The Legend of the Werestag by Tessa Dare Read Free Book Online

pushed back the piano bench and stood. “Of course I do not mean to wed a werestag,” she said, crossing to the window. “But that encounter showed me what I truly desire. I want the man who will be there when I need him. The man who will protect me, fight for me.”
    “I have fought for you, Cecily.” His voice was low, and resonant with emotion. “I have fought for you, protected you. I have suffered and bled for you.” He approached her, covering the Aubusson carpet with a lithe grace that made her weak in the knees. For a moment, she was reminded of the majestic white stag: the innate pride that forbade him to heed her commands; the sheer, wild beauty of his form. They were so alike, he and Luke.

    Cecily’s breath caught. What did he mean, he had fought for her, bled for her? Was he referring to last—
    “I have fought for you,” he repeated, thumping a fist to his chest. “Risked my life on battlefields—for you, and for Denny, and for Brooke and Portia and every last soul who calls England home. Is that not enough?”
    Mere inches separated them now. She swayed forward, carving the distance in half. Her heart drummed in her breast as she whispered, “No.”
    His eyes flared. “Cecy…”
    “It’s not enough.” She lifted one hand to his neck, curling her fingers into the velvety hair at his nape.
    Yes, every bit as soft as it looked. “I want more.”
    If their game was taunting, victory was hers. Grasping her by the hips, he crushed her to the wall and kissed her with abandon. And unlike a typical kiss, which started with superficial contact and then deepened by degrees, this kiss began at the end. He devoured her in those first desperate seconds, prying her jaw wide, stroking deep with his tongue; but then he soon retreated to gently explore her mouth. And then he was worshipping just her lips—reverently tracing their shape with his tongue, blessing them with feather-soft kisses as she stroked his hair.
    Oh. Oh, sweet heaven.
    His hands slid up to cup her breasts. She arched against him, pressing her breasts into his palms, thrilling when he thumbed the hardened tips. He bent and kissed her throat, her collarbone, the tender border of her décolletage. His tongue dipped between her breasts, and she clutched him tight.
    “Yes,” she said aloud, afraid he might stop. This was what she needed. Yes, yes .
    This was paradise.
    He would most certainly go to hell for this.
    Luke knew it, and he didn’t bloody well care. It was all he could do not to drag her down to the carpet, toss her skirts up around her ears and claim her in the most primitive way possible—what remained of his soul be damned.
    He wanted to possess her mouth, her body, her mind and heart. To touch every deep, soft and secret part of her: the tender arch of her palate, the vulnerable curve beneath each breast, the snug corner of her heart where his memory lived.
    The mindless wanting surged in his blood, stiffened in his groin, twisted in his chest. It hurt. He ground his hips against hers to soothe the ache, and she shuddered, as though she could glimpse the lewd images cavorting in his mind.
    He drew back immediately.

    Rein it in.
    This wasn’t about unleashing his base desires. This was about giving Cecily a new memory of him, to surpass all others. He’d been her first kiss, all those years ago. For the rest of her life, she would have compared every kiss from every man to that one perfect moment—until he lost control and mauled her last night, erasing that legacy completely.
    But there were other firsts he could give her. Other experiences she would remember, measure every other man against. He had to restrain his animal urges, excavate whatever remnants of patience and tenderness still remained to him.
    He had to make this very, very good.
    She trembled as he eased her neckline downward, freeing the luscious swell of one breast.
    “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.
    “I’m not,” she said. Then, pleading: “Just