Unable to resist any longer, he brushed his lips against hers. Soft and yielding, they felt like ripe fruit, an undeniable invitation. But a mere touch wouldn’t sate him.
Torn between desire and restraint, Kennard hovered over Elena. A kiss, a touch – would it rouse her? His blood pulsed, fueled by the memory of her fervent grip, the possessiveness that mirrored his own. He fought the urge to engulf her, to claim her completely.
He pressed his lips to hers, a fleeting touch, then studied her face for a reaction. None came. The fur shifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of creamy flesh. A single perfect peak stood out, a beacon of invitation. He cupped her bre*st, the touch gentle, then his fingers tightened on the sensitive nub. A twist, a flick – a test.
Her brow furrowed momentarily, but sleep held her fast. Frustration gnawed at him. He maneuvered her, one arm finding the curve of her neck, the other tracing the delicate line of her shoulder. He cupped her bre*st, his touch more insistent now. He took a hold of the peak, the soft flesh yielding to his ministrations. A soft moan escaped her lips, muffled by sleep.
“Damn it,” he muttered, a low growl escaping his throat. The frustration of simply looking at her, so near yet so out of reach, was a physical ache. How long had it been? Last night, their tangled bodies had been inseparable, a marathon of passion that stretched from dusk until dawn.
The wait stretched on, an agonizing eternity despite the relentless march of time. Sunlight, filtering through the partially open curtains, revealed it was already late afternoon. Disappointment gnawed at him.
“Still asleep,” he muttered, the words heavy with frustration. “You haven’t even eaten.”
He yearned to rouse her, to sweep her into his arms. Reason, however, held him back. There would be other times, he reassured himself. He could hold her, look at her, have her beside him – always. The only fear was that desire, a relentless tide, would eventually drown out his restraint.
A faint chime, followed by a knock on the door, shattered the fragile peace. Kennard didn’t need to see who it was; the scent of Serin’s pheromones, a persistent presence since dawn, gave him away. Another knock echoed, and Kennard sighed. He didn’t want to be disturbed, but ignoring Serin was no longer an option. He knew exactly why he was here.
Gently, he lifted Elena, careful not to disturb her slumber. He draped the fur over her, hiding the evidence of their intimacy, then reached for his discarded trousers and pulled them on. Barefoot, he crossed the room and flung open the door to reveal a waiting Serin.
Kennard, bare-chested and hair disheveled, leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. Serin’s jaw slackened.
“Get dressed,” he muttered, his irritation barely contained. “How long do you plan to stay here anyway?”
Kennard raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“Soldiers from Montefiano have arrived.”
“I’m aware.”
“Aware?” Serin’s voice spiked. “Didn’t you smell the reeking pheromones of three hundred wolves a mile away? They were practically at the gates before sunrise!”
Disbelief contorted Serin’s face. He shook his head. “Of course your superior sense of smell would pick that up. But why haven’t you joined them?”
“You’re the head Templar, Serin. You don’t need a babysitter. You have men on the border, don’t you?”
Serin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not about that. Do you think a pep talk from me, a lowly Knight Templar, compares to the Grand Duke and Lord Commander himself?”
Kennard’s patience wore thin. He leaned closer, his arm brushing against the doorway. “Are they easily offended by my absence? Is that the real reason for your delay?”
Serin frowned, siding with the soldiers. “Absolutely not. Apparently, a landslide blocked the road. They had to take a detour.”
“A landslide?” Kennard echoed, skepticism lacing his voice.
