Chapter Ten #3
Dunstan’s mouth came down upon hers, hot and frantic. Her memory now intact, Marion knew that she had never been kissed before, and this was hardly what she had expected. Dunstan, true to his nature, was not tender but demanding, and she felt a tingle of fear that the Wolf would devour her.
She parted her lips to protest, but swallowed it in shocked surprise when his tongue thrust into her mouth.
It swept over her teeth, searching, marking and claiming, until Marion was stunned, not only at the Wolf’s actions, but at her own reaction.
Her body tightened, her nipples hardening against his massive chest and her thighs lifting, as if endowed with a will of their own, toward his.
The rain pelted down, sluicing around her in its own wild fury, but it was nothing compared to the tempest raging between them.
Marion felt as if she had spent her entire life sleepwalking, unaware of this whole world of passion and feeling, and now she was alive, every inch of her wet skin animated and seeking his.
Heat, welcome and wonderful, seeped through the water to rouse her body to a frenzied pitch, and Marion reveled in it.
She clutched at his tunic, hanging on for her very life as he swept her away on a maelstrom of liquid fire.
A moan escaped her, and he answered by pressing his lower body into hers.
His hand wound into her hair, forcing her head back so that he could thrust more deeply into her mouth.
Tentatively, Marion ran her tongue along his lips, and Dunstan released a feral growl of pleasure that sent her reeling with breathless excitement.
Lost in the tumult of sensation, she did not even notice the lightning cracking above them, followed by an answering boom of thunder, but suddenly Dunstan tore his mouth from hers to look up at the sky.
She whimpered, bereft at the loss of him until he glanced back down at her.
“Come, we must get inside,” he ordered roughly.
Dazed, Marion simply lay there, staring up at him, unable to move while he rose swiftly.
Then, with ridiculous ease, he lifted her into his arms and headed toward the shepherd’s croft.
Her heart pounded so furiously that she thought she might faint, but she knew that was something the old Marion would do.
The new Marion wrapped her arms around Dunstan’s neck and clung shamelessly.
The rain, which had been an uncomfortable nuisance all day, abruptly became exhilarating.
Marion lifted her face toward the chill water that washed over them, cleansing them in a natural bath, while Dunstan’s long strides carried them across the sodden grass.
A bolt of lightning streaked through the black sky, lighting the area with an eerie glow that heightened Marion’s sense of unreality.
Was she deep in a vivid dream, or was she really being carried by the Wolf through a savage storm, the wind pounding drops against them, soaking their skin and sliding off their wet bodies in great rivulets?
Thunder reverberated with a ferocity that seemed to shake the very earth, and Marion looked up at the Wolf’s handsome face.
His jaw was clenched, his features set with an intensity she had never seen, and she wondered if the warring elements were but a pale echo of what raged between the two of them. She fought back a shudder of anxiety.
The hut looked deserted, and the plot of land beside it overgrown.
Marion caught a glimpse of an old well, and then she was whisked inside, where a rotting stack of wood stood in a corner near a blackened fireplace, promising warmth, and a straw bed took up half of the space.
Although it smelled dank and musty, the place was relatively clean, and, more important, it was dry.
At one time, Marion might have protested such a tiny, dusty and smelly abode, but right now, anything with a roof seemed like heaven.
“Abandoned,” Dunstan muttered. Then he flashed her a genuine, one-of-a-kind smile that made her grateful that he still carried her.
Otherwise, she was certain her bones would have dissolved at the sight of those fine, white teeth, displayed so wickedly.
He let her down slowly, sliding her against his body in an exotic motion that threatened her ability to stand, but when she tested her legs, she was astounded to find that they could support her.
Leaving her with a burning look, Dunstan knelt to make a fire, and, suddenly cold without him, Marion rubbed her arms futilely as water dripped from her to the thirsty packed earth below.
“You had better get out of those wet clothes,” he said over his shoulder.
“We will lay them out as best we can here to dry.” He was right, of course; the sodden material was already chilling her.
And yet the idea of removing her gown in the presence of Dunstan de Burgh was dismaying, to say the least, especially in the closeness of the hut. Even the new Marion could not do it.
With a sigh, she struggled out of her clinging cloak and hung it on a rough spot in the wall. Although she immediately felt lighter, her gown was still hanging on her heavily, its damp folds pressing into her and making the drafts in the croft bite more sharply.
Hearing the welcome hiss of wood catching, Marion turned toward the promise of a blaze. Instead of greeting it readily, however, she froze where she stood, a small shocked noise escaping her tightened throat.
Apparently, Dunstan moved much faster than she, for he had already hung up his cloak and his tunic. His sword and his mail were set aside, and as Marion watched in stunned surprise, he calmly removed his braies.
The sight of the his broad back, gleaming with moisture, and his buttocks below, narrow and steely, made her sway on her feet.
Pressing hands to her scalded cheeks, she gasped in alarm when he turned to face her, and the sound became a strangled moan as the Wolf of Wessex stood before her totally, utterly naked.
For long moments, Marion could only stare at his gigantic male body.
She had never seen so much skin in her life.
It stretched taut over bulging muscles, glistened with the remnants of the downpour and puckered in places where fiendish-looking scars marked him.
His shoulders alone were massive, his chest, too.
It was incredibly wide and covered with dark hair that trailed down to his groin, where his man part lay in a thicket.
As Marion gaped, astonished, it rose up, growing before her eyes, as if gifted with a life of its own, until it was huge and erect. Mercy! Her gaze flew to his face, and she saw that smile that was not quite a smile, lifting the corners of Dunstan’s mouth while his eyes darkened ominously.
No little afraid of the look in those eyes, and of the bare form of the man who possessed them, Marion backed away until she was pressed against the side of the hut and leaned into it, grateful for support. With difficulty, she found her voice.
“Dunstan! What are you about?” she squeaked.
“I was about getting myself warm and dry,” he answered in a low, rough voice, “until you distracted me, wren.” Totally unashamed of his nudity, Dunstan put his hands on his narrow hips and assessed her slowly, his gaze glinting hotly over every inch of her in a way that made her burn with an answering fire.
“And I guess I shall have to take you in hand so that you may do the same.”