“Ye havenae gifted me that,” he said in a choked voice, “yet.”
She knew he’d been looking forward to their wedding night as much as she had. “Soon. But first I have to tell you about my gift.”
“Aye,” he murmured, lowering his head. “But hurry.”
When his lips found the side of her neck, she tilted her head to one side, giving him better access, as her hands slid under his coat and up his sides. He nipped at her skin, and she gasped, then pulled him flush against her.
“Have I mentioned I love you in a kilt, husband?” Her hands slid down his sides to his hips, then lower, and she began to bunch up the plaid material, trying to reach the hardness she could feel pressed against her belly.
He growled as he switched his attention to that sensitive spot below her ear; his hands fumbling for the buttons on the back of her gown. “Aye, ye’ve said so a time or two. Easy access, ye ken.”
She hummed in agreement, which turned into a gasp as the shoulder of her gown sagged enough for him to drop his lips to her collarbone, then the top of her breast. “For fellatio, you mean?”
He chuckled a moment before his tongue found her nipple. “Ye still have that sketch I made for ye?” he murmured against her skin.
“Yes!” She gasped, arching under his touch. “I have studied it often, wondering on the mechanics of—Oh!”
“Bonnie, if ye have something ye want to say to me before I remove yer gown, carry ye to that bed, and make ye mine, ye best be saying it now.”
Oh, how she loved this man and his sometimes-barbaric habits. “You know…I have completely forgotten what?—”
His growl interrupted her, and when he yanked at her chemise—causing buttons to ping off the floor—her giggles turned into a soft sigh.
Then her gown—and all the underpinnings—were on the floor, and he was tossing her on the bed. “Wait!” she called breathlessly. “My stockings.”
Each of his hands closed around an ankle, and he pulled her rear end toward the edge of the mattress. “Leave them,” he growled. Do ye have any idea how erotic ye look right now, wife?”
With her spread naked up on the bed, wearing only her stockings? Yes, she could guess. But it didn’t seem fair… “You are still fully dressed.”
“Aye,” he drawled, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I am.”
It was thepromisein those words which left her breathless. That, and the way he sank to his knees, tracing kisses along her inner thighs.
“Lyon!” She twined her fingers through his hair. “What are you…?”
When he shushed her, the huff of air against her already aching core made her shiver with need.
“Ye’re already wet for me, are ye no’?”
He didn’t give her the chance to respond—not that she had any idea how to respond to something like that!—before he dragged his tongue along her folds.
Oh.
Oh, my.
“Lyon…”
His lips closed around the bud of pleasure hidden in her curls, and he hummed.
She completely lost the ability to form words.
So many times in the last three months, they’d joked and teased about his ancestress’s work in the library. They’d managed to talk his sister Athena into allowing their new publishing house to produce a discreet version of the ancientA Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts,complete with the illustrations.
Bonnie and Lyon had spent the last few months marveling at the sexual positions therein.
This one likely had a name, but Bonnie was utterly incapable of remembering it at that moment.
Lyon, however, must’ve had plenty of practice. Or perhaps an active imagination.
