She blushed a little.
He suspected Shelley hadn’t told her friend he was a wolf. She would have been concerned, most likely. “She was all right with my staying with you?”
“She was intrigued. But she did warn me not to take you home with me.”
He arched a brow at that.
“I take home strays, according to Wendy. It’s not so. I’ve only taken in one standard poodle that is a companion now to my own and, well, a cat, but I found it a good home. Wendy insists it’s only the beginning. I’ve never taken a stray man home with me ever—except for a good cause.”
He lifted a brow at the reference to taking home stray males, and he damn well wanted to know about the men she had taken in for a good cause. In his opinion, a woman should never take in stray males for any reason. Except in his case.
But the comment about her choice of dogs really surprised him. “Poodles.” Just like he couldn’t envision her studying plants, he couldn’t see her with poodles for pets.
She laughed. “All right. Just because we’re wolves doesn’t mean we don’t get along with pets. I suppose you’ve never had one.”
“Irish wolfhounds,” he said, proud of having raised generations of them.
“Irish wolfhounds?” Her body slid provocatively against his, silky and warm and so enticing that he was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation.
“Aye,” he finally managed to get out, his body tightening with need, his voice much rougher than he intended.
“Well, they were used to kill wolves in the old days,” she said, “weren’t they?”
Her green eyes looked up at him, her lips so damned kissable that he wanted to taste them and forget about the dogs. “They helped us unseat English knights in the old days,” he finally managed to say, every inch of her touching him, sliding and caressing with the gentle push of the waves.
Her ni**les were rigid as they rubbed against him, so he knew he was having some effect on her. She had to feel how fully aroused he was. Either that, or she was trying to ignore it, and that’s why she kept talking about dogs.
“English knights,” she said. “Well, poodles have had a place in Germany, France, and England for centuries as retrievers. They love the water and—”
“I love the water,” Duncan said, his voice drenched with lustful intent. He’d never loved the water like this, he thought as he leaned down to kiss Shelley full on the mouth.
Chapter 5
How could Duncan stand against the force of the current and continue to hold her up as her whole body dissolved while his hot, sexy mouth pressed against her lips?
Shelley had experienced lots of kisses over the years, but nothing this passionate, nothing this unrestrained, hot, and feral. Maybe it all had to do with being in the warm waters, nearly na**d in her string bikini, and pressed against a Highlander who was the Rock of Gibraltar, his shorts clinging to his body and every hard inch—his muscles and his arousal—rubbing her as the currents continued to push her against him.
His mouth stole her attention again as he stood with his eyes closed, dark lashes fanning his cheeks, his lips brushing and nuzzling, and his tongue teasing her lips. Her mouth was parted for him, begging him to enter.
He didn’t, though, as if that was the ultimate conquest and he was working up to it. Maybe he was afraid to take things too far, afraid they’d end up in bed together. On the other hand, she wondered if that was his ploy. His way to get out of sleeping in one of the twin beds. Seduce the she-wolf and work his way into her bed. She began to frown, and he must have felt her pulling away.
But she didn’t want him to stop. She licked his lips and tasted whiskey—like barley and wheat roasted over an oak fire. He paused and opened his eyes, as if curious to see her response. His brown eyes were smoky with lust.
He looked at her as if he’d fallen in love. She knew it was only lust. That was enough, so it seemed. He took her, conquering her mouth and tightening his arms around her as if to say she was his, that the sea couldn’t claim her. His tongue entered her mouth and stroked hers as one of his hands moved down to cup her ass. Oh yeah, he wanted her, and damned if she didn’t want him right back.
His other hand remained locked around her waist, holding her tight against him so he wouldn’t lose her to a wave, but his free hand was doing a number on her needs—caressing her buttock, dipping between her legs, touching her, and making her hot with desire.
Unfortunately, condoms wouldn’t work between wolves. Mating meant a permanent relationship, and with their long lives, that could be for a very long time. Abstinence was the only thing allowed between them, or fooling around a little. But if ha**ng s*x with him had been viable, she would have hauled him right back to the villa and permanently forgotten he was supposed to sleep upstairs.
“Shelley,” he moaned into her mouth, his Scottish accent playing with her name in the most sensuous way. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
She didn’t need him telling her that. She knew she shouldn’t be ready to pull off his shorts, strip out of her bikini, climb into his arms, and impale herself on his rigid erection. She was already wet and slippery in preparation for his penetration. He’d stirred up a sweet ache between her legs so deep that she craved satisfaction.
Yet a purely wickedly wolf side of her decided to come out at that moment, taking over her words as she said in a much too heated way, “If you removed your shorts and I pulled off my bikini bottoms and I climbed aboard—that’s what we shouldn’t be doing.”
He groaned at her words and held her tighter, his stiff arousal rubbing against her. She felt as though she would burst into flames and sizzle in the water, going up in a puff of hot steam, if they continued the way they were going.
Yet, kissing seemed perfectly acceptable. The idea of riding him in the waves was too delicious not to consider. Not for real, but just to fantasize, she reminded herself.
His mouth curved up as his eyes opened, sparkling with the devil. “Hell, lass, if you weren’t a wolf, I’d strip you down and insist you have your way with me.” He continued to look into her eyes, wanting more, she knew, as his gaze shifted to her lips. But then as if werewolf reason took hold, he said, “It’s time to go back in. I’ve got to do some work tonight.”
“Concerning Silverman,” she guessed, knowing that his suggestion to cease and desist this madness was all for the best. Although she hated that it would have to end.
“Aye. That’s what I came here for. Bringing our money home. I can’t let my clan down. I’ll get your college funds back, too.”
She sighed, loving that he cared enough about his clan to let go of whatever raging desire he had for her. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, letting him know it was okay with her to end things now. She still craved some kind of release, but it wasn’t safe with him. “Let’s go then.”
He pulled her toward the shore, his hand still around her waist, keeping the currents and waves from taking her away from him, showing he still wanted her and was unwilling to let her go just yet. She imagined that he’d walk with her all the way to the villa like that if she allowed him to. But he was right. Nothing good could come of it. He was on a mission that had nothing to do with finding a mate. He needed to get the clan’s money back any way that he could.
Not only that, but he lived in a world completely different from her own. In a castle. With a brother who was laird. Duncan took part in movies, wielding a huge sword. He was Scottish. And had gigantic Irish wolfhounds that would eat her poodles—even though they were the large variety—for breakfast.
They were worlds apart.
So why was she thinking again about taking another trip, this time to see the gardens in England and Scotland? And particularly at Argent Castle, if his clan’s home even had gardens.
Apart from him being her roommate and sharing the cost of the villa, she knew that she had to limit her time with him. He wasn’t here to entertain her or serve as her companion, and she had her own business to attend to.
So why didn’t she pull away from him when they reached the water’s edge? Why didn’t he release her when he no longer had to protect her from being washed away or attacked by sharks or schools of colorful fish?
She sighed. “Do you have gardens at Argent Castle?”
He looked down at her, his brows both arched. “Aye.” But the question in his gaze said he wondered just what was going through her brain.
She wondered that, too. She looked back at the sand as they made their way to her beach towel, his arm still slung possessively around her waist.
“Why?” he asked, not wanting to be denied her reasoning when she didn’t say anything further.
She offered him a small smile, feeling embarrassed that she’d been thinking along those lines, and gave a little shrug. “Someday, I want to see castle gardens all over Scotland and England. I’ve read that Fyvie has a nice garden. And Crathes Castle, too. I would like to see them for myself.”
“Ah.”
Yeah, he presumed she wanted to see his castle and stay there free of charge, when most outsiders wouldn’t be permitted entrance. It had nothing to do with gardens. She straightened a little. “If I ever went to Scotland, would you let me see your gardens?”
He snorted.
“Not worth seeing?”
He chuckled, drew her to a stop in front of her beach towel, released her, and lifted her towel off the sand. After giving it several vigorous shakes, he handed it to her. “It’s a garden. What do I know about rows and rows of plants? Ask me about a sword, and I’ll tell you all there is to know.”
“Oh.” Not having realized how disinterested he was in plants, she felt somewhat disappointed as she wiped the water off her shoulders. Not that she truly expected any man that she became intrigued with to be a big plant lover. But it would be nice.
“No one ever stays at Argent who isn’t family. It’s not open to the public,” he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes and the faintest curve to his lips.