“In the dark?” he quipped, and laughed as he kissed her again. She drank him in, opened to him, tasted him as her hands roamed. She pulled his shirt out of his breeches, caressed his skin, warm silk over steel. The soft endearments he whispered in her ear, in English, in Gaelic, in French, told her he liked her caresses. She knew the ultimate aim, wanted that, but she had no idea how to obtain it, what to do next, how to ease the ache in her body.
“I don’t . . . Show me what to do.”
“It’s a dance,” he said, kissing the sensitive place under her ear. “We move together, partners, learning how to please each other.” He ran his fingers over her shoulders, across the slopes of her breasts, a light, tickling touch along the edge of her bodice, and she shivered. “Sometimes we go slow . . .” She gasped and closed her eyes as his hand dipped past the layers of lace and silk and linen to cup her breast. He ran his thumb over the taut peak of her nipple, and she drew a sharp breath and arched against him. “And sometimes we go faster . . .”
She slid her arms around his neck, raised her mouth to his, and kissed him. He opened, and her tongue slipped into his mouth, shyly, then more boldly when he groaned softly. “Can we go faster now?” she asked.
He laughed against her mouth. “Slow is better.”
She whimpered. “John . . .”
He deepened the kiss, pulled her closer still, and she moved against him restlessly. “You’re making my intention to go slow almost impossible.”
It was her turn to smile. “Good,” she said, feeling deliciously wicked. “Then I suspect I’m doing this right after all.”
* * *
She was doing everything right. He was on fire. Her bodice was too tightly fitted to pull down, and his mouth watered to taste her, to feel her naked body against his own.
“The laces,” he said, reaching behind her. They were still face-to-face on their knees in the close confines of their shelter, just big enough for two, and for this.
He was an expert at all manner of laces, fastenings, and corsets—usually. He fumbled now. The strings were tangled, or knotted. Impatiently, he broke them, and loosened the gown, pushed it off her shoulders and down. He cupped the silken, perfect weight of her breasts in his palms, then lowered his mouth to take her erect nipple into his mouth. She sighed, murmured, and arched against him, her hands twined in his hair, holding him to her. He moved to the other breast, intoxicated by the sweet, feminine scent of her skin mixed with the aroma of their pine bower. Her small sounds of pleasure drove him wild. He reached for the hem of her skirt, and silently cursed the endless yards of silk that covered her, as he tried to find his way beneath it. She shifted, tried to make it easier, and he found her ankle, her booted foot, and her thick, sensible woolen stockings, made for riding, and at odds with a silk ball gown. They ended at her knees, and then there was only skin, warm and soft, along the back of her thighs. He skimmed upward to cup the round sweetness of her bare bottom. He pressed her against his erection, and she shifted, rubbing, driving him wild.
Mine, he thought.Mine,as he kissed her naked breasts, her throat, her mouth, marked her as his.For now, an inner voice warned him.
She wasn’t his to keep.
But that made him want her all the more, to ensure that she thought ofhimwhen the man she married touched her, took her to his bed, that she never, ever forgot this moment.
A dangerous game, but one he was powerless to resist.
He slid his hand over her hip, placed his palm over the nest of curls, let his fingers tickle the delicate lips of her sex, caressing her with the lightest possible strokes. She leaned backward over his arm, and he could imagine how her breasts looked, arched, peaked and perfect.
“Hmm,” she moaned, writhing. “I want . . .”
He grinned. She wasn’t shy now, here, with him. She was never shy with him, he realized. He knew exactly what she wanted, what she needed.
He laid her down, parted her thighs, stroked her gently, a sweet, slow caress, and she cried out, urged him on, losing herself to pleasure in his arms. He licked her nipples, used his hands and his mouth to take her beyond madness. He wished it wasn’t pitch dark, that there was light enough to watch her climax rise over her face, to let him see her grow flushed and rosy, her eyes closed, her lips softly parting as she panted for him. Yet the dark made it more erotic still. He felt her response, heard it, tasted it. She gasped, mewed his name, and arched again, clinging to his shoulders, digging her nails into his flesh. He felt her release come over her.
He caught her soft cries in his mouth, held her, felt her heart pound with his as he opened his breeches.
He positioned himself between her thighs, nudged her, and she held her breath. “Breathe,” he said as he entered her with one swift, smooth stroke. Her body tensed for an instant under his. “Breathe,” he said again, as much to himself as her. He held himself still, allowing her a moment, though it was like trying to hold back a stampede of wild horses. When she was ready, soft and supple beneath him, her hips shifting in a silent plea for more, he withdrew and plunged again, slowly, teaching her, loving her. “Put your legs around me,” he said. “Move with me, sweetheart.”
“It feels—perfect,” she whispered, and put her arms around his neck. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
He grinned. “Much more. Everything.”
He began to move then, and she instinctively tilted her hips to take all of him. Her soft sighs became moans, then cries.
He felt her inner flesh ripple around him, drawing him in, enveloping him. He growled her name as he arched into her one last time. His release seemed to go on forever, powerful and perfect, and when it ended, he fell against her and gathered her in his arms.
He felt her heart beating against his. He didn’t want to let go, to withdraw and leave her.
He shifted, held her close, felt her relax and fall asleep, curled against him. He kissed her brow, her cheek, her shoulder, and drew the folds of her gown over them both, and sighed with contentment. He closed his own eyes and smiled in the dark, feeling pure male pride, and more.
Mine. . .
