Broad, strong shoulders aglow in the light from the fire. A finely molded chest patterned with auburn hair. Strong legs without bulk, and hips whipcord slim.
Her mind failed her there. Her mouth went dry.Och, holy Brigid! He was made for me. Only for me.
He said nothing as she met his gaze at last, not aloud. His lips did move, though no words came, and his eyes sang her a song. One so ancient and holy it did not need to sound in the air.
She heard it instead in her mind. In her heart.
“Ardahl,” she whispered when they were both stripped naked. She moved into his arms. Och, and she could feel him, every part of him as he wrapped her in his arms and drew her in, natural and wonderful as breathing. As being alive.
They kissed. And kissed.
She gave herself to him, fairly and freely she did. Arms wound around his neck. Fingers twined into his hair. Legs around his hips.
He boosted her up without effort, his palms at her bottom, and breathed into her. “Where?”
Not in Conall’s sleeping place, nor here beside the fire where her mam had died.
“There.” Her parents’ sleeping place, which her mam had abandoned after Conall’s death. Unused now.
He deposited her there gently, as if she were something precious. She pulled him down on top of her.
“Wait, Liadan.” He said no more as he stood and looked at her by the light filtering in from the fire. She’d never been self-conscious about her body, never been conceited about it either, or given it much thought. But now she wondered what he might think.
She wanted to be beautiful for him. No one else.
She reached up for him, pressed her mouth to his, and he came down atop her. All other thoughts flew as sensation—blinding in its intensity—seared her mind.
Desire rose in a staggering wave even before he put his tongue into her mouth, deep. She understood it then. She had been created to open herself and accept him. Give to him on a rush as strong as a flowing river.
He began to run his hands over her, gently and carefully, palms abraded and rough with callouses. They smoothed the skin at her sides, cupped a breast, traveled over her belly and downward. All the while Ardahl and she continued to kiss as if fused mouth to mouth, unceasing.
So easy was this, so natural, and at the same time utterly transforming. She teetered on the edge of becoming someone she’d never imagined.
Ardahl’s woman.
“Ardahl, please.” She broke the kiss to gust the plea, breathless, into his mouth.
“Ye be certain o’ this, lass?”
“I need—”
“Aye.” He gusted a half laugh. He lay upon her, and she could feel the hot hardness of him resting on her belly.
Greatly daring, she reached between their bodies and wrapped her fingers around him. His whole being jerked in response.
“Please,” she begged again.
Instead, he bent his head. His mouth found her breast, and though she would not have thought it possible, her mind shattered again. The rest of her was primed to follow. If she did not have him soon, deep inside her, she would die.
Leaving go of him below, she buried her hands in his hair and drew him to her, fingers urging. The closer he got, the closertheygot. She held him to her breast and rocked him. With a kind of sigh, he stopped suckling, lifted his face, and studied her in the dim, filtered light.
Gazed straight into her eyes. Repositioned himself.
And slid inside her.
It felt so right, she nearly missed the sudden pinch of pain. That did not matter, for he was suddenly where she wanted him, where he was meant to be. In this moment she belonged to this man—nothing before and nothing after, one being, with one heart and one flesh.
She rose through the sensation and expanded, taking him with her. Her blood beat for him, like the beating of wings, and his blood beat through her. Mouths still fused, she tasted nothing but him as she shattered.
