“Aye,” he replied, his voice muffled. “I prefer ye to sheep shearing, a pint of beer at The Thistle—that’s the tavern close by Aldriss Park—and a game of vingt-et-un.”
“Oh, my, even more fun than wagering?”
He lifted his head to eye her. “If ye still have enough wind for sarcasm, I’m doing someaught wrong. I’ll see to that now, shall I?” Taking the neck of her night rail in both hands, he tore it open all the way down her front. The trio of buttons popped off and plinked onto the floor.
“Aden!” she gasped, then slapped a hand over her mouth too late to hold in the sound.
“Hush, lass. We’re being improper,” he said, grinning, and bent to take her right breast in his mouth.
Good heavens.He hadn’t given her any time to think, but perhaps he’d done that intentionally. She had spent a great deal of time thinking, lately. The sensation of his very capable tongue flicking across her aroused nipple drove everything but want and need out of her mind.
Moaning again, writhing beneath him, she wanted…more. Since they were partners, she would take his lead in being—what had he said?—improper. Unable to keep her hands from shaking, she dug her fingers beneath the lapels of his dark gray coat and shoved. Rather obligingly he freed one arm and then the other so she could get it off him and drop it to the floor.
She tugged off his cravat next, while he pulled aside the ragged edges of her night rail, leaving the entire length of her exposed and naked except for a bit of her shoulders and upper arms. Then he reached a hand down to her ankle, slowly sliding his hand up her leg, his fingers drawing toward her inner thighs until they brushed against herthere. She jumped, but didn’t have much time for startlement as his teeth and tongue captured her nipple again.
“I don’t think proper men do that at all, Aden,” she said shakily, arching her back when his fingers returned to her intimate place and opened her to slide inside. The sensation made her tense, and she fought to keep from clamping her knees together.
“I hope that’s nae true, Miranda,” his response came, reverberating into her chest. “Because unless ye have an objection, I reckon I’m doing it the right way. Now that I can see and touch all of ye, that is.”
He shifted, sitting up to kneel with his thighs on either side of hers. Putting his weight on one hand he leaned over her, dipping the forefinger of his other hand inside her as he did so.
“What do ye think, Miranda?” he murmured, studying her face with an intensity that all in itself made her breathless. “Do ye have any objection?”
His finger inside her curled, pressing… “Oh.Oh!” She convulsed around his finger, every inch of her centered on that one touch. Grabbing onto his shirt, shedragged him back down for another kiss. As he obliged, she shakily pulled his long-tailed shirt from his trousers and yanked it up toward his shoulders.
“I’m assuming ye’ve nae objection, then,” he drawled, his voice sounding not quite as composed as she’d become accustomed to hearing. Straightening for a moment, he finished pulling the shirt off over his head and tossed it aside.
“Whatever that… was, I want you to do it again.”
“That is my intention, lass. But I’m nae going to use my damned finger.” Aden tilted his head. “Ye ken?”
That made her look down at the rather impressive bulge straining at the front of his trousers. In the very back of her thoughts she realized, very belatedly, that he still wore his attire from the Darlington ball, that he must have come straight from there to break into her family’s house in order to… claim her. And she very much wanted to be claimed. She very much wanted it to be someone she liked and respected rather than someone she feared and loathed. Miranda nodded. “I understand.”
Turning onto his back beside her, he grabbed off his boots and set them fairly quietly onto the floor beside the bed, before he lifted his hips and started unfastening buttons. “I should’ve worn a bloody kilt,” he grunted. “Whoever invented trousers needs to be hanged by his nethers.”
Despite his complaining, he had them down his hips quickly, and kicked them aside as he rolled back onto his hands and knees over her. Long, sinewy ribbons of muscle flexed beneath his skin, hard, strong and warm beneath her questing hands. His great cock and testicles—as her father’s well-hidden illustrated anatomy book deemed them—moved large and hot between her thighs.
With one hand he parted her legs further, drawing a bent knee up over his hip. She felt very exposed and very vulnerable, and very, very aroused. This was desire, sherealized. This was how it felt to want something so badly she couldn’t even speak a coherent word.
“There’s pain and there’s pleasure, lass,” he rumbled, his voice tight. “Much more pleasure, but bear with me, because the pain comes first. And just this once.”
She nodded, and he pushed his hips forward. Pausing at her nether lips, he said something in Gaelic and then slid slow and hot and tight inside her. Deeper and deeper he penetrated her, until with a sharp bite he buried himself in her to the hilt.
Miranda squeezed her eyes closed and dug her fingers into his broad back, refusing to utter as much as a squeak. When Aden kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, and her chin, she opened her eyes again. “I’m fine,” she stated, even though she still wasn’t quite certain of that.
“Ye’re still a terrible liar,” he whispered. “I hope ye nae need to ever be otherwise.” Running a finger down her cheek, he bent down again, this time kissing her on the mouth.
It took a moment before she wanted to move again. She began by relaxing her fingers, moving her hands from his back to tangle them into his lanky black hair, guiding his mouth back to hers and then down to her throat and lower. With a muffled chuckle he licked and nipped her breasts until she moaned again.
That seemed to unleash him, because he made a low sound and slowly canted his hips away from her and then forward again. Miranda opened her eyes wide, wanting to memorize the exquisite sensation, the weight of his hips on hers as he entered her deeply again, the wanton… craving she felt for him.
As he increased his tempo she locked her ankles around his thighs, unable to help panting and mewling like a kitten. And there she lay, on her back with her legsspread, her shredded night rail and her dressing gown still beneath her. One by one she shrugged her arms free, shifting her grip between his shoulders, his back, and his fine, muscular arse as he continued pumping into her. The bed rocked, the footboard bumping against the trunk sitting at its base. Openmouthed kisses, his fingers teasing at her breasts as he rested his weight on his elbows, touching and caressing until she wanted to scream with ecstasy.
She drew taut again inside, her fingers flexing helplessly. Aden kissed her as her entire body shook loose. He thrust fast and hard into her, grunting with a shiver she felt beneath her hands and all the way inside her to her very center.
“Sweet Saint Andrew,” he breathed, sliding onto his right side and drawing her left leg up over his hip as he did so.
They lay there for a moment, facing each other, touching but not conjoined. She wished that they were; her skin felt cold where his body didn’t cover hers. Her breath came hard and ragged, as if she’d just run all the way from Marathon. Aden panted as well, a fine sheen of sweat on his chest and brow. His right arm lay outstretched beneath her head, his fingers playing idly with her hair and sending goose bumps along her scalp.
