned in, his mouth almost touching her ear. “I’m flattered.” His voice was a rumbling purr. “Is there anything you’d like to see up close?”

  “Stop it,” she insisted, even as she’d rather he not. “I’m serious.”

  He pulled up from her again. God, he was strong. He wasn’t gripping her wrists tightly at all, and there was no pressure on her either. He held his body above hers perfectly, almost as though they were standing close, not laying on his bed. “Serious?” He smiled. “Very well. You have a point, I suppose. So, make it.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were a witch,” she said. “You turn into a wolf, for God’s sake!”

  His gaze narrowed. “What business is that of yours?”

  “What business?” She rolled her eyes. “You’re a witch. We’re trying to open a magically sealed book. You didn’t think that fact about you was relevant? I heard you were debauched, but I didn’t think you were stupid.”

  He pulled back like she’d slapped him again. “I’m not stupid,” he insisted.

  “No? Then your magic?”

  “It’s not magic,” he snapped. “Not good magic anyway. My curse has nothing to do with your book or with the crozier!”

  “Curse?” She echoed the word. The wolf in the church hadn’t seemed cursed—then again, she didn’t know what cursed looked like.

  “Curse,” he insisted. He pushed back off her and rose, pacing away to stand by the door to the rest of the castle. “You’d do well to leave, while you still can.” He opened the door.

  She sat up on the bed. “You’re cursed with wolf form?”

  “Three days of every week.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. When he looked at her again, the seriousness, the pain, was gone, and the old Clavret, the single-minded, seductive king of pleasure was back. “If you’d like to see my animal nature, by all means, stay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Marie stared at him for a long moment. Which one was the real Clavret? The scholar who enjoyed books? The lecherous destroyer of virtue? The tormented, cursed crusader knight? That smiling young man in the portrait? “Done,” she said.

  “What?” A confused look came across his face.

  “I won’t say you didn’t warn me.” She patted the spot on the bed next to her. “Come on,” she insisted. “Show me your true self.”

  Bleiz gaped at her for a moment before closing the door. “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  He smiled and stepped toward her, tugging off his tunic. He paused at the bedpost, using it to balance as he stripped off his boots and stockings. “No wolf can function in the trappings of humanity,” he said.

  Marie bit her lip. She had wanted a conversation. If this is what it took to get the truth, she’d suffer through. The thought almost made her laugh out loud. There was no way time spent naked with Clavret could be called suffering. Unless he didn’t touch her at all. That might be called torture.

  He stood in front of her, almost naked. “If you really want this,” he said. He took her hand and rested it on the tie that held his pants on his hips.

  She stared at it, at her hand, for a long while. The night of her wedding, she had made a similar choice, eagerly pulling her new husband free from his clothing. Too eagerly, she thought in retrospect. She had been hungry for his touch, for all of it, and had made that desire known. She had no interest in playing the coy lady. In that, she believed, she and her mother were similar. On the other hand, Emma, Marie’s beautiful and demure sister, had been everything Marie wasn’t. She blushed, innocence lighting up her face, at any hint of physical love. She’d dropped her gaze, giggled, been everything Gerald, Marie’s Gerald, had wanted.

  What did she want? She let her gaze slide up to Clavret’s beautiful face, the chiseled features that made him look perfectly aristocratic, that could, she knew, look cruel. He looked haughty, now, daring her to take actions he most certainly believed she never had before. She wanted him, plain and simple. In every possible way she could imagine. The convent had done nothing to relieve Marie of her desires, her own wantonness that might have cost her love. One tug of a string and she could have him.

  Instead, she grabbed his hand and pulled him to sit next to her. “I want all of it,” she said. “All of you. I want to know about the curse, about your magic. I want to know you—the real you.”

  “This is the real me.” He caught her hand and raised it to his lips.

  She watched his lips on her hand and then slid her gaze back up to his eyes. “Undoubtably this is part of you,” she said. “But not all.”

  He let go of her hand. “Silly little nun,” he said. “You think that under all this is a good man? That you can somehow be the one to find that goodness and bring it out? That you can earnestly reason with me, and I’ll turn into a tame wolf? One who follows his mistress?” He snorted, derision in his words. “I might be a beast, but I won’t ever be some woman’s lapdog.” He stood. “After all your allure—your disguises, your wit, your fire—you’re nothing but a quaint moralizer. How very disappointing.”

  “Clavret,” Marie said, as he glared at her. “Bleiz—”

  “No, Sister Marie, familiarity won’t get you what you want either.” He caught her wrist again and gently pulled her to her feet. “Go.” He walked her to the door. “I’m not ruining myself. You’re very clever, letting me play the cad, expecting me to feel guilty for actions you inspire. But I won’t play this game. I won’t ruin a nun
and let you run back to the bishop and give him cause to ruin me.”

  He was almost to the door. Marie jerked her hand away. She backed away, toward the bed again, and stopped. “I’m no spy. And I’m certainly no innocent, Bleiz.” She grabbed the hem of her dress, shift and all, and hauled it off over her head, dropping it on the floor. Standing naked in front of him, she said, “I’m no besotted virgin.” She laughed and heard the bitterness in it. “I’m a nun because my husband didn’t want me. I’m a nun because I chose to let my sister marry my husband, to bow out gracefully so they could be happy. Your marriage fell apart, and what happened to you? Oh, look, you’re lord of the manor, with your orgies and your books. Me? I’m a nun in a cell. I spend my days copying works for other people, not reading what I want, learning what I want, writing what I want. You,” she pointed at him, “you get all the choices.”

  He stared at her, open mouthed, his gaze traveling up and down her body, lingering here and there.

  Marie flushed and wanted to grab her dress, cover herself. Surely he’d seen dozens, or hundreds, of naked women far exceeding her in beauty. But he looked at her with a hunger she hadn’t seen before—the same hunger she’d dreamed of seeing in her husband’s face.

  “What kind of fool was your husband?” Bleiz said softly, more to himself, Marie thought, than to her.

  Marie laughed quietly. “The normal kind, I imagine.”

  Bleiz’s gaze shot up to hers, and he grinned—seductive, yes, and full of desire, but not the same play acting at seduction from before. He brought his hand to his waist and undid the knot. He shoved the last of his clothes off, stepping out of them and coming at her, slowly, stalking.

  Marie giggled again, anticipation thrilling through her, her nerves rattling. “Everything about you is perfect.” She took him all in, not hiding her stares, watching his muscles as he moved, letting her gaze linger on the scars that she wanted to touch. Unabashedly staring at his beautiful cock, hard already. She couldn’t wait to curl her fingers around him, watch his face as she stroked him.

  Then he reached her, and swept her up in his arms, pulling her flush against him and pressing his mouth to hers. She opened her mouth to him, savoring the feel of his tongue as he slipped it against her own. She stroked her fingers through his hair. He slid his hands down her body, cupping her ass and lifting her up. She gasped and broke the kiss, her head falling back as she laughed and wrapped her legs around his waist.

  He held her pressed against him with one arm as he climbed onto the bed, only releasing her onto it when he had reached the middle, letting her head drop onto the soft pillow. He kissed her lips again, briefly this time, before trailing his lips across her jaw and down her neck to the well at the base of her throat. He cupped both of her breasts in his hands, and she gasped as he rolled his thumb over one nipple and took the other in his mouth, flicking his tongue across it until it stiffened.

  Marie writhed under his touch as he moved lower and lower, finally parting her legs and kissing the inside of her thighs. She curled her fingers in his hair again, urging him toward her center. He obliged, a low chuckle sending vibrations through her core, making her whimper.

  He stroked his finger along her folds, parting them. “Here?” he asked, voice rough.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He licked her then, his tongue finding the stiff nub, flicking back and forth across it. “Like this,” he said when he paused.

  “Yes!” She rocked her hips toward him. “Don’t stop!” she pleaded, knowing he was teasing her on purpose, knowing that there was so much more he could—he would—do.

  He slid a finger inside her, then another, and flicked his tongue across her again. She whimpered and writhed as he moved inside her, stroking her, finding the place that made her cry out, over and over. Her pleasure built, higher and higher, close to the edge, and every time he eased off, brought her back, until, as she begged him, he didn’t stop, and she came, the wave of pleasure crashing over her.

  Bleiz grinned at her, her lazy smile beaming at him. He lifted himself up and kissed her again, right above that perfect spot, and kissed his way up her body, over her navel, delighting in the sheen of sweat that covered her. Up to the valley between her lovely breasts, up her neck, to her mouth. Her pleasure had left him hard and aching for her, and he wanted to dip his hips, wrap her legs around his waist, and slide into her. But even more, he wanted to know if she wanted that, too.

  Marie drew one hand from his hair and traced it over his shoulder and down his back. Bleiz shuddered at the light touch, the tickling sensation. Then she slipped her hand over his hip and between them, wrapping her fingers around him. She stroked him, and he gasped at her touch.

  “You like this?” Marie murmured in his ear.

  “I do,” he breathed. “Very much.”

  “Mmhmm,” Marie said, slightly picking up her pace. “And this?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” He rocked his hips against her motion.

  “Ah-ah!” She stopped and held still.

  He froze. “But…”

  “Stay still,” she cautioned, and began to stroke him again, to tease him.

  He buried his face in her neck and whimpered as she picked up the pace even more, always stopping if he moved.

  “Bleiz?” she whispered in his ear, and his name on her lips almost made him climax right then.

  “Yes?” he breathed out.

  “I want this,” she squeezed him, “inside me. I want you inside me. Now.” She guided him to her entrance and lifted her hips, sliding him just inside her. She pulled her hand from between them and wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside.

  He thrust his hips forward, sliding all the way into her. She cried out, and he paused.

  “Don’t stop,” she said.

  He pushed himself up on his hands and looked down at her, her eyes barely open, looking up at him, her lips parted slightly. He rocked his hips back and forward again, watching as she bit her lip, and sighed. Each of his thrusts brought another noise of pleasure from her. She tightened her legs around him and rocked her hips up to meet his. He tried to keep his breath measured, but it came out in gasps as he focused on the sensation of her tight around him, hot and wet and hungry for him. He evened his pace, long, slow thrusts, watching her. He wasn’t small, he knew, and he didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to lose himself in his own pleasure.

  As if she read his mind, she laid a hand on his cheek. “Bleiz,” she murmured, “look at me.”

  He met her gaze, her deep brown eyes drawing him in. “Yes?”

  “You’re holding back. Don’t. Nothing but truth between us. Do you understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell me.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes. Nothing but truth.” He thrust hard into her, and she cried out, all pleasure.

  “Harder, Bleiz,” she demanded. “Faster.”

  “Oh, god, Marie,” he said, doing as she asked. He sped up, thrust into her to the hilt, and he savored every cry of pleasure, every moan it brought from her.

  She clung to him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs around his waist. Her own hips rose in rhythm with his. She pressed her mouth to his ear, begging him to keep going, telling him how good he felt, how much she wanted him, how close she was to climaxing again. And then she came again, tightening around his cock, crying his name in his ear, and he couldn’t hold on any longer, he thrust once, twice more, and came, his whole body shuddering.

  He held still, with her wrapped around him, for several moments, until both their breathing slowed. He rolled off of her onto his side and stared at her. She smiled up at him, reached up, and pushed some strands of hair out of his face. He kissed her again and again. She rolled over onto her side and propped her head on her hand.

  He smiled. He wasn’t going to make her ask. “When I was on Crusade,” he said, “I met a Saracen…”

  They talked for hours as the sun finished its rise to its peak and beg
an its drop in the west again. He told her as much as he could bear about his curse, about his attempts to break it, and about Bette, the lost love of his life. Only now, the pain seemed so much farther away, as he looked at Marie, his Marie, at least for now. She made him laugh, and he had not felt so much like his old self—so human—in a long time.

  He held her, too, when she talked about what it was like to fall in love, and to realize that the man she loved would never love her the same way. What it meant to find Asta, a companion, and to exchange a bridal gown for a nun’s habit. They spoke in phrases, small clips of sentences, because the other person already knew. Knew what loneliness was, what betrayal felt like. They both knew what it meant to hurt so badly, to hate so much, and to still want happiness for the person lost. Only when both their stomachs growled did they admit they had to move, had to break the spell of the moment, and return to the real world.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marie woke in her own bed and stretched, a little sad for having insisted on sleeping separately. She needed, she knew, the space to think about so many things. The crozier, the book still sealed, yes, but also the man. She glanced at the window, wondering if he was in his tower, thinking about her, too.

  She cast the covers off and got up, scolding herself. “Rubbish,” she said aloud to Asta, who raised her head and blinked, unhappy at being woken up. Asta had been unhappy last night, too, when Marie returned, at having been left alone so long. She had food and water, but needed company, too. After several minutes of chittering, of running all over the bed, and Marie when she tried to lay down in it, she finally calmed down. Not before giving Marie a good sniff all over, too.

  “Rubbish,” Marie repeated to the ferret. She shouldn’t be thinking about him at all, let alone about what he was thinking of her. They still had a job to do, and if sex got in the way, which it always did, they would have to stop. She hadn’t come to Sarum to lose her heart.