“Aye. ’Tis why I went to her.”
“Oh. Ye like to be kissed there?”
“Aye. I kenned that she had a talent for that and sought her out or, rather, gave into her ploys. It wasnae verra good. Catarine leaves a man feeling as if he has been eaten alive, as if he is naught but a staff. She served me weel the once, but I wasnae eager for more.”
Suddenly Catarine was no longer a threat. He talked of her as if she were no more than some utensil. Aimil knew that he always seemed to want more from her. That was one thing she was certain of. What Catarine had shared with Parlan had been brief and unimportant.
“Do ye really like to be kissed there?” she whispered as his mouth touched her throat.
His hands cupped her breasts, and he felt his usual delight in her nipples that needed no prompting to harden. “Aye. What man wouldnae?”
“Then why havenae ye asked it of me? Is it a whore’s trick?”
“Nay,” he replied slowly, “though ’tis often only a whore a man can get to do it for him.”
“I will do it if ye wish.” She felt a shudder tear through him.
“Why?” he rasped, his body already taut from aching with anticipation.
“Weel, ye do so much to me, ’tis only fair to do something to ye. Ye give me pleasure. I should give ye some.”
It was not exactly what he had hoped to hear her say but he was in no state to argue. “Then kiss me, little one.”
When he turned onto his back, she hesitantly began her journey. Instinct told her that a slow approach would please him more. She edged her way down his body, letting her lips and tongue caress the taut flesh of his chest and abdomen. His body trembled slightly and that sign of his pleasure increased her own. So too did his husky words of approval and verbal exclamations of his delight.
Upon reaching her final goal, the cry that broke from his lips at her mere touch emboldened her. She tried many ways to increase his very evident pleasure, using her lips, tongue, and hands. When his hips rose up slightly off the bed, instinct told her how to answer his silent plea, and his reactions told her that her instinct had again been right.
“Oh, my God,” he groaned when the moist heat of her mouth surrounded him. “Aye, loving, that be the way of it. ’Tis so good. Sweet heaven, but ’tis good. ’Tis a sweet, sweet pleasure ye give me, little one.”
He writhed beneath her ministrations until he knew his control was slipping. Grasping her beneath her arms, he pulled her up his body and set her upon him. After but an instant she was in control, his prompting no longer needed. The fact that she had been readied for him, that pleasuring him had evidently aroused her own passions, sent his desire to new heights.
The shivers of her release had barely begun when he held her snug against him, his hips bucking with the force of his own. When she nestled against him with delight, he pulled her tightly into his arms. For a long time they clung to each other, trembling from the force of their passions and weak from the sating of them.
Although he finally eased the embrace slightly, he still held her against him. He had never experienced such pleasure. Even the way she could stir him past control was a sort of pleasure. With each night he spent in her arms, even when they had not made love, he became more certain that he would be a fool to let her go.
His happiness with her, both in and out of bed, had not faded. The boredom he had so often experienced was not there, not even envisionable. Even when she infuriated him, he never thought of being rid of her. The same things that could set his temper off were part of what fascinated him. It was undoubtedly time to stop playing games with ransom demands.
Not being of a romantic turn of mind, love did not enter his calculations although he sorely wanted her to love him. He liked her and he trusted her. There was no doubt in his mind that he could be happy with her and proud of her. He wanted her to bear his children and to be at his side to see them grow and have their own families. That, in his mind, settled the matter.
“Aimil,” he asked softly even as he wondered what prompted him to, “what is it that ye like about me?”
“Assuming that I did like ye?” she teased.
“Aye, assuming that. What is it about my looks that ye like the most?” Although he silently scolded himself for his foolishness he tensed for her reply.
“Weel…” She frowned in thought as she lifted her head to look at him and tried to think of an answer that would not expose her feelings for him. “Your eyes. I like your eyes. I never kenned that black could have so many shades, one for each emotion when ye arenae making them flat and unreadable. Aye, ye have verra fine eyes.”
“Why, thank ye, Aimil.” He felt genuinely flattered. “Anything else?”
“Pleading for compliments, are ye? Weel, your hands. I like your hands.” She lifted one of his hands to her mouth and kissed his palm. “They are strong, calloused from work and holding a sword, but can be verra gentle. They could crush me but they never even try to.” She noted that, although he looked pleased, he also looked quizzical. “What did ye think I would say?”
“My staff.” He grimaced slightly when she looked at him as if his wits had gone begging.
“Why should I choose that? Every mon has one of those. As Leith says, ‘’Tis not the steed but the ride that matters.’ A large horse doesnae always give a good ride. When ye asked me to say what I liked, I looked for what made ye different from other men.” She suddenly grinned at him. “Mayhaps if ye had smiled more, the women would have looked at your face and not your breeches.”
Laughing quietly, he rolled them over so that she was beneath him. “Are ye saying that ye care not about my endowments?”
“Nay. I daresay this wouldnae be quite so much fun without it.” She laughed with him as her hand slid down to discover him ready and eager again. “Though, I must say, your appetite threatens to wear it down to a stub.”
