The Wolf King: A Fantasy Romance

My insides tighten.

Callum’s warm breath heats my skin, his lips almost touching my neck.

His shirt has ridden up to my hips, and I can feel the cotton of his breeches against the bare skin of my thighs.

My legs are parted to accommodate him, my core pressed against his hard stomach. When he shifts, my breath catches in my throat as a jolt of need courses through my body.

And the scent of him—Goddess, the scent of him—he smells like heat and male and the mountains.

He groans into my ear, and the sound vibrates through me.

“You don’t know how many ungentlemanly things I’ve thought about doing to you.” His voice is low, and his accent is even thicker than usual.

He brushes his lips against my neck, then shifts so his face hovers above mine. His solid weight presses down on me. His forearms are flat on the pillow on either side of my head.

I should feel trapped, held prisoner by his body. The strength of him, the sheer size of him, should make me feel weak. He is alpha of Highfell, a warrior and a wolf. I should be afraid.

Yet I feel something else entirely.

It is stirred by the quickening of his breathing, and the look in his eyes—there is dark intent there, but a hint of something else too. Awe, perhaps.

That first moment I saw him, standing stern and warrior-like in Sebastian’s fighting ring, I would never in a million years have imagined that one day, we would be in this position. I thought him a monster. A brute. Someone to be feared. Hated, even.

I wonder if that is what is going through his mind too, as he brushes a strand of hair from my face.

“What ungentlemanly things?” I ask.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Kissing you.”

“Gentlemen kiss their ladies.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes. There is a moment in the wedding ceremony where the groom kisses the bride.”

His eyes glint with mischief. “Hm. It seems I’m not quite as well versed in the ways of gentlemen as you, Princess. You’ll have to teach me. Do gentlemen kiss their ladies like this?”

He brushes his lips against mine. The kiss is gentle. Chaste. Frustrating. I want to buck against him—grab his hair, pull him closer to me. But my arms are pinned by my sides by his body, which holds me in place.

“Yes! And I told you to stop being a gentlemen, damn it!”

His grin widens, becomes wolfish.

“How will I know how not to act like a gentlemen, if I don’t know how they behave in the first place?” His tone is teasing, his demeanor calm. It frustrates me even further. He knows he has total control here. And what’s more, he is enjoying it.

“Do they kiss like this?” he asks.

He lowers his mouth to mine. This time, his kiss is deep. Rough. Claiming. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. There is only him, his mouth, his tongue moving in deep dominant strokes against mine, his groan that rumbles through my body and makes me quiver.

My hips move of their own accord, pushing my center against his bare torso, desperate for the friction.

I whimper when he pulls away, his breath still mingling with mine.

“Well?” he asks, his voice low and rough. The wolf flickers behind his eyes, fighting with the mischief that glimmers there.

“No.” The word escapes on a breath. “They don’t kiss like that.”

“Hm. Interesting. How about this?”

He shifts, moving down my body so he hovers over my chest. Eyes on mine, he lowers his mouth to where my nipple is peaked, visible through the thin material of his shirt. He clamps his lips around it and he sucks hard.

I cry out as my back arches from the mattress.

It should hurt, yet I thread my fingers into his hair and pull him closer as he gives my other nipple the same rough treatment. He chuckles, then moves his hand to my breast, squeezing and rubbing as he sucks—causing raw liquid heat to pool at my core.

I moan as the ache builds. My hips buck, and I cry out in frustration. His eyes are still on mine, even as he brushes his teeth against my breast and gently bites.

I gasp. “Callum!”

He lifts an eyebrow, then carefully, lazily, detaches himself. He doesn’t stop palming my breast. I arch into his hand, wanting to curse the material between us. His breathing is heavy and his cheeks are flushed. He is not as in control as he is implying.

“I asked you a question, Princess,” he says. “And until we get to the bottom of it, I’m not going to be able to move on to my next lesson.”

He pinches my nipple between his finger and thumb and an almost feral sound escapes my lips. The wolf becomes dominant in his eyes in answer to my call, before he pushes it back.

“No. That’s not very gentlemanly at all!” I gasp.

His grin widens. “No? Good. Because, there’s another place I’ve imagined kissing you for weeks now. You’ll have to let me know whether it’s gentlemanly or not.”

There’s a question in his eyes. My breathing is fast as I nod, my head brushing against the pillow.

I watch, entranced, as he lowers himself further down the bed. He pushes himself up, and kneels between my legs. His gaze sweeps up and down my body and his face darkens.

He is a vision of power and dominance. For a moment, he reminds me of a statue of a warrior—impenetrable, his expression serious. Only his chest moves up and down, deeply.

There is the same intent on his face as there was when I first saw him in that fighting ring.

Slowly, he slides his hands up my hips, hitching up the shirt and exposing my midriff and my underwear. I feel all of his attention hone in on the place between my legs that throbs with need. A low, almost inaudible growl builds in his chest, before his gaze moves back to mine.

My breathing is fast. I am completely at his mercy, and I do not know what he is going to do next. I am captivated. I cannot move. Cannot think. Not beyond the restlessness that builds like a storm in my chest, and the fire in my veins, and the ache that consumes me.

He shifts, and plants a soft kiss on my torso. The feel of his mouth and his stubble against my bare skin is almost too much to bear, and I whimper.

Then he lowers himself even further and my breathing becomes frantic.

He plants a kiss on my most intimate place, and I cry out as a jolt of pleasure surges through my body. He glances up at me, his mouth inches away from my core. His breath is warm through my underwear.

I should be pushing him away. I should not be so exposed, so brazen, so wanton with a man. Is this the kind of thing that happens in a brothel? I do not know. This is certainly not the way that a lady is supposed to behave. Least of all a princess.

Yet I lie there, my legs parted.

He cocks an eyebrow—and I know the question he is asking is not just part of his game. He is asking permission. If I play along, he will take this even further. How far, I do not know.

All I can think of is more.

“No,” I whimper. “Gentleman do not do that.”

He smiles, but his eyes darken. He slides down my underwear and tosses it aside, and my heartbeat hammers in my chest as he exposes me fully to him. His breathing becomes ragged, his shoulders hardening.

“Fuck. You’re beautiful,” he mutters, as he looks at me where no man has ever looked at me before. His eyes lift to mine once more. “Do they do this?”

He lowers his head and lightly kisses the sensitive bundle of nerves. I cry out as heat and surprise surge through my veins. Before I can process what he has just done, his mouth is on me, fully, completely. Hot and wet and hungry. He devours me. My back arches. My hips buck, and he grabs them, growling like a wild animal being disturbed from his prey, as he plants them firmly against the mattress.

He slides his tongue along my center, and I moan. I have never felt anything like it. He flicks, and licks, and sucks as though he cannot get enough of me, and the storm inside me becomes frantic. I want to lose myself to it. To this feeling. To him.

I reach for him, threading my fingers into his hair, pulling his mouth closer to me. I rock, shamelessly, against his face. He growls, sliding his hand up the shirt to roughly palm my breast.

“Fuck,” he groans against me, and I shiver.

I do not feel like a human or a princess. I feel primal. That wildness builds with each lap of his tongue, each squeeze of my breast, each time he rubs my nipple with his thumb. I am writhing beneath him, my legs spread fully for him, my fingers clenched in his hair.

He moves his hand away, and I’m about to protest when he slides a finger inside me.

I cry out at the pressure of it, at the friction. He moves his hand at the same pace as his tongue—deep and fast and rough. It builds, and I rock harder, needing more. Needing him.

He groans, the noise vibrating through me, then he slides in another finger, spreading me wider, opening me up even more to him. It is too much to bear.

“Callum. . . I’m going to. . . It feels. . . I. . .”

I cry out, my breathing fast, as release crashes over me, through me. The world blurs. There is only this feeling, wild and raw, pumping through my veins. I feel like the wind that tears through the Northlands, and the animals that rage through the forests. He growls, his mouth clamping over the bundle of nerves, tasting me as I come undone beneath him.

When I finally settle back into my body, I’m panting, splayed out on the bed.

Callum kisses me gently between my legs, his eyes on mine—the wolf is prominent behind them. When he pulls away, his lips are moist. He drags his teeth over them, a low growl scraping against his throat. He climbs back over me, and gently kisses my mouth.

I moan against his lips, brushing my fingertips down the side of his face.

I am aware of his hard length, pressing against my bare thigh.

I should feel embarrassed, yet I do not think I have ever felt so relaxed in all of my life.

He looks down at me, and smiles softly.

“Well?” he asks, mischief in his expression. “Does a gentleman do that?”