Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 11

Gemma nodded coldly at him, then stepped in and let her head sink to rest against the side of Mac's upper arm, curling her hand over his elbow while he let the fake Caesar go. She felt a little revelation burst in her head as the avid crowd sighed in a mixture of disappointment and approval, and began to turn away: wolf discipline worked on humans too. He wasn't as damaging in his rebukes, because a human wouldn't heal as easily, but the lesson had been clear, and understood by all parties, not just the principal, but everyone in the room watching with interest. Humans may pretend that they didn't know the same basic rules of behaviour, but they did.

Her wolf's palm glided around to rest on the opposite side of her waist, and the crowd unconsciously gave way to them as Mac guided her gently towards the dining hall. She felt a rush of pride in her mate. Alpha male. His head bent to hers, and his breath tickled in her ear, "I told you this public meal was a bad idea." He had wanted to stay in bed.

Her eyes sparkled back up at him. "I'm enjoying it," she told him truthfully.

The green eyes flashed black, "You liked that idiot mauling you?"

She snorted at the ridiculous idea, but a little smile lit her face and she slanted her eyes up at him. "I like the way my mate protects me." Her voice seemed to have turned a little hoarse.

He huffed grumpily, but the black was fading from his eyes and she slid a hand up into the silken hairs at his nape, to tilt his head back down to hers so that she could whisper in his ear, "I'm feeling very, very appreciative."

He was eyeing her speculatively when she drew away again, a pleased little smile lifting the corner of his mouth as he breathed in her melting scent. They halted by the prominent table where the maître d' was holding a chair for her. Mac glanced around the central, centre-of-attention position and asked quietly, "Don't you have somewhere more secluded?"

As they followed the retreating usher, Mac bent to murmur quietly into her ear, "Emandeus the poet wrote, many centuries ago, that when a sjeste is safe, and protected, she becomes soft, and gentle, her core melting, warm, richly moist and welcoming to the wolf who guards her so."

A brief pause. Gemma was annoyed to feel herself flushing.

"So you agree?" Mac added.

The damn wolf. Gemma had closed her eyes, feeling her core melting as he described, and she could only hope that his guiding arm would ensure that she didn't walk into a chair.

Of course it would.

How did you stop me shifting? she tried to change the subject.

I'm an Alpha, picchu.

I thought you couldn't stop me when I lost control?

I can't stop you losing control; I can stop you shifting. And if you hadn't felt my anger, believed that I could protect you from that idiot human, then you probably would have raged on, and eventually broken free.

If I didn't believe you could protect me from that or any other idiot, then I think you'd be demanding your ring back. Gemma smiled at the ridiculous thought.

Her mate inhaled another long, slow breath over her head, his nose almost touching her skin, and she could scent his desire rising as he murmured appreciatively, "Richly moist and welcoming," his lips brushing over her earlobe.

"Whose idea was this stupid dinner anyway?" Mac added on a growl as he nodded his thanks to the head waiter, smoothly taking over holding the chair ready for his mate. Gemma slid shakily into it and grinned down at her hands. He had been tormenting her all morning, and most of the afternoon. Her turn. She still wasn't quite ready for round two - her stamina was not yet on par with his.

"Control, Mr Wolf. We have to eat anyway."

He sighed, and slid into the seat opposite, muttering, "We are not staying to dance."

By the time she was restraining herself from picking up and gnawing the bone of the much-too-small shoulder of lamb she had selected for her main course, Gemma was beginning to agree with her mate about public venues. Although it had been fun to slip back for an hour into their old familiar arguments about action films, social welfare, pollution, and barefoot running. They were just finishing with a heated debate over the to her mind totally justifiable eminence of chocolate fudge cake in the world. Mac wanted to retire. She wanted chocolate.

Some of the other diners had glanced across as they got more vocal at each other, and amused smiles now twitched across faces when Mac closed the chocolate argument by grabbing the hand she was waving exasperatedly in the air and bite-kissing the pad at the base of her thumb so sensuously that her eyes rolled up and she gasped audibly, stuttering to a halt.

The men were all smiling. Actually, so were most of the women - or at least those within earshot of their table. It was astonishing, the amount of approval Mac seemed to have garnered with his aggressively protective olive-stuffing act earlier.

Gemma huffed indignantly, cheeks scarlet at the blatant message in her wolf's gaze, and pulled her hand out of his, sinking back and glaring as well as she could past the glow in her cheeks.

"I see you are speechless at my superior argument," he teased.

Eyes sparking at him, Gemma hitched her bottom forwards until she was resting on the very edge of her seat, and reclined sulkily against the velvet back, folding her arms across her aching nipples. She then realised the benefit of this ridiculous skirt. The bones were holding the swathes of stiff fabric off her thighs, the ruffled flounce barely touching the floor in front of her, allowing her free movement of her legs. So...

Silently she slid off one of her spindly, high-heeled sandals, responding sarcastically, "Your amazing argument being, "Don't talk back to me, wench, or I'll kiss you into submission"?"

Mac grinned.

"It works. You are now putty in my -." Her wolf stopped abruptly, lips parting and fire leaping into his eyes as she slid her stockinged foot delicately up his inner thigh. She tilted her head enquiringly to one side, mock-courteously waiting for him to finish his sentence. Mac's mouth appeared to be stuck half open, and he was unable to do more than breathe harshly, eyes half-closed, glazed in pleasure, while she nudged his half-awake sex softly with her toes.

So she sweetly supplied, "...feet?"

Gemma was enjoying the delicious, heady musk exuding from him, the way his chest was rising and falling in abrupt, shallow breaths, before he inhaled sharply and stilled, while she slid her toes oh- so- gently along the full, growing bulge of the proud cock straining against the soft leather codpiece.

Mac clenched his eyes shut, then pulled himself together, leaning forwards with his elbows on the table, and widening his knees to press that insistent, throbbing bulge firmly against her foot while he shifted his weight forwards. He tugged gently on a loose tendril of her dark brown hair to bring her lips a breath away from his.

"I think we should retire now, picchu. Before you burn yourself." His glowing eyes were promising retaliation.

Yum yum yum.

But she was feeling naughty.

"Oh I don't know," responded Gemma demurely. "I was thinking about having something tasty for dessert." She licked the tip of her tongue gently against her upper lip, eyes gleaming up into his as his cock swelled under her toes.

His eyes darkened, and the gleam grew more fierce, "You didn't seem disappointed by the room service, earlier."

Her cheeks scorched at the memory of how hard he'd made her beg earlier, beg him to end his gentle, slow pace, and she sat back abruptly when a flush of liquid pulsed along her passage. She glanced across towards the kitchens, barely able to see past her glowing cheeks.

"Would you call for the dessert cart, Mac?"

"You don't seriously want a dessert, picchu." His voice was soft with a purr of warning. "And the only thing I want to eat is you."

Her heart hitched but the desire was warring with the stubborn need to prove that he was not always allowed his own way in every single little thing, and she pouted sulkily at him. "You'll just have to wait, Mr Control. I told you, Chocolate Rules. You can't put me off just by kissing me."

"Room service," he growled the suggestion.

"No," she vetoed, wrinkling her nose teasingly. "I don't want you distracting me when there is important chocolate to be savoured. And don't tell me you wouldn't."

Chocolate first. Then bed. This way, she got both.

Mac's eyes sparked fire before his head snapped around, and he just looked at one of the waiters, shifting his chair back while the man whisked across the room to them.

"My fiancée would like to see the dessert cart," her mate murmured, rising to his feet and adding quietly, "Order what you like, picchu," before striding off towards the washrooms.

Poor wolf. He was far, far too used to having his own, undisputed way in everything.

She was so good for him.

Gemma's blood was sparkling in her veins, and she smiled naughtily over the rim of her glass, taking a sip of wine while she watched those delicious, taut buttocks pacing gracefully towards the men's room. But damn. Her moist pussy was keening in disappointment as he disappeared, skin humming with frustration.

There was a downside to her winning this one.

She had to wait.

It had better be damn good chocolate.

Gemma had pushed her chair back and was sitting sideways on to the table so that she could watch the laughing, genial throng of other diners when the waiter gently placed her dessert at her right elbow. She smiled at him absently in thanks. Mac still hadn't reappeared. She placed the first, heavenly mouthful of the oh-so-richly perfect chocolate mousse on her tongue, half-closing her eyes at the delicious taste.

Maybe her wolf was sulking.

Her eyes shot fully open again when she felt a brush of air against her calves. She sharply inhaled a heady gust of hot, male musk, and froze to the touch of warm, strong hands gripping her knees and slowly, inexorably pulling them apart. Wide. Wider.

Her blood catapulted into a foaming torrent through her veins, her eyebrows scrambling for the ceiling while every inch of her skin seemed to flush.

Damn the wolf. Dammit. He was under her ludicrous, voluminous skirt.

Her eyes were stretching as wide as he was forcing her knees, and she threw a panicked glance down, ridiculous relief flaring through her when she realised that the stiff bones that held the skirt high left enough space for her mate to kneel between her legs with no tell-tale bulge where his head was.

Like that made any difference!

His hands had now left her knees and a finger traced gently along the bare skin of her inner thigh, above the lace top of her hold-up stockings. Fire burned through her, and a flush shone in her cheeks as she bit down on the spoon in her mouth, feeling the handle buckle then sheer under her very sharp teeth.

Damn.

Warm fingertips were tracing over her delicate skin. She could scent his arousal, the warm, familiar, spine-tingling musk melting into her, and her answering arousal was heating under her skirt, her moist core beginning to overflow with want.

No, no. Not in public. He wouldn't. The other diners could see her.

Jittery, her eyes swept the room, scanning the throng of unconcerned, colourful fellow guests. Not one of them appeared to have seen Mac slipping into his current position, but then, he could move so damn fast. Realistically, she was the only one here who had stood a chance of seeing him, and she hadn't noticed so much as a blur.

Too intent on her damn chocolate.

A couple of lone men were eyeing her, the abandoned fiancée, speculatively. Her heart was pounding so hard that her breasts were heaving, and she felt a tinge of ire as their greedy eyes fastened on the plump mounds. Heaving. Heaving in anticipation. Yeah, but not of their actions.

Don't you dare, Mr Wolf.

Mac ignored her. A warm breath brushed against her inner thigh, and Gemma's limbs froze while her blood ignited. Her breath was panting from her in little panicked bursts, and she could feel the core of her melting down to his audacity, but also frozen in panic.

Alright, so he was hidden, but she was on show in a huge room packed with other people. Mac! She knew her skin was flushed, breasts heaving harder in this damn tight bodice.

That king four tables over was now staring into her eyes with a wistful invitation in his.

No.

Gemma, cheeks scarlet, wrenched her eyes down. The trouble was, all she could then see was the swathe of rich brocade curving out from her waist. And she knew who it was hiding. Could feel what he was doing. A finger teased back along the flesh between her stocking top and the crease of her hip joint, fire burning in its wake.

She was burning, trembling with desire but also burning with embarrassment, and a tingle of anger rippled up and down her spine. She tried to cramp her legs together, but her thighs closed on broad shoulders. She rolled her eyes and the black-robed monk two tables over whose partner had disappeared to the ladies' smiled back, catching her aroused gaze, then dropping his to her heaving breasts.

Enough!

Gemma abruptly pushed her right hand down against the table-top and heaved herself off the seat despite her uneven footwear, intent on storming from the room.

Before she properly gained her feet, she felt the bewitching ripple of Mac's muscles pulling smoothly in his upper arms as he pounced. He slid his hands underneath her thighs and grasped her buttocks, lifting her swiftly forwards until she was perched on the edge of her seat, his shoulders spreading her thighs. His hands then slid further, up the back of her hips to clamp down on the top of her thighs, holding her fast to the chair. His breath was teasing over the wet, sheer material covering her pussy, and her arm and wobbly legs gave up fighting the impossible battle. Gemma collapsed on the chair again and sank back, trembling, shuddering in desire.

Bad wolf. Damn wolf. Don't you dare. Oh.

Mac breathed heavily, hot and moist, on the vulnerable skin of the join between her thighs and groin and her blood leapt, pounding shiveringly through her. She gulped. Her muscles twitched, legs kicking involuntarily under a second, light touch of air. Then he gave a long, silent sigh, his warm breath stroking over the wet crotch of her panties, teasing over the sensitive skin underneath. She flinched, twisting, desperately trying to drag her hips from his immovable hold.

Her eyes opened, and she was staring straight into the confused gaze of one of the young waiters standing against the opposite wall, watching her.

Mac licked delicately at her covered labia, a very gentle stroke of the tip of his tongue, and her whole body shivered to his touch.

God knew what her expression was, it felt agonised, and the young waiter started towards her smoothly, although still clearly puzzled. Frantically, she shook her head at him, then closed her eyes as Mac's tongue stroked slightly more firmly along the length of her wet crotch.

She was going to kill him. Or die. Hopefully both.

Her breath hitched audibly as he began to lap gently against the soaked cloth, ripples of pure arousal pulsing down her spine with each stroke of his tongue, her mind beginning to cloud over, want cresting over the hot embarrassment.

She dissolved back against the seat, spine alternating between melting delight and firing little prickles of unease through her, while her mate brushed little kisses along the edge of the wispy little piece of satin between her legs. Then, still holding her firmly, he began to probe the wet fabric with his stiffened tongue, inhaling her scent, and rubbing the tip of his tongue in teasing little whorls over the sensitive lips underneath.

Someone whimpered, the sound just audible. Damn.

Damn that felt good.

Better. Best. Oh god, she was going to melt. Yes. That. There.

"Is everything to your satisfaction, Madam?"

The words echoed in her head - her brain overlaid with yes, no, yes, no, yes yes yes, more, until she slowly realised that Mac had lifted his tongue off her.

So that she could reply to the head waiter hovering beside her.

But she couldn't talk. Never mind the bitten-off head of the teaspoon in her mouth. She just - couldn't - talk. Gemma swallowed down the melted chocolate and drool pooled in her mouth, opened her eyes and beamed over-exuberantly up at the man, nodding emphatically.

He blinked, and turned away without a hint of his thoughts in his expression.

Maybe he just thought she was a bit excessive in her love of chocolate mousse.

Please don't.

Mac ignored her and dove back into his dessert. Her breathing was shallow, however hard she tried to think of overcooked cabbage, and tax returns, grey rainy days and smelly socks. She couldn't hold onto her anger, or her obstinate denial of arousal, and her embarrassment, awareness of the audience watching her meltdown was fading away again under that oh so skilled tongue.

Her head rolled back over the back of her chair backrest and she just held back a groan. Her hypersensitive nose could scent his enjoyment, the thickening oh-so-male lust while he ran his tongue gently, again and again over the wet fabric, the echo of the sensation in her swollen labia too much. Not enough. More. More. No. Not here.

But all she could do was sink back and endure, shivery, embarrassed delight rippling through her as she tried to prevent any noise from escaping her. Any further noise. He slurped a long, luscious wet lick up over the dripping length of her slit, and if he hadn't been holding her steady, she would have writhed off the seat.

Not a sound. Not a sound. Not a sound, she shrieked inside her own head. She couldn't quite remember why. But - why could she never stop herself from challenging him?

Because he was an arrogant asshole who deserved - oooooooh.

Her thoughts fractured as Mac slurped his slow, sensuous way up her slit again.

Gemma was clenching her teeth together to prevent herself biting her lip off, as her mate continued to slowly, thoroughly lick over her soaking wet panties, pressing the sheer fabric with his strong, wriggling tongue into her pulsing folds, soaking them with her juices, then sucking them back into his mouth to luxuriously savour sucking the taste from them.

Again.

And again.

Gemma was melted over her chair like a statue by Salvador Dali, hoping desperately that it just looked as though she'd had an incredibly good meal. Her legs were quivering while her mate continued to torment her further. She felt his teeth slide ever-so-gently under the elasticated side of the material, and her ears absorbed the very quiet snip as they easily sliced through the fabric.

The quivering in her legs was spreading to her stomach, and further up into her chest as she shuddered with the rising anticipation, just feeling his very light breath on her wet, sensitive folds. Then a small, almost inaudible whimper escaped again as she felt the light, relishing slide of her mate's tongue over the naked, swollen, pulsing protrusion of her lower lips.

Oh.

Mac.

Please take me back to our rooms, she conveyed.

A faint niggle of irritation lingered in her head, and she stubbornly held on, held back. She knew he wanted to hear the word aloud, and the word hovered on her tongue while her breath sighed from her again. But she wouldn't say it.

He was miles, miles too good at getting his own way.

His stiffened tongue slid deeply, probing between her wet folds, into her aching, begging passage, and he swirled it around inside her. Then he clamped his mouth wide over her cleft, sliding his tongue back out of her pussy as he sucked hard, slurping up her moisture.