Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 11

"Mom invited you," she choked out the words, looking back up into his face. "But why? - I'm your songmate, Mac. I already belong to you."

His heart bounded and he smiled at her, eyes warm.

"I wanted," he bit his lip, a little hesitantly, "I want your parents to understand -" His voice cut off as she flung herself up against him, kneeling raised up on his thighs, hugging him as hard as she could, arms wrapped around his head.

"Is this a yes?" he whispered slightly unsteadily into her breasts, the plump mounds heaving against him. She couldn't let him go.

You know damn well it's a yes, she conveyed fiercely.

Say it aloud, he requested silently, his heart thundering. Then he asked formally, a slight tinge of amusement to his voice, the words muffled by the soft mounds pressing against his face: "Will you marry me, Dr Gemma Smith? Despite the fact that I'm occasionally a bit stubborn and have been known to bite from time to time?"

Occasionally a bit stubborn? A blush seemed to infuse her body. How many girls had a proposal whispered into their breasts, for Pete's sake?

You picked this position, he reminded her. Not that he was complaining. I was all set to propose to you romantically on one knee at dawn, but nooo.

"Yes," she whispered back. There were a lot of things she wanted to say in return, but the scent of his rapidly rising lust was making her throat tight and her mind cloud over.

Good. Now we can both head back to bed. Mr Romantic had evidently skedaddled. Mac was on his feet and had leapt back down into the cabin with her in his arms even as he conveyed the thought.

But romance was not completely dead. They reached the shore the following day. Gemma's eyes widened as she took in the round, gleaming carriage waiting on the quay of the marina in the early morning sunlight. The four horses harnessed to it began shifting their weight slightly uneasily as Gemma and Mac approached up the gangway, even though they were downwind of the herbivores.

A coach-and-four?

She tried to decipher the logo discretely embossed on the side, just before Mac covered her eyes with his palm and murmured, "No peeking".

It would have been so much more romantic if she hadn't suspected that he'd covered her eyes so that she couldn't give their position away, however involuntarily.

Mac courteously took over holding the rear door for her from the driver, and she kept her head down, purposefully not looking while she climbed inside. Her mate was quivering with eagerness, and he pounced in after her as soon as she'd settled onto the springy, spacious seat. He rolled atop her and plastered her against the plush velvet, beginning to smother her face with kisses.

Her laughing protest was muffled by his greedy mouth, and the vague discomfort in her head at the idea of a driver watching them evaporated underneath those skilful lips.

It was a bit of a waste of a romantic carriage ride. Gemma didn't notice the equipage being set in motion; Mac's hands began to glide underneath her t-shirt. She didn't notice as the silk-lined, well-sprung vehicle crept its way off the smooth quayside onto a cobbled track either. Her mate's tongue slowly and strongly thrusting into her mouth in a very suggestive manner prevented her from noticing the bumps as they ascended slowly through the trees.

Somewhere within her lurked a vague disappointment when the unsteady motion of the carriage smoothed out again, because she was no longer ground against Mac's hard body with each bump. She missed it.

The smoothness of the asphalt road meant that she had to do her own grinding. Not an irretrievable situation.

She was aware of the flashes of sunlight beaming through gaps in the trees, because they bounced along the mesmerising lines of Mac's arms and bared chest, so smooth, hard, yet slightly yielding under her fingers. Who had pulled his shirt buttons off? They seemed to be scattered all over the seat and floor.

Some naughty woman.

She did, eventually, notice that the coach had stopped and the way-too-poker-faced driver was patiently holding the door open for them. But she only noticed because Mac sighed and leaped off her out of the opening. Her wolf, easily relaxed in his gaping shirt, untidy drawstring trousers, ruffled hair and bare feet, then spun to lift her out, swinging her around exuberantly in his arms. She laughed aloud at his joyous expression, blushing faintly as she pulled her own errant T-shirt back down to her waist.

T-shirts nowadays, they don't know how to behave.

Gemma was too distracted to notice where he was carrying her. The early morning sun was gleaming in a golden halo through his gorgeous mop of hair, which was still standing on end from her ministrations. That hair needed more attention. Lots of it. Gemma was purring internally to the feel of it teasing through her fingers when Mac stepped into the shadow of a vast building. Abruptly her lips froze, midway through kissing the bare skin over his bicep. Her heart bounded as she took in the breath-taking, beautiful view behind him, the multitude of rainbow colours of misty spray shimmering in the sunlight above the majestic falls; she only then realised that the roaring in her ears was partially external.

Mac stilled, and half turned so that he could follow her stunned gaze. A gentle sigh eased from his chest. They stood silent for a long moment. Gemma's throat was aching and a tear dewed the corner of her eye, peace curling through her. The fierce, perfect beauty of the light shimmering through the ceaselessly cascading water.

That's how you make me feel, picchu.

The words in her head were quiet, matter of fact. Her lip wobbled. Then Mac added, "Well, that as well," and a surge of lust powered through him as he turned to bound urgently on up the marble steps. Gemma struggled to suppress a sudden violent urge to bite him for the pathetic duration of his romantic conversation.

The urge was smothered as the vaulted entrance dwarfed them and she swallowed, blood shuddering in her veins at the awe and inadequacy thundering through her. She could see the doorman eyeing them surreptitiously, wondering who on earth this scruffy pair were.

She flushed, vividly self-conscious in Lianne's T-shirt and baggy shorts, being carried by her barefoot mate, his slightly torn (tsk tsk) shirt hanging loose, across the marble atrium to a huge, ornate reception desk. Evidently they were in a hotel. A human hotel, judging by the scents of everyone around them. And a very, very exclusive one.

OK, Mac still managed to look fantastic whatever he wore - witness the several women around the hall eyeing him in both surreptitious and blatant admiration, but she was feeling seriously out of place. Everything around her was so discreet and expensive it was almost shrieking "What did the cat drag in?" at them.

Her lips quirked against her mate's skin. Shhh. Mr Wolf doesn't like being called a pussycat.

Mac slanted a sarcastic eye down at her while he halted by the gleaming walnut countertop. She hadn't tried to hide that thought.

"Macmillan," he murmured succinctly to the really, really too instantly, eagerly attentive, immaculate blonde behind the desk. Gemma felt herself bristling at the faint hint of the girl's arousal in the air, the way the receptionist's eyes lingered on Mac's biceps, the light flush rising in the human's cheeks. A growl arose in her throat, but was smothered beneath lust at the brush of Mac's lips over her neck, and the light tingle of his breath in her ear when he turned his tawny head and murmured, "Easy, my picchu. Growling is not a common human trait. Just glare at her."

Who?

Oh. The girl.

Mac was now carrying her swiftly to the stairs, having hitched her briefly onto one arm to scoop up the keytag. She'd been too busy admiring his biceps herself at that point to bother who else was looking. But over his shoulder she couldn't help but notice the way the receptionist's eyes were transfixed by the smoothly pulling muscles in his taut buttocks as he loped easily away. Then the woman's starry eyes rose, tracing the broad shoulders, loosely defined under the gaping shirt. The small cherry-painted lips parted as a sigh escaped.

Abruptly the human's gaze widened, caught by the dangerous light in the wereem's eyes, glaring over her mate's shoulder. But an imp of mischief seized Gemma, cresting over the rising anger, and she simply smiled wickedly and stuck out her tongue, an incredibly smug taunt gleaming in her sparkling eyes.

Which of us is he carrying to bed? Eat your heart out.

The receptionist flushed scarlet and then blinked rapidly, dropping her head, eyes slightly fearful.

God, she'd enjoyed doing that.

"Picchu," growled her Alpha warningly, scenting the renewed aggression in her musk.

She wrinkled her nose up at him, and he flattened her abruptly against the side of the stairwell, and dove down for a smothering kiss, melting her into his embrace.

"Behave yourself," he warned. Eventually.

Gemma had to wrench herself back into coherency so that she could reply, but after a few deep breaths managed to force out a feeble squeak of, "Make me."

"Oh boy oh boy oh boy!" crowed her wolf, and suddenly they were bounding up the stairs four at a time.

Why couldn't she keep her mouth shut?

What a ridiculously boring life she would have if she did.

Oh boy oh boy oh boy, the exultant words echoed in her head while her taut, trembling skin shuddered in anticipatory glee.

The Rainbow Falls hotel. Wow. The hotel was renowned worldwide for the historical masquerade balls, held on the first Saturday of each season. Not her league at all, but so much fun for one night. Gemma's stomach was shimmering in excited anticipation. Tonight was the Fall Ball, and she'd had managed to cajole Mac into agreeing to attend. He'd enjoyed being cajoled. Especially as she'd mentioned that she'd appreciate it if he bought her some wolf-tooth caps, so that she could do it properly in future.

Apparently they had to hide out for a couple of days while her mate sorted somewhere for them to disappear where she could still work, where Gus would deliver the remaining drug. Mac had reassured her that Gus had recovered the package from Kate, and her human friends were fine, although still under covert surveillance for their own safety. But they desperately needed an antidote as soon as possible, so that they could find Grey and find out how he'd manipulated his pack. Before he did it to anyone else.

They?

Gemma wasn't stupid. It had become increasingly evident that despite them both now being 'DeadWolf', Mac wasn't working in isolation. All Alphas could convey to each other. And at least one of his former allies was keeping him supplied with information to their benefit. She also knew that Mac had reported what he'd seen in the ex-Grey wolves to the Wolflord. She had a feeling Gus Fealden was currently on a covert mission as a delivery service to Deadwolf Laboratories.

But that was nothing she could deal with right now. They had a few days out of time. And her mate had picked this amazing place as a hideout.

Mmmmm.

Gemma felt her stomach fluttering in excited anticipation as she fitted the mask carefully over her irrepressible blissed-out expression and surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. She didn't think she'd lost this stupid smile for one second since her tawny-haired, gorgeous male model mate had kissed her breathless while he'd lowered her to her feet in the spa doorway two hours ago.

He had had to carry her back downstairs too. Her legs hadn't been working by that point. Much to his smug delight.

And hers. Oh oh oh and hers. Thank god as a werewolf she now recovered quickly.

Her spine tingled. Her smile, impossibly, widened, a blatant, constant advertisement shouting "I have been supremely, gloriously fucked all day long." Would she just lose that cat-got-the-extra-scrumptious-thick-and-tongue-tingling-cream smile?

Gemma pulled a grumpy face at herself in the mirror. It bounced back instantly into a grin.

Huh.

She could pretend it was the dress making her smile. Gemma had always loved dressing up, since she was very little, and now she delighted in sweeping around the costumier's dressing room in the heavy, ruby red brocade, mastering her balance on the delicate heels. The bodice of the Elizabethan gown they had fitted for her was cut low, with a pattern of tiny pearl-coloured beads shimmering as she moved. The tight lacing around her waist make it seem tiny, lifting and supporting her full breasts in plump mounds, leaving her shoulders bare. The full boned skirt curved out almost horizontally from her waist, then dropped to just brush a large circle of the floor, swaying majestically as she walked. Gemma turned swiftly, and the full, heavy fabric swirled in a rich, sensuous curve around her, the weight pulling at the richly beaded waist, making her insides dance with the exotic, bewitching exuberance of this gown.

Still smiling under her mask, Gemma swished superbly down the hallway to the reception area.

Apparently, the tradition was that the masked women would all assemble in the Honey Bar for an aperitif before the meal, and the males would swarm in to find them. Each man would offer to escort a lady to dinner, and newlyweds, or soon-be-weds, were the subject of much teasing attention, it being a point of honour among the other diners to attempt to fool or fluster either or both partners into accepting an alternative escort.

Like she wouldn't recognise her mate's scent.

Her breath caught when the men finally appeared in the far doorway. Wow. She didn't need scent. His gorgeous hair was drawing her eyes across the room. Not just her eyes either, she could scent female interest rising around her. And she knew whose thick, tawny hair they were drooling at. Plus that strong, graceful, powerful build. The luscious lips. Mac looked magnificent, in a smart black velvet doublet, the slashed sleeves displaying a rich green silk which exactly matched the shade of his gorgeous eyes behind the mask. He stood in the doorway, hands on hips as he surveyed the room. His thighs stretched tight the skin-hugging hose, showing off the taut definition of muscle on his legs. And the tight mound of the codpiece at his groin. Gemma swallowed, eyes tracing over him.

Then the green eyes caught hers, and he stepped toward her, drawing her gaze up, smiling, lifting her out of her private drool. Flaring, lustful black swirled into the green eyes as they slowly travelled down the length of her, and his desire scorched across the room while he speeded up his steady advance.

I think I may buy you that gorgeous dress. His thoughts were so blazingly heated, you'd never have thought he'd already spent most of the day fucking her.

She curtsied to him across the room, feeling the fire in his mind blazing higher as her deep cleavage was presented to him, pressing against the tight bodice.

Then she felt his irritation spike when his passage was impeded.

As she rose back to her feet, Gemma was first amused, then irritated, then felt a light tinge of anger as she watched the bevy of beautiful females jostling for turns to oh-so-accidentally sprint into his path, trip, or fling their clutch bag under his feet, so that Mac had to stop and they could start up a conversation. She tried to feel sorry for them; her mate was adept at swiftly disengaging himself, leaving a little trail of pouting ladies in his wake. It may be a game, but she had no doubt that the women would have played it to the rousing finale, given a chance.

Then gradually she became aware of the hint of danger growing in the sparkle in her mate's eyes as he crossed the room, and realised that she herself had collected a little circle of admirers.

The scent of their human arousal was cloying, a disturbing, distasteful drug in the air, surrounding her, making her twitch on a shudder, shrinking slightly. Then the bile rose in her throat at the increased, greedy, interest in the air aroused by her almost undetectable withdrawal.

The roman emperor to her left offered her a small bowl of olives, eyes gleaming as he tilted the dish. He drawled, "Mademoiselle?" and lifted one of the tart fruits, biting suggestively into its flesh, eyes gleaming lustfully.

It should have made her giggle. But the scent was wrong, the thick, heavy pushing smell of male human arousal invading her head; the smothering, unsettling reek of gang lust rising from the group closing around her clouding her brain. The fear, the temper, the shattering fear of her own temper were rising with it.

"No thanks," she breathed, and shrank away, trying to evade the posse around her. The predation in the scent rose with her fluttering movement as the men encircled her again, and she felt her hackles rising, teeth lengthening, the tang of anger sharp on her tongue.

Shh, my picchu. Calm. I am almost with you.

The words in her head soothed over her quivering tension. Then abruptly both she and her mate froze, incredulous, when she felt the oily skin of an olive being traced gently along her collar bone, then stroked suggestively down to trail along the V of her cleavage. The Caesar's eyes gleamed blatant meaning down at her, and she watched in disbelief as he lifted the fruit back to his lips and bit down, slowly.

Right over her mate's naulu. Black fury obliterated her reason.

Coming back to herself, Gemma's vision was filtered through a black haze, her brain still seething. She was clamped to Mac's side, and clamped also within a powerful hold on her mind that she realised had prevented her from shifting wolf to rip the human to pieces. That man had dared to touch her.

I'll deal with him. Mac's anger echoed darkly in her head.

The wave of her own fury abated just as abruptly as it had descended, and she was released. Gemma stood blinking the last black flecks out of her vision while she distractedly watched a very suave, quietly seething wolf holding the large, struggling would-be emperor by a simple, unbreakable grip on the jaw, and casually forcing olive after olive after olive into the spluttering mouth, too swiftly for the man to expel them. She realised that she must have only been out of reason for a second. Silence gripped the little circle where they stood, and no-one except her mate moved. The rest of the men were watching avidly, mouths slightly open.

Breathlessly, they all waited. Olive followed olive. The silence and stillness, the realisation of what was happening were spreading out through the room as other guests and staff turned to watch and little murmurs rippled through the crowd.

The man's cheeks were bulging like an overindulgent chipmunk's, his eyes goggling at the uncanny force of the grip on his jaw and the strength of the fingers which ruthlessly posted the olives between his lips when Mac eventually broke the breathless hush, saying softly, "I believe my fiancée said no." Her wolf relentlessly forced yet another small fruit between the lips straining to close around the huge, choking mouthful.

"Now, why don't you just apologise to her and then we can all go in to dinner in a nice, civilised manner, hmm?" continued Mac, halting the hand holding the next olive, the threat wreathed in silk. Gemma felt the male staff who had been moving warily and reluctantly towards them halt, and look at the intrusive Roman hopefully.

"Urgm zuggig," gargled the emperor plaintively, rolling his shocked eyes toward Gemma, olive-scented drool splattering over his chin. The faint wisp of anger in his sweat was smothered under the engulfing fear.