Wolf's Clothing Read online

  He was wearing an undershirt, damn it.

  Christophe caught his shirt before it fell and folded it like a fricking Nordstrom clerk before he laid it on top of his jacket.

  “You know, man, I get that your clothes are high-end—”

  “Bespoke tailoring. It’s a family tradition.”

  “Whatever, but seriously? We’re trying to have sex here. Could you be a little less Jeeves about this?”

  “Sorry. It is . . . a habit.”

  “Time to break it.” Trent took hold of the hem of the stupid fucking undershirt and skinned it off over Christophe’s head. He tossed it into the corner where it could commune with Trent’s clothes pile.

  Christophe laughed, unbuckling his belt. “Perhaps you’re right.” After he unzipped his trousers and let them fall to the floor, he stared at them, pooled around his ankles for a moment, and his cock hard inside the—Jesus, monogrammed?—boxer briefs.

  “Don’t you feel compelled to fold them like a good little soldier?”

  He stepped out of his pants and kicked them behind him. “I’m not a soldier.”

  “No?”

  “I am the commander.”

  “Think you can command me?”

  “I suspect, cher, that you would be a most insubordinate officer. Have you ever done as you were told?”

  “Not if I can help it.” Yeah, and look where that landed me. “But maybe we can try something different this time. Only no—no bondage, okay? Restraints are not cool.”

  “That has never been my game.” Christophe’s eyes glowed like fire in the lamplight. “I don’t want an underling, a submissive. I want an equal. Someone with power in their own right.”

  “You think I have power?”

  “At this moment, it is yours entirely. We do nothing you do not want.”

  “Does that mean we’ll do anything I do want?”

  Christophe smiled and captured Trent’s hand, pressed a kiss to his palm. “Within reason, cher. There are some lines I will not cross, even for you.”

  “So we’ve both got boundaries. We’ll deal.”

  “Then,” Christophe ran his hands down Trent’s bare back and under the waistband of his briefs, cupping his ass in hands that were surprisingly large considering Christophe was shorter than Trent, “you must be sure to tell me if I encroach on any of yours.”

  Trent closed his eyes, and let the tremors take him. “You’re not remotely close.”

  “Excellent. Let us see if we can push them a trifle, shall we?”

  “God yes.” He grabbed both sides of Christophe’s face and dove in for a kiss—lips, tongue, teeth, the whole nine, everything they hadn’t done on the street. Christophe growled into Trent’s mouth and drew him closer, chest to chest, hip to hip, cock to cock.

  The skin. God, Christophe’s skin was fire against his own, not the clammy, chilled skin of a quick club hookup, or the sweaty sheen of a shared summer jerk-off under the bleachers. Hot and smooth and perfect. Trent snaked a hand between them, and tangled his fingers in Christophe’s rufous treasure trail, the only hair visible below his beard.

  He pulled away from Christophe’s mouth. “I want everything.” Trent sucked on the skin of Christophe’s shoulder. “The underwear must die.”

  “Consider it dead.”

  Christophe pushed Trent’s briefs down until Trent could kick them into the clothes pile. His own he shucked and added to the puddle of his pants.

  “Don’t you feel compelled to fold them all nice and neat?”

  “Not even one iota, thank you.”

  “What about the signet? You stripped your other bling.”

  “I never remove it. On the bed, if you please. Now.”

  Trent grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  For Christophe, the act of removing his clothing in front of a new lover never failed to thrill. But despite the many partners his father had so deplored, he’d never allowed anyone to undress him before. When Trent put his hands on Christophe’s shirt . . . when he’d actually stripped off his undershirt? Mother of God. Christophe had nearly spent in his briefs, with no touch on his cock at all.

  But now, naked and wanton and willing, Trent was so breathtaking that Christophe was glad he’d managed to hold on to his control. Because that body, that man, deserved to be worshipped slowly and thoroughly.

  “You . . .” Christophe ghosted his fingers along Trent’s skin—collarbone, shoulders, the length of his arms—fascinated by the way Trent’s breath caught and released. “. . . are stunning.” He circled Trent slowly, his hands trailing across the smooth skin of belly and hip and flank.

  Trent moaned. “Jesus, Christophe. You—”

  “Shhh. I’m busy.”

  He stepped close, his front to Trent’s back, his cock nestled in the cleft of Trent’s ass—and this time he was the one who moaned. Jesu, the way Trent trembled against him, pushing back as if to invite more. Christophe buried his nose in Trent’s hair and inhaled. Exquisite. He splayed his hands across Trent’s chest. I swear I hear the blood rushing in his veins, his heart beating in sync with my own.

  “Christophe?” Trent’s voice wobbled as he laced his fingers with Christophe’s.

  “Hmm?” He stroked Trent’s chest, adding a slight scrape of his nails.

  “Can we please go to bed now?”

  Christophe chuckled and cupped Trent’s balls, to a very satisfactory gasp. “So importunate.”

  “Fuck yeah. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

  “Very well.” Christophe released Trent and stepped back. “I am at your disposal.”

  “Excellent.” Trent climbed on the bed, kneeling to face Christophe, the expression on his face the very definition of come-hither. Christophe had no desire to resist. He stalked forward, his nerves sparking with desire.

  Trent must carry most of his height in his long, elegant legs, because his current position put his head lower than Christophe’s for the first time since they’d met. Trent wrapped his arms around Christophe and nuzzled his chest, flicking one nipple with his tongue, then kissing a path to the other and sucking it into his mouth with a moan.

  Christophe growled and threw his head back, his cock leaking against his belly, and buried his hands in Trent’s hair. When Trent added teeth, Christophe’s fingertips began to tingle and burn.

  Shite, no! He couldn’t shift. Not here. Not now. Control. He took a deep breath and pulled Trent’s head away from his chest, kissing him softly, as befit a man, not a wolf. “Lie down. I want to make love to you.”

  Trent’s eyes widened. “Awesome.” He scrambled backward and collapsed onto the pillows. He met Christophe’s gaze, held it, nudging the lube and condoms toward him, then raised his knees to his chest, holding his thighs with both hands. So open, so trusting. Awaiting Christophe’s touch, his passion, his possession.

  Christophe’s teeth ached as his canines tried to descend, and pain flared in the base of his spine as if his tail was beginning to sprout.

  He clenched his eyes shut, breathing deep and steady, willing his other nature to stand down. Who do you think to protect him from? Yourself? Perhaps his wolf was not so far off the mark. Christophe wanted nothing as badly as he wanted to be inside Trent. But this close to the edge, with his wolf barely contained, he couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk Trent. Papa and Anton were right. I should never have postponed the shift for so long. But how could he have known he’d meet someone like Trent, who spoke to both the man and the wolf?

  Slowly, the warning signs receded, until nothing but a slight tingling remained in his fingertips, like the memory of touching a hot iron. He opened his eyes.

  Uncertainty clouded Trent’s face, and he released his legs, his erection starting to flag. “Too much. It’s too much, I’m sorry, I—”

  “Shhh.” Christophe crawled onto the bed and stretched out on his side next to Trent. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and how you offered yourself to me—” He kissed
Trent on the temple, the cheek, the lips. “I am honored and humbled. But—” he nipped at Trent’s jaw “—as I told you, I am in no hurry. This first time, let us learn what we can of one another. Taste.” He kissed Trent again, urging him with the touch of his tongue to open, the taste of bourbon still in Trent’s mouth, smoky and intoxicating, although perhaps that was Trent himself. “Touch.” He stroked Trent’s chest, down his ribs, across his flat stomach, enjoying the tremors that followed his fingers, the hitch of Trent’s breath, his barely voiced moan. “Scent.” He buried his nose in Trent’s hair and inhaled. Intoxicating indeed. He trailed kisses down until he reached Trent’s ear, but when he nuzzled there, where neck met jaw, Trent jerked away.

  Christophe rose up on his elbow. “I am sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  Trent shook his head and turned on his side to face Christophe. “No. But remember those boundaries we talked about? You just hit one.”

  “You dislike me scenting you?”

  “No. That’s fine, and by the way, you smell fricking great. It’s . . . that spot. I’m a little sensitive around the neck.”

  “Duly noted.” Christophe flicked one of Trent’s nipples, as he’d done to Christophe earlier. “How about here?”

  “No. That’s—” He inhaled on a hiss as Christophe pinched and plucked each nipple in turn. “That’s fucking awesome.”

  “And here?” He moved one hand down to cup Trent’s balls, playing them across his fingers.

  “That’s good too. Jesus.” Trent closed his eyes, and his long, lovely cock bounced on his belly, once again fully on board.

  “I’m sure you’d object to this, however.” He grasped that tempting cock and squeezed, pumping once and then stopping as the tingle returned to his fingers. Control, damn it. I am a man, not a beast.

  Trent glared at him. “Now you’re being a dick for the hell of it.”

  Not for the hell of it, cher. For you. His wolf’s notion of possession was different than the man’s—driven to cherish, to defend, to mark as its own. The wolf clearly wanted Trent. He cannot have him.

  Christophe rolled Trent onto his back once more and sat between his spread legs. He pulled Trent up to face him. “Show me the error of my ways, then.” He leaned back, bracing himself on his hand, and raised an eyebrow.

  Trent didn’t disappoint. He wrapped his hand around their cocks—and squeezed once, grinning. “You’re not the only one with dick moves.”

  Christophe laughed, and his wolf backed off a bit more. “Noted.”

  “Then get with the program. You can’t expect me to do all the work.”

  Christophe carefully laid his other hand over Trent’s. Will the wolf allow it? Trent set the pace, stroke and pressure increasing, sending sparks skating along Christophe’s skin. I can’t . . . He gripped harder, changing the rhythm, pushing them both toward release—only to have the telltale burn start in fingers, teeth, and tailbone.

  Shite. He let Trent take over again, and with him in charge, the wolf backed down. Extraordinary.

  Everything about this evening was extraordinary. Jesu, had his bifurcated soul at last found the key to wholeness? His balls tightened with a different, exquisite tingling. Ah yes.

  Trent’s eyes clenched shut, and he gasped, an expression on his face as if he wasn’t sure whether to cry or scream or shout. Exactly. That’s exactly what’s building in my chest.

  “Christophe. I’m going to— Jesus fuck.” His back arched and his cock spurted, coating their joined hands, splattering their bodies.

  Jesu. The salty musk of the scent, the warmth on his hands, his belly, his groin. This. This is what I’ve craved. Not any man, but this one.

  Trent opened his eyes. “Your turn,” he whispered.

  At the wicked grin on his face, the wolf whimpered in submission and withdrew. He has mastered us both. Christophe tilted his chin up, baring his own throat. Trent accepted the invitation, diving forward to kiss Christophe’s neck, lighting a fuse that burned through his blood until, with an expert twist of his wrist, Trent ignited him in one brilliant blaze.

  He gritted his teeth as he spent, ropes of his own seed joining with Trent’s between their bodies.

  Trent sagged against his shoulder. “Mmm.”

  Christophe kissed his temple, his breath still running apace with his heart. “You’re painted with semen.”

  “I don’t care.” Trent rubbed his chest against Christophe’s, smearing them both with it. “What’s a little jizz between friends?”

  He nuzzled Christophe’s neck and sighed, clearly the type of man who fell asleep after orgasm. Christophe was not, but no matter. It gave him the opportunity to care for his partner. How he wished he could say his lover, but their time together was so short. Christophe breathed him in again, the scent enough to make his cock throb one more time.

  What if their liaison didn’t need to be short? Trent might be the incentive Christophe needed to stand up to his father. He had no intention of impregnating some mercenary woman with a death wish. That sort of bargain could never spawn a happy marriage, even if Christophe didn’t prefer men.

  Personally, I prefer this man. The one currently snoring softly against his shoulder.

  Chuckling, Christophe eased Trent back onto the pillows and padded to the bathroom. He cleaned himself off, then took a fresh washcloth to the bed and sponged Trent’s chest, belly, and groin. Trent smiled in his sleep and nestled into the pillows. Christophe pulled the duvet over him, and as he was tucking it round his shoulders, he saw them.

  Scars.

  He hadn’t noticed them in the low lamplight before, and Trent’s shaggy hair had hidden them somewhat, but Trent had inch-wide red welts running under his jaw behind his ears. Christophe’s stomach clenched, and his fists tightened on the duvet. Someone had hurt Trent—badly—and from the look of the scars, recently. How dare they? He would find who had done this—find them and make them pay. He would marshal the full resources of Clavret et Cie. Finally, a reason for my influence.

  Christophe’s vision sharpened, colors fading as his wolf howled inwardly in agreement. The burning returned to his teeth and back and hands, the urge to drop onto all fours nearly overwhelming him. The signet ring—the last alert before he crossed beyond the point of no return—constricted Christophe’s finger as his hands began to change.

  Mother of God, no! He scrambled away from the bed and staggered to the chair where he’d left his clothes. Please let me have another dose of the suppressant with me.

  He flung his shirt down on the puddle of his pants and dug the tiny pill bottle out of his jacket’s inner pocket. Only one left. Enough to get me through the night, God and the devil willing. Because Trent must be protected. His terror, should he awake and find himself confronted by a wolf— No. I won’t allow it. I refuse, regardless of the cost. He stumbled to the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

  The suppressant—that vile, blessed concoction—made it possible for him to live with passable normalcy, without the need to skulk through the woods as a wolf three days out of every seven as his ancestors had.

  But the side effects as it took hold were hideous. Cramps, nausea, blinding headache for an hour at minimum. Very attractive, that. But the alternative was worse. An uncontrolled change, in front of a virtual stranger, who loathed any thought of the supernatural, and might perish of shock when faced with incontrovertible proof.

  His hands shook as he fought the bottle’s damned childproof lid. Bloody hell, how were you supposed to pull and push at the same time? All of a sudden, the lid gave way and the tiny pill flew out into the sink.

  “No. No-no-no.” Christophe scrabbled in the sink, trying to capture the little oval, but it escaped his trembling hands and disappeared down the drain.

  He sank to the floor, the tile chill against his bare arse, and hugged his knees to his chest. Rocking there, head down, hair tumbled forward, he willed his wolf to recede. Go back. It is not time. I promise I—

  What could he pr
omise, precisely? He’d never willingly accept the change. He’d fight it every day of his life. This was the reason he had to defy his father and abdicate his position as CEO-apparent. If only he could pursue his genetics studies, search for a gene therapy, a more effective—or at least less debilitating—palliative. But he’d never find it if he toed the family line and bred the next generation of monsters.

  Finally able to see almost normally again, he levered himself to his feet. He turned out the light in the bathroom, and the desk lamp, dressing in the dark by guesswork. Disoriented, exhausted, and on the razor’s edge of transition, he didn’t bother to put on his underwear or his socks, just shoved them in the pocket of his jacket and slipped his shoes on his bare feet. His father would be appalled, but Christophe could scarcely hold the wolf in check as it was. The bare minimum trappings of humanity would have to do. He needed the feel of the clothing against his skin, the essence of himself as a man imbued in the fabric, holding the beast at bay, but taking the time and effort for sartorial perfection was beyond him.

  He gazed at Trent in the moonlight spilling in from the window, his blond hair fanned across the white pillowcase, his hands tucked under his cheek like a child. So beautiful. So troubled. A man with issues.

  Exactly Christophe’s type.

  Perhaps I should leave a note? But even if his eyes weren’t still blurry, if his hands weren’t trembling so hard that he’d doubtless drop the pen, he wasn’t sure what to say. Best think of it later, when my thoughts are clearer, when I can explain to myself as well as to him.

  He dropped a kiss on Trent’s cheek and slipped out the door.

  Faces. So many faces. Angry. Accusing. Anguished.

  Hands, so many hands. Can’t break free. Can’t breathe.

  This scene isn’t— Can’t the director see— Those actors, don’t they understand? “Method” doesn’t mean burying yourself in the part so far you hurt the other performers.