Page 19 of Wolf Duke

Next, two thick fingers eased inside her wet heat and Evaine writhed as her untouched channel was stretched for the first time. Greedy for more, the sensation of fullness, the light friction, she pressed against his hand…and cried out again as his fingertip rubbed against a spot so sensitive that she bucked against him.

“There?” Alaric asked, sounding exceedingly smug.

Evaine scowled. If she didn’t crave more of this divine stroking, she would have crushed his instep. How could she retaliate and level the scales? “Touch yourself,” she whispered. “Stroke your cock while you pleasure me.”

He inhaled unsteadily. “Not just saucy-tongued, but lusty as well. How to manage such a wicked princess?”

“You can but try,” she said simply, her head falling back against his massive chest as his fingers thrust inside her, his thumb teasing her pleasure bud until she thought she might scream. Something was building inside her, building and building like a rock gathering speed as it tumbled down a hill.

Desperate to discover, Evaine ground her mound against him. Yet moments later it was all so much better, so much hotter, when his knuckles scraped against her arse, the smooth, silken weight of his heavy cockhead slapping against her skin as he handled himself. Their combined scents, her wetness, his seed, the light sheen of sweat and desire were dizzying, but his fingers were nothing short of magical. How did he know exactly the depth to plunge them? How to twist just a little when he rubbed so it felt like her whole channel was being caressed? And the pressure on her swollen bud…nearly perfect, but…

She whimpered.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Alaric rasped in her ear.

“Faster,” Evaine moaned. “Harder. I want…I want…I need…”

She could scarcely speak, yet somehow, he knew. With the heel of his hand pressing firmly against her mound, Alaric added a third finger. Evaine gasped at the luscious impalement, the erotic sensation of being held up solely by his fingers and entirely at his mercy, exactly what she craved. Then he knitted the three together and twisted them, rubbing against that internal spot that made her writhe.

“Yes,” snarled Alaric into her ear as he bit her shoulder. “Spend for me, sweetheart. I want to hear your pleasure. I want everyone to hear it. You’re so beautiful. So lusty. And the way your sweet cunt is gripping my fingers…Goddess…”

The wicked words tumbled her over the edge. Bucking against him, Evaine opened her mouth and unleashed a sound she didn’t even know she possessed: a long, guttural howl of pure ecstasy. Shortly afterward he roared, and hot seed lashed across her lower back. But that wasn’t enough, for Alaric smeared it over her skin. An act of pure possession.

Evaine sighed in complete contentment as she sagged against him, panting for breath. Yet then she went rigid as a shocking pain seared across the back of her neck. “Ow. Ow!”

“Evie?” said Alaric, his concern unmistakable as he carefully withdrew his fingers. “Are you sore? Is this too much?”

“My neck,” she replied, wincing and lifting a hand to swipe at it.

Wait. What was that?

“Alaric,” she continued, now alarmed. “Can you see anything under my hair? It feels rough. Bumpy.”

He gingerly lifted her hair. “No. No!”

“What? What is it?”

There was a long, long silence. So long, Evaine trembled in fear. Then one blunt finger traced a shape over and over, as though he didn’t understand either.

“It’s two stars,” said Alaric eventually, in a tone she’d never heard him use. One of utter confusion…and a little wonder. “Above that, a crown.”

Evaine froze. She’d just seen those symbols! “The royal mating mark? My mother had that mark on her nape. Your mother does, too. My father had it on his wrist.”

He stepped back, and the distance felt like a chasm, the cool air now making her shiver.

“But this cannot be,” Alaric said hoarsely. “I’m already mated and she is dead.”

Still reeling, Alaric struggled to regather his scattered senses.

Pleasuring Evaine, drowning in their combined scents, hearing the most perfect sound imaginable: the long, strong howl of a she-wolf finding sweet release because of his touch, then staking his claim and spending all over her soft skin…nothing could be more satisfying. It had all felt so right here in his library, the place where they’d first met.

But the royal fated mate mark suddenly appearing on the nape of her neck had shocked him to the core. The symbols had risen so swiftly after Evaine reached her peak. With Theda, he had no idea when it happened; as he’d woken with heavy limbs and a foggy head, the mark had just been there. But the two stars and crown looked very different on Evaine—a flawless celestial blue against her creamy skin, the lines so precise and even, as though they’d been stamped by Leto herself. Whereas Theda’s neck—and his wrist—had been mottled pink with inflammation, the lines a little rough and the color noticeably lighter.

Because they’d been etched.

Had Theda chosen a sleeping draught to dull her pain? Or was it only him who’d been drugged?

Alaric pressed a closed fist to his lips, unsure whether to roar, rampage through the castle, or simply sit and rock with mad laughter until some kind soul dumped icy water over his head. How terribly humiliating it was to concede that he’d been so easily and neatly caught in a trap.