He flicked his thumb over her taut, rosy peak once, then again.
She gasped, moaned.
“You like that, too. What about this?” He leaned over, took her nipple into his mouth, suckled her. He would teach her to ask for her pleasure, to demand it, to savor it.
Bethie heard herself cry out, felt a shaft of searing heat shoot from her breast to her belly, then turn to dew between her thighs. It felt so good, and before she realized it, she had twined her fingers through his hair, pressed him closer.
“I’ve waited so long to taste you, Bethie.” His voice had a ragged edge to it, and she felt his hand open her shift, bare her aching breasts to the cool night air. Then he cupped one breast in his callused palm, drew lazy circles over its tight peak with his thumb, descended on her again, his mouth closing over her other nipple this time.
Never had she felt anything like this. Sensation overwhelmed her. The rasp of his tongue. The sweet tug of his lips. The deep vibration of his mouth as he moaned.
“Nicholas!” What was happening to her? What had he done to her to make her feel so hot, so reckless? What was that wet, throbbing emptiness between her thighs?
“Mmm, warm and sweet.” He flicked his tongue against the sensitive underside of her breast, then drew her nipple back into his mouth, sucked it, grazed it gently with his teeth.
“Oh, aye!”
He caught her pleasured cry with his mouth, ravished her with his lips and tongue.
The throb between her thighs became an ache.
As if he knew what she was feeling, he slid a hand down the heated skin of her belly, began to move it in slow circles over her womb.
She felt her hips lift off the furs, seeking, seeking... Oh, she did not know what!
Then he slid his hand down over her woman’s mound, cupped her most intimate flesh.
A lightning shard of panic. A wave of nausea.
“Nay!” She pressed her legs tightly together, tried to push his hand away. “Please, stop!”
Nicholas felt her body stiffen. But he felt something else as well. Even through the cloth of her shift, he could tell she was wet. Her body wanted him, was more than ready for him.
But her mind was not. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face turned away from him.
“It’s all right, Bethie.” He fought the raging of his blood, ignored the animal drive inside him that urged him to take her despite his promise, withdrew his hand. Then he pulled her into his arms, stroked her hair. “Tell me what you fear, love. Tell me who hurt you.”So I can kill the bastard—if he’s not already dead.
For a moment she said nothing, but trembled in his arms. “Th-there is nothing to tell.”
Because she seemed so fragile, because he did not want to upset her further, he let the lie pass. He pressed his lips to her hair. “Sleep. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”
Soon her trembling stopped, and her breathing deepened.
But Nicholas lay awake for a long time, burning.
***
Bethie awoke just before dawn to a chorus of birdsong—and the scent of frying fish.
“I’ve made more willow-bark tea.” Nicholas rose from his seat by the fire, walked toward her carrying a cup. His wet hair told her he’d bathed in the stream while she’d slept. “Drink.”
Despite the thoughtful gesture, his furrowed brow, the grim line of his mouth, the tension in his jaw told her he was in a dark temper.
Was he angry because she had refused him?
She sat up, winced. Her bum was tender. Her inner thighs felt as if they’d been stripped of skin. Even her neck and shoulders ached, no doubt from holding Isabelle all day.
She took the cup from his hand, unable to meet his gaze, her shame from last night still fresh in her mind. “Thank you.”
