Who Is She?

~LYSANDER~

“Fuck…!” the woman moans, arching her back. Her fingers claw at the furs as she pushes herself toward me.

I bite down hard on my lower lip as I thrust again, my hands clamping her shoulders to yank her back against me. I lean forward, my chest pressing flush to her tense spine, and suck her earlobe between my teeth.

“Tell me what you want,” I growl, my voice low and gravel-rough. My hips roll in torturously slow strokes, dragging the ridged head of my cock along her inner walls, teasing that swollen spot inside her until her thighs tremble uncontrollably.

“Ha-harder!” she cries, her voice thick with impatience and raw desperation. I press my lips to the soft skin of her neck, trailing gentle, open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder. “I need you to fuck me harder,” she whispers, breathless.

I smirk against her skin and pull out slowly until just the thick head remains inside her, stretching her open. I stroke myself once, twice, coating my length in her slick, then trace the swollen tip up and down her dripping slit, nudging her clit with every pass until she writhes and pushes back against me, chasing the friction. Then I slam back in, hard, burying myself to the hilt in one punishing stroke. She lets out a guttural, broken moan and buries her face in the furs, muffling the sound as her whole body jolts.

“Harder,” she gasps, her voice muffled and ragged. “Harder… harder…!”

“What the devil, man?” A voice floats into my consciousness. “Are you having at it in your sleep or something?”

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to stay in the dream. My hips buck instinctively as sparks of pleasure shoot through me. I cling desperately to the dream, trying to hold onto the hazy face of the woman beneath me, the way her body clenches around me like she is made for it.

Someone taps my shoulder urgently.

“That’s enough coupling to last you a lifetime, my Prince. Wake up.”

My eyes snap open. Harsh morning sunlight floods the chamber, burning away the remnants of the dream. Lyon, my closest companion, stands by the bedside, staring down at me with a blank expression. I suck in a sharp breath and look down to see that my erection is lifting the furs wrapped around my waist like a tent.

“Fuck,” I mutter, rolling onto my side to hide it.

I am still in last night’s tunic, laces undone all the way down the front. My cloak lies crumpled beside me, boots flung haphazardly across the rushes. A black velvet mask rests on the edge of the bed. My head throbs with a vicious ache, my stomach churning with leftover nausea.

“What the hell is going on?” I growl. “Where’s the woman?”

“What woman?” Lyon asks.

“The one who was just here.”

Lyon raises an eyebrow. “The one starring in your ravishing dream? Because you’ve been alone in this bed since I carried you here.”

I blink at my friend, saying nothing. I push myself up to sit on the edge of the bed, my head spinning. “What are you doing in my chambers this early?”

“It’s nearly noon. The Council has been waiting since dawn.”

I sigh deeply, rubbing both hands over my face and leaning back against the carved headboard. “I don’t have the strength to face those vipers right now.”

“I’m not surprised,” Lyon says dryly. “You spent the whole of last night buried deep inside a werewolf woman.”

My head jerks up. Memories of the grand masked feast at Moon Shadow Pack trickle back. I rarely attend werewolf gatherings, but with war brewing on every front, internal and external, I need every alliance I can scrape together.

“How could you get that deep in your cups in werewolf territory?” Lyon admonishes. “Too risky. You could have walked straight into a trap.”

Not in the mood for a lecture, I climb off the bed, steadying myself as the room tilts. I grunt and head for the bathing chamber.

Last night was a disaster. My late father’s death decree was read in private; everyone in Eclipse assumed the throne will pass to me seamlessly. Instead, the old king named me regent only.

If I turn five-and-twenty and not wed, and if my younger half-brother Lyall turns five-and-twenty and marries first, the crown will go to Lyall.

Devastated, I had masked my scent and sought the chaos of the werewolf feast. I had drowned myself in mulled wine, raging at the unfairness of it all, the years I have bled for the pack, only to be shackled by a ridiculous clause.

“That cursed old man,” I mutter in the steaming water from the copper basin. The bastard is dead, leaving us on the brink of war, yet he still finds a way to make these ridiculous demands from the grave.

When I step out, towelling myself, Lyon is still there. My cock is still half-hard from the dream, and I have zero interest in dealing with it myself.

“Alpha Moreah is here,” Lyon says, rising from the chair. “He might want to form an alliance for the war.”

I sigh. “What’s the catch?”

“He hasn’t said yet. I just have a feeling he’s here to negotiate.”

I walk toward my wardrobe. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”

“I’ve sent for one of your mistresses, Lysander,” Lyon says, heading for the door. “You need to take care of that before you face the Council. I’ll make them wait a little longer.” He shuts the door behind him.

I chuckle darkly, shaking my head. I cross back to the bed and pick up my cloak. As I lift it, something flutters out and lands on the rushes.

A black lace smallcloth.

I bend and pick it up with a frown. The moment I touch it, a sweet, intoxicating arousal scent slams into me, bringing back a flood of memories: the tower balcony, the little werewolf who kissed me first, the way she begged and clenched around me, round after round of raw, desperate sex. I can’t remember what she looks like. But even through the haze of wine, I can’t get enough of her body. I crave it like a drug.

Who is she?