Page 32 of The Spirit of the Wolf

He took in a deep breath, letting go of it slowly, afraid of any quick action on his part which might cause her to disappear. At last, he found his voice and discovered he was able to say, simply, “You are beautiful.”

She smiled up at him, and in the look was so much affection—innocent, yet provocative affection—he thought he might quietly go out of his mind.

Then he did what seemed the most natural thing to do. He tenderly caressed her breasts. He bent toward her, trailing impassioned kisses from her forehead, down to her cheeks, down farther to her ear, her neck, and finally to each rosy tip.

She moaned and threw back her shoulders as though to offer herself more fully to his ministrations. His body answered hers in an entirely male way. He pulled her dress past her waist and then took it off her, leaving only the transparent white material of her gown covering her. This, too, found its way to her feet quickly. He knelt and massaged each foot in its turn as he slipped off her shoes and hose.

Glancing up, he was enamored by the sight of her completely naked form. Emotion choked at him, but aware of what they both needed, he pressed her onto her back and came up over her. His fingers trailed up and down, over every quivering bit of her flesh, found unerringly, too, that moist place between her legs.

As his touch feasted on her there, her hips swayed against him in a sweet, gentle rhythm. It was an exquisite bit of pure heaven, and he said, “I think, my wife, that you are ready for me.”

“Yes, I think so too. Although…”

He frowned down at her.

“Although shouldn’t you remove your clothes?”

He gulped. His own state of dress had escaped his notice.

Reaching toward his waist, he untied his breechcloth, letting loose his engorged manhood. At her gasp, pleasure washed through him, for surely she complimented him. He positioned himself over her.

Though he could barely hold himself back, before he took the next step, he needed to ask, “Forgive the question, my wife. I mean no insult. But had you and Scout LaCroix been physically intimate?”

Again, she moaned, but this time it did not sound as though it were from pleasure. “Please believe me. LaCroix was not my husband.”

He nodded. “But did he⁠—?”

“Please, go no further.”

Grey Coyote swallowed, and feeling as guilty as a young lad having been caught doing something wrong, he became still. True, he had asked her to stop him if she were able, but he had never dreamed he would come so far before she would demand a withdrawal.

He dropped his hands, and setting her away from him, he reached for his breechcloth.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Why have you stopped?”

He cleared his throat. “You said to go no further. I will respect that.”

“Oh, no, no,” she replied easily, relaxing back against the buffalo robe. “You misunderstood. I meant not to speak to me further of Jacques LaCroix. Please believe me, I speak true when I tell you he lied to you. He was not, is not, has never been my husband. I have never been married to anyone. In truth, I have never been with a man before.”

Grey Coyote swallowed. “Never?”

She shook her head. “Never.”

His breathing stopped, his throat tightened. This woman was a virgin?

If it were possible, his spirits flew straight to the heavens, for it took no genius to realize he would be her first. Would he also be her only?

He refused to follow this line of thought and pulled together his musings. “I think we will proceed slowly.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “But not too slowly.”

Again, he swallowed hard, and he came down over her, pressed his lips to hers, and with one slow push after another, he joined himself with her physically.

Ah, the warmth that welcomed him, the pleasure of her inner recesses. He shuddered, and his sigh against her was deeply felt.

Everything about her was right, from her feminine scent, to her naked form, to her very soul. Forget that they had been together for so short a time. It was as though they were old friends, as though this were merely a reacquainting of the heart. Had he been born only so he might live and experience this moment?

He pushed himself upward, still sheathed within her tightness, and he proceeded to love her, but perhaps in a slower, more controlled way than the manner in which he had been accustomed to doing.