A Kiss at Midnight

Chapter Twenty-Five

Curtains of butterscotch yellow a shield against the rising power of sunlight. Her hair an inky waterfall tumbling down one side of her pillow. One hand tucked beside her face, the other crossing over her breasts to join it. A mere inch separating her sleeping body from Carrick who was awake. He reached up, his fingers mapping out where her hands had been on the headboard.
How his head had been cushioned between her legs.
How his fingers gripped her soft pillowy thighs, an anchor as he found himself drowning in ecstasy...

"It will not happen again until I have broken my fast," Ilona said, her eyes still closed.
She heard Carrick's chuckle, felt the warmth of his arms sliding around her waist.
His lips seeking out the hollow of her neck. At the feel of that sensual mouth upon her skin, Ilona leaned in closer.

"As you wish, my lady," he murmured, pressing one last kiss to her before he released her.

Just as sleep was about to claim her again, Ilona heard the rustle of a page turning. Her eyes fluttered open to see a familiar emerald jacketed book in Carrick's hand. His brows furrowed in concentration or confusion, of which she could not say. She eased herself into a sitting position.

"You could have ask me, you know? After all, I do possess wolfwalker blood," she said, letting her cheek rest on the palm of her propped up arm.

The book went down and Carrick turned to look at her. "I think that is an excellent suggestion given it has just occurred to me, I know very little about Irish mythology."

A giggle escaped Ilona. "I doubt many sons of an English lord would as you lot are often quite busy being teased by crimson silk in brothels or lounging in the study, brandy in hand. Your estate papers a coaster for your boots."

Carrick reached out, his hands a gentle snare upon her wrists. Ilona willingly allowed herself to participate in this dance. One of his hands released its hold, his fingers instead to mould themselves to the gentle arch of her leg. He drew it up to rest by his side. Her other leg to follow the same routine. Her face a mere breath's distance away from his.

"You forget about the casket containing our duelling pistols being a cushion beneath our arse."  Mirth in his gaze.

Ilona's lips curved into a smile. "Oh yes, how could I forget that," she answered in jest.
Carrick closed the final distance between them to capture both her smile and those very lips between his. His other hand to cup her cheek as he kissed her.

"A wolfwalker is someone that once night falls, takes on the shape of a wolf," Ilona told him, breaking the kiss. "You can be born a wolfwalker or become one if bitten upon your forearm. Just like werewolves, we are vulnerable to silver."

"Why a bite on the forearm?"

"Oh, it is to do with our secondary form." She saw his blank expression. "Here, let me show you."

Ilona straightened up, her right hand to rest on his chest while she held out her left to him. Her eyes closing as she curled her fingers inwards to rest on her palm. Carrick saw a flash of emerald on her inner wrist.
Tendrils of magic in the shade of bronze draped themselves across her shoulders as if they are a billowing cloak.
Then they began to move upwards.
To become a mask of a wolf upon her face.

"It allows us to use our wolf senses during the light of day. I can only hold it for a few minutes..." the words about her father's accomplishment failed to form on her lips as she looked at Carrick.
The previous mirth in his gaze had been melted away by the dark heat of desire that watched her, waiting to ensnare her if she dare to draw herself too close.

"Beautiful." The word a whispered sonnet as he reached for her.

Nothing could altered his path except a word of refusal yet Ilona uttered no such thing. The magic faded away. His mouth giving in to the sweetness that was her lips as he threaded his fingers through her hair.
He gave her one last kiss on the lips then his mouth began to wander, leaving soft kisses in his wake. Her cheeks, nose and the gentle curve of her jawline, all to bear the mark of his affection and she just held him closer, wanting no, needing more. His lips drew upwards, brushing against the scar on her forehead.