Stavanger Bay she brought the sugar and the mint

Doe’s touch was electric — the moment her nose made contact with the juncture of his throat and jaw, a place he habitually guarded as befitted his militant upbringing, he went completely still. The hammering of his heart at her nearness drummed all the faster at the sweet, lingering touch of her tongue upon his fur — a quaking overtook him, dizzying as her earlier circling, bewildering and addicting and exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Up until this point, Szymon had not allowed himself to touch the girl; a fear he could not fully understand had clamped iron hands around his guts and twisted cruelly at the thought of being turned away — or worse, doing something to defile or harm the bewitching creature. But she had broken the seal — she had crossed a line that no other wolf had crossed but for the sake of putting Szymon in his place — and he rumbled, low in his throat, a noise he’d never made before. A hum of pleasure with an undercurrent of possessiveness, perhaps of demand — Szymon couldn’t figure it out himself.

Doe was talking about plums now, and Szymon, wonderstruck, bestirred himself and attempted to catch up — he was always behind when it came to her. She smelled of mint and flowers. He wanted to lick where she had licked, to capture the taste of her mouth. Instead he nodded, hating the hesitation he felt when it came to touching her in turn. More than speaking, it was a fear he had yet to conquer. Perhaps the two of them were not so different in their inexperience. Swallowing hard, he offered her a low growl-whine — rrrrr-rummm — that bore all the affection he could muster. Someday, he promised, a mingled vow to himself as well as Doe, I will find the courage, and I will make you feel what I feel. The smile that shaped his ink-lined lips was touched with a self deprecating air as he nodded acquiescence, but although his auriferous eyes fixated intently upon her, he seemed rooted to the spot.