Harold entered his house like a conquering hero. In reality, he was just a wolf shifter who yelled down the phone for five minutes until the person on the other end promised that his wife’s packages would be delivered by the end of the day. But, the look on Christine’s face made him feel like he had conquered twelve countries.
“My hero,” she said, rushing up to greet him.
“I take it your boxes turned up.”
“Yeah, thank you, so much.”
“It was nothing,” he said dismissively. It really was nothing. Five minutes of yelling – that was nothing compared to what he did on any normal day.
“Fine, fine, fine,” she murmured, amusement in her eyes. “C’mon.”
Christine took his hand, and he allowed her to lead him to the kitchen. He’d pretty much follow her anywhere. She was wearing a yellow sweater and a pair of yoga pants. Her heart-shaped ass bobbed as she walked in the most fascinating way.
She led him to the table and scooted to get a plate out of the oven. “I made you dinner.”
Harold was touched by her thoughtfulness, though somewhat annoyed as well. He hadn’t brought Christine there to be a maid and cook. They had Esther for this; he didn’t expect Christine to spend her time doing it.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said gruffly.
“I don’t mind.”
“You shouldn’t waste your time taking care of me. I can take care of myself.”
Or he can pay Esther to do the things he didn’t have time for.
Christine’s smile faltered. “I was making my own dinner.”
“You can have Esther make it,” he told her impatiently.
The smile completely disappeared. “I like cooking.”
“I don’t expect you to go to any trouble,” he tried to explain. “I don’t want you to trouble yourself.”
Christine stared at him for a few seconds, before her mouth tightened into a small pout.
“Fine,” she murmured. “You better eat it before it gets cold. I’m going to unpack a few boxes.”
She walked away rubbing her forehead. An inner growl passed through him. He perhaps could have handled that better.
*
Christine rifled through her boxes, angry with her husband for a reason she didn’t really understand.
She hadn’t wanted to be some guy’s little wife – popping out babies and casseroles. But she didn’t have a problem with cooking – she cooked for herself. What on earth did he think she would do with all her free time? He certainly didn’t seem interested in being around to spend time with her, and Esther did everything else for her.
She pulled a picture of her parents out and smiled. It was taken last year on their thirtieth anniversary. They were gazing at one another in adoration. Even after thirty years together, they were still in love. But their relationship was more than that.
They had always been so happy. Her father had a lot of responsibility, but her mother was always there to support him, to share his problems, to offer her help and advice. They were partners. But Harold didn’t seem to want a partner. He married her because he was told to for the pack, but as far as making the best of things went, the only part of the marriage that seemed of interest to him was sex. It wasn’t enough.
She stiffened slightly as she sensed Harold coming. She concentrated on unpacking her belongings and didn’t pay much heed as Harold came into the room. Wordlessly, he moved around, undressing, donning pajama bottoms, brushing his teeth, and scrolling through e-mails on that damn phone that barely seemed to leave his hand.
She could sense his increasing impatience, but stubbornly she continued to unpack. Maybe she was being mean. They had only been together a few days, and the marriage was a sudden change for him as well as her. She wasn’t the only one having to adjust. Perhaps he never opened up to any woman. She couldn’t expect him to suddenly become a different person, especially for her, a complete stranger. Maybe…
“Christine, it’s late. Come to bed.”
“Okay,” she muttered.
She slipped into the bathroom and took her sweet time changing into a vest and shorts, scrubbing her face clean and brushing her own teeth.
Part of her hoped he would already be asleep by the time she got out there – to avoid the awkwardness she felt inside. Naturally, when she finally emerged, he was wide awake and growing more and more irritated with her dithering.
She started folding her clothes.
“Christine, will you come to bed?!” he growled. “Please,” he added as an afterthought.
“Okay.”
She flitted to her side of the bed and slipped under the covers. He settled down beside her, his annoyance wafting in her direction.
Christine slipped her watch off her wrist and reached over to place it on the bedside table.
“What happened here?”
“Huh?”
“Your scar.” He brushed his fingers over the scar on her shoulder, and she shivered lightly. It was a large, jagged scar, but one that was thankfully camouflaged by her numerous freckles.
She looked at him over her shoulder as he rubbed his thumb over the blemish.
“I fell off my bike when I was nine. I fell on broken glass.” It was before she turned into her wolf and before she could heal herself.
“That must have hurt,” he murmured, his eyes on her shoulder.
“Yeah. Hurt worse when a student doctor sewed me up – I think it was his first day. My mom was super pissed at the mess he made of it. But it’s hard to see it because of all my freckles. Guess they are good for something.”
She laughed self-consciously and nestled her head on the pillow. The freckles had always been a sensitive issue for her. Her mother and two sisters had tanned, blemish-free skin, but Christine took after her grandmother, in the dark freckles smattered all over her body. Roark had told her she was cute, and that he didn’t mind the freckles, but she wasn’t lovely like her siblings.
Christine gasped as, briefly, she felt Harold’s lips on her scar.
“What’s wrong with freckles?” he asked.
Another kiss. The unexpected tender touch sent tingles straight to her sex.
“Ah, they, ah, aren’t exactly pretty.”
“Says who?” grumbled Harold in between kisses. He slipped the vest strap off her shoulder.
“They just aren’t…”
Harold huffed and shuffled closer to her. His hardness pressed against her. She gasped as she realized he was already naked.
As his lips caressed her shoulder and neck his hands tugged at her shorts. He wanted sex. She should ask him to stop… right? This wasn’t a good idea. Sex without intimacy was a bad idea. Though, this felt pretty damn intimate. But she didn’t want a relationship where the only thing between them was sex.
Christine whimpered as his fingers found her clit. Her hips moved of their own accord, pushing back against his burgeoning arousal. She pressed herself against him, seeking both his manhood and his kisses. Her thoughts scrambled. Maybe this was what they needed. Maybe this was as close to intimacy as they would get. Maybe she would take any excuse she could get.
He finally managed to push her shorts over her ass; his progress hampered as his other hand strummed her throbbing bundle of nerves. But oh, if he had dared stop she would have growled at him at that moment. She could feel herself slickening, readying to take him. How could sex with him feel so good, and so right when the rest of the time she felt so churned up inside about him? She should stop this… maybe.
“I think freckles are beautiful,” he murmured against her neck.
“Oh, Harold,” she breathed. Lord, she was such a sucker. “Please, I need you.”
There was no triumphant growl, no self-satisfied reply to her statement like there would have been with Roark. Her ex had enjoyed teasing her, making her beg for him, loving how needy and weak she became. But Harold wasn’t like that; he wouldn’t torment her to make himself feel powerful. He wanted her, and she wanted him.
He grasped her thigh and pushed it up and forwards, opening her to him. She bit her lip as she felt the blunt head of his arousal nudging her drenched entrance. There was no holding back, no demanding she submit, Harold only hesitated for the briefest shade of a second to say ten words to her, and then he plunged inside. Her body tightened and exploded in a release on the first thrust.
Harold growled and drove himself inside her again and again as she gasped and whimpered through her climax.
Later she would tell herself it was because of his fingers on her clit – strumming her like she was a fine instrument. But no, it was the words that brought her so quickly to pleasure. Ones no one had ever said to her.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”