"And what do ye need?” She clutched his shoulders when his lips lightly brushed over hers for she was so starved for him that that light touch was all she needed to set her aflame, her barely tethered desire leaping to full life.
"I need ye, lass."
"Ye are verra slow to show it."
"Ah, loving, the need is so strong I fear to hurt you. My urge is to ravish not make love slow and gentle as ye deserve."
He kissed her, a slow, gentle kiss as if he leisurely savored the taste of her. That leisureliness was belied by the way he held her. His arms gripped her tightly as he dragged her atop of him and pressed his hips against hers, both of them crying out at the contact. Almost frantically they moved against each other, their need for each other making them desperate to join.
"Islaen, my wee wife,” Iain rasped as he turned so that she was sprawled beneath him and his shaking hand burrowed beneath her skirts to clumsily remove her braes, “have ye e'er had your skirts tossed up like some crofter's wench and been taken with no finesse by a lust-crazed fool of a mon?"
She laughed softly. “Nay and weel ye ken it. ‘Tis fun?"
"Ye can tell me the answer in a wee while."
A cry of pleasure tinged with relief escaped Islaen when Iain joined their bodies with one fierce thrust. It was fast and furious, their release coming with a shattering unity. Their need for each other was too great to allow any gentleness or any lingering at the edge of desire's chasm.
Still not quite steady, Iain raised himself up on his elbows to look at Islaen. She lay beneath him, her eyes closed and her long dark lashes forming a thick arc upon her flushed cheeks. Although she seemed to be all right he frowned worriedly as he gently brushed the hair from her face. He had been rough, taking her fiercely. She was so tiny and delicate that he feared he might have hurt her with his lack of control.
"Islaen, are ye all right?"
"Aye.” She opened her eyes partway and smiled slowly as she put her arms around his neck.
"Are ye sure I didnae hurt ye?"
"Nay, ye didnae hurt me I am nay so delicate as ye think Iain.” She started to unlace his tunic.
"Weel, ‘tis not right to take your wife like some peasant slut."
"E'en if that wife quite enjoyed herself?"
"Did she now?"
"Aye, tell me, if that is how ye tumble some crofter's wench, how do ye tumble a tavern wench?"
He grinned as he eased the intimacy of their embrace so that he could help her remove his tunic. “Sometimes right upon the table."
"Ye could get splinters.” She grinned when he laughed. “Weel, we havenae got a table here."
"A shame,” he murmured as he watched her tug off his boots. “I would ne'er have a sweeter meal set out for me."
She blushed and busied herself unbuckling his sword. “I dinnae think I wish to chance splinters in my backside."
"I should put down a cloth of the finest linen to protect that sweet tail. Nay, dinnae put it too far away,” he commanded softly when she set his sword aside. “Mayhaps e'en a pillow."
"There is gallantry. What of the miller's wife?"
"On the sacks of grain, of course."
"Of course. Weel, we havenae got those either."
"No matter. They tend to shift about beneath ye and ye cannae keep a steady gait, can e'en be tossed out of the saddle."
Even though she blushed slightly she giggled at the image he painted. “'Tis a most absurd conversation we are having."
"Aye. Ask me about the blacksmith's daughter."
Eyeing him suspiciously as she removed the last of his clothes, she asked, “And how would ye tumble the blacksmith's daughter?"
