“Aye, if you like.”
She slid her hand along his arm until her fingers touched his, braced to a support. Ghost arched his neck over the stall and nuzzled her hand, searching for something to nibble upon. She felt Eachann stiffen, heard him suck in a breath.
“You’re allowed to touch, husband,” came her tentative words. “I was nervous earlier, not unwanting.”
He was silent. Frozen.
“What are you saying, wife?” he said with gruffness thickening his throat.
She knew she was blushing and she was thankful for the darkness. It was still embarrassing to talk about matters of bed sport.
“I’m saying that I’m willing,” she whispered. “I’ve always been willing. With you.”
She slid her other hand upon his arm now, too, then squeezed between him and the support so that their fronts were touching and her back rested against the wood. A strangled groan emerged from his throat.
“Are—” His voice cracked. He cleared it. “Are you certain?”
“I’ve never been more certain—”
He grabbed her, slid his hands around her waist, and his lips came down to hers. She could feel his relief pouring forth. Her blood was suddenly roaring through her veins. She felt the tell-tale throbbed against her stomach as his manhood pulsed to attention, pushing at the heavy wool of his kilt.
He turned her, walking her away from the horse, and backed her against the wooden slats of the far wall. His hands dragged down her sides, over her waist, onto her rear. He gripped her there, pulling her tightly against him. Her blood thumped madly, her belly warmed to feel him take such liberty. She knew relinquishing a maidenhead could be painful for some, but she knew with Eachann, making love would be perfect and wonderful.
She clenched his face, holding his cheeks, and ran a finger down his scar. He pulled away as if she’d burned him, but she reached up and pressed her lips to the disfigurement.
“Do you find my scar repulsive?” he bit out.
She crinkled her brow. Was he self-conscious? He didn’t realize how handsome he was?
“Your face is the most handsome face I know.” She kissed his scar again, then trailed her lips to his mouth and offered a kiss of her own. “Make love to me, husband. Here, in the nighttime.”
He was pathetic. Anxious. And such words from her were dangerous. He needed to sink into her. Thrust. Claim. Not what she needed her first time. But her request had ignited a storm, whether she understood it or not.
His breath caught as she let go of his face, holding his cheeks a moment ago. He felt them against his chest, but they weren’t caressing him. Nay, she was…fiddling with her bodice strings. Heaven have mercy upon him. He let go of her rear, sliding his fingers over hers, and found the strings she already had untied. Together they finished the job. The garment sagged and he pushed it and her shift down to rest in each elbow crook.
All of his self-doubts faded away. He slid his hands over her bare breasts, holding them, massaging them, and acquainting himself with how she felt. God, but were these his for the remainder of his days? She sucked in hard, tensing. She was nervous still, but his lips found hers again and coaxed her to relax.
He closed his eyes, thinking on her words moments ago, feeling her hands now sliding around him, welcoming him against her chest. He swallowed. It felt so good. The scar had only been earned in a training mishap. It wasn’t the result of a hard-fought battle. And yet, her attempt to assuage his self-consciousness touched his heart.
He found her lips with his. He didn’t intend for the kiss to be rough, but he was straining to keep command of himself. She welcomed him, moaning softly into his mouth. Wildly, his hands sought her body, anything of which to grasp hold. His tongue pushed between her lips. He groaned as she pressed herself hard against the planes of his stomach.
“Caty, sweeting,” he growled. “I want ye. God, I want ye.”
She nodded against him, kissing him still. He pulled off her bodice from her sleeves, letting it drop to the hay.
“I’ll be careful,” he added, knowing his beastliness was dangerously close to escaping his control.
“I’ll withstand it, Eachann,” she replied.
He slowed, then paused. He lifted her chin, looking her in the eye, dark in the nighttime shed.
“I aim to please you, lass.”
She nodded, looking down between them. His hands came up to hold her face and he felt the heat of her skin. She was blushing.
“Show me what to do.”
He nodded. Her remark had been just what he needed to slow his raging impulses. She might know what was about to happen, but she was new to the experience herself. He resumed his kisses, though this time trailed them along her lush, lush lips and nipped his way across her cheek, her jaw, to her ear. He reached up to cup her head to him and hold her close, meanwhile trailing his other hand down her neck, across the expanse of skin, to take up a breast.
Sakes, but he wanted to see the perfection he felt, wishing for a lantern or candle. Something. He would have to settle for a sensuous touching game for their first, a thought that had him aching beneath his kilt.
He felt her shiver as he rolled her nipple into a point. She sighed and flinched, though he could tell it was from lack of experience, not lack of desire. He held her at her back and coaxed her into participating. She arched into him and he smiled, trailing his lips down her jaw, down her neck, causing another shiver to skitter over her frame. He took the sweet nipple, small and no doubt rosy pink, into his mouth.
“Eachann…” she sighed.
“God, Caty,” he breathed, his voice low and filled with lust.
He pulled, kneading with his tongue. A moan escaped her. Her hands came up to cradle his head, her fingers combing through his hair in a gentle massage, holding him close. He groaned at the encouragement. Her nails raked against his scalp. She was enjoying it, if the way she pressed herself into his mouth was any indication. Was she ready for him completely?
Hell, but the thought of what she beheld beneath her skirts made him ache. Nay. Bloody-well scream, in pain. Still holding her, he ripped his kilt out of the way and took himself in hand, hoping to ease the engorgement.
No relief. Just blissful misery as he gripped himself and nursed upon his new wife’s bosom. But he was going to spend himself just by doing this, and she deserved all of him, nay to be used for his gratification. He pulled away from her. She murmured a complaint at his separation. The corner of his lips turned up.
“Aye, I think I’ll more than withstand it,” she breathed.
She snapped his resolve with those words. He ripped his tunic over his head like an eager lad, nay a self-respecting man—even if he was still young—wadded it, and tossed it carelessly on her bodice, delving down to latch upon her other breast so as to be fair. She sighed, arching and relaxing against him again. She wanted more. He could give just that.
He pulled away, her breast popping loose from his mouth, and he hissed as he felt her hands rove over his bare shoulders. He dropped to his knee and trailed his lips across her stomach, her navel, to the waistline of her skirts.
“You liked that, love?” he questioned, shivering as she laced her fingers into his locks to hold his face close.
He felt her body shake as she nodded, felt her stomach rise and fall with quick breaths beneath his lips. His mouth watered at the thought of her pulse racing, knowing what she wanted.
“No need to be so nervous, aye?” he encouraged as he worked the fastenings at her waist.
“I’m still nervous,” she admitted, though he heard a smile on her lips.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, flashing his dark eyes up at her, kissing her navel lazily as he peeled open her skirts. They slipped over her hips. The wool fell the rest of the way to her bare feet.
She was nude. His hands slid up her thighs, feeling her shiver, feeling her hands grip him desperately to maintain her balance. Her reaction was enough to stop a man’s heart. So natural and uninhibited.
He wanted his mouth everywhere at once, suckling at each breast while his tongue also turned spirals on her belly. A belly he imagined might one day be round with his babe. A babe he would never abandon.
“Nay,” she moaned dropping her head back against the slats. “Show me more.” She gripped him so hard, he felt his hair pulling on his scalp. “I want to know this, with you, husband.”
He growled. “With pleasure, my Caty.”
He sat back on his haunches, her untouched womanhood before his eyes and yet hidden in the veil of darkness, shielded by a sweet nestling of soft, dark curls. He grabbed her hips, bracing her back, and kissed her stomach, trailing his lips down one of her thighs and inhaling deeply the perfume that awaited him betwixt her legs.
“God, ye’re beautiful,” he exhaled, his brogue thickening. “I could only imagine you over the years. And make no mistake, I was imagining you constantly. But had I known…”
He didn’t know where to begin, but his wife wanted him. He’d be damned if he failed her expectation.
Chapter 8
She felt his hands upon her thighs, coaxing her stance to widen. Cool air caressed her skin. She shivered, feeling exposed out of doors. Still. They were within their own stable in the middle of the night. She had no cause to be either fearful or embarrassed, and yet, her legs shook and her grip moved from his hair to his rippling shoulders to better brace herself. As if he understood her need, he rose to standing again, his hands sliding from her hips to her waist to hold her steady.
Her bare skin tingled everywhere his hands touched. He had been so close to her most private of spaces. She was certain she would collapse against him into the hay. She was so sensitive. Nervous, aye nervous! And yet she wanted him. He pecked her lips, her cheeks, and lifted the weight of one breast, then the other, cupping them, then releasing them, and trailing his fingertips down her stomach.
Her lips parted, her breathing grew erratic. She was going to burst, how, she had no idea, but it would be profound. His fingers, caressing over her navel, moved lower and lower, skimmed the hair of her nether parts, and ran over her inner thigh. Her legs tensed. She tried to draw them together, yet stopped herself. Why be so shy when what her husband was doing felt so good? So new?
“Eachann,” she pleaded, for what, she knew not. She braced a hand on his glorious expanse of chest, firm with youthful muscle.
He nuzzled her neck, an arm encircling her waist as he seemed to sense her knees buckling, and slid his fingers between her legs, running them back and forth over her chaste lips, leaving shivers in their wake. She whimpered, quivered, her eyes fell closed, her mouth fell open.
She buried her head against his chest, clenching his rigid muscle, and pulled her legs together.
“Nay,” he said against her neck, his voice strained. “Open for me.”
She did so, and felt him push into her center. Her whole body sagged as a rush of heat exploded. She dropped her head back, clinging so desperately to him, exhaling a soft, long moan.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, dusting her neck and jaw with kisses.
He swept her tumble of hair over her shoulder to drape down one breast, and reached for her hand. Guiding her, he brought her fingertips to his belts. He wants me to unfasten him… That such a thought was more scandalous than what he had just done to her, was ridiculous, and yet, it felt ten times more brazen. Her hands shook. She fumbled with his clasps, curious as to what he looked like up close, wondering what he would feel like.
His torso, broad pectorals, corded muscle collaring his neck and rippling over his shoulders, was a mere silhouette against the darkness. When his belts were finally unbuckled, she ran her hands across his skin, feeling scar tissue welts of a branding iron, small nicks, solid ridges of muscle, and a dusting of hair traveling over his navel, having yet to fully capture his chest. He was still a young man, she reminded herself. He was only a year her senior, and she was but eight and ten. He had been so responsible for so long, she often forgot he was young himself. In time, she would see the masculine hair of a man fill out upon him. She felt her eyes mist over, happy tears for the future they would have, for the chance to grow old together. After being drawn together in friendship as children, they would now continue that friendship for the remainder of their lives.
He began unraveling his plaid, unwrapping the folds from around his waist, until the fabric fell away. He shook it out and draped it across the hay stacked in the corner of the other stall. Then he scooped her up into a cradle as if she weighed nothing, laying her out upon it.
Catriona swallowed as he knelt beside her. Her dark lashes fluttered up to him.
“What do I do?” she asked, her throat parched, her voice soft.
He ran a thumb down her chin, running the pad across her lips. “Whatever you wish, Caty. Explore me as I explored you.”
His words were tight and his voice, rough. She wanted to smile. He was barely holding on and though she had never experienced intercourse herself before, she knew they hadn’t even started.
She placed her palms on the long muscles of his thighs, felt his skin twitching beneath her touch, and trailed her hands upwards, slowly, to the juncture of his legs where his bollocks hung. This wasn’t her first time touching a man beneath his undergarments. As a midwife, she helped the healer treat both men and women whose ailments were sometimes more private in nature, but still, her fingers trembled and she could scarcely breathe. He sucked in, a hissing sound, and held perfectly rigid, yet leaned closer to her as his head tipped back. She could smell him, his musk an intoxicating scent. She parted her lips, kissing his thumb still rubbing her lips, pulling it between her teeth.
“Jesu…” he exhaled.
His head snapped down again and she knew his obsidian eyes were desperately searching through the darkness for a glimpse of her lips upon his thumb. Her fingertips skimmed his dark, coarse hairs encasing his manhood. He throbbed, jumping, and his other hand whipped out to grab her head, clenching her hair. Yet she sensed nothing brutish. Nay, he was desperate.
He swallowed again, his throat bobbing loudly, his resolve seeming to crumble like a toppled parapet. His grip upon her grew tighter, more urgent, more demanding. It was clear he wasn’t going to ask her to taste him, but from the way he leaned in closer and closer, she knew it was what he wanted.
Her tentative hand wrapped around him, so curious as to how something could be so firm and yet so smooth.
“Ah, love…” he said, his words pained, and before she could move her grip, he began undulating his hips to roll himself through her hold.
So a man liked such a stroking sensation, she gathered, obliging him and sliding her hand up and down his length.
“Caty, I, God…”
His words made no sense. They trailed away incoherently as she massaged him. His callused hand wrapped around hers and began guiding her in the rhythm he liked.
“It’s too much.”
Nay, it wasn’t. She heard his words, but felt him push deeper into her hand. If anything, he found what she was doing to be euphoric and satisfying. She glanced up. His head had fallen back again and the muscles in his body jumped with each, tiny move. His chest heaved as if he had run miles over harsh terrain.
“Nay,” he rumbled, wrenching himself away. Then he chuckled, settling himself upon her to kiss her. “I’ll spend before I’ve made you mine, and such would leave you verra disappointed, I’d wager.”
For a man, abandoned so young and forced into adulthood much too soon, she would never have blamed him for having forgotten the joy of smiling. But his chuckle now as he kissed her told her he hadn’t forgotten. Even as a lad, holding her hand and helping her climb over rocks and through streams, he had known how to smile generously.
She petted back his hair, tucking it behind his ears. She realized so suddenly that she felt completely comfortable and relaxed. This, between them, was always meant to be.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
He chuckled again, crad
ling her crown with his palms as he rested on his forearms and blanketed her in his body heat.
“A smart man does nay need to be told twice. As you demand it, lass.”
She grinned at him. He rested his lips to her, pushed his tongue against hers, initiating a dance. She could feel his arousal prodding against her, begging for union. The heat of his abdomen and chest resting atop hers was warm and protecting.
“Open your legs,” he croaked as he took a breath, the touch of his lips to hers never breaking.
She pulled them apart, her heart racing. He shimmied his hips between them. She couldn’t breathe. He was devouring all the air in her lungs with his sensuous kiss. She encircled his torso, her hands clenching his back, feeling him push against her, feeling heat begin to build in her belly again at the thought of his finger exacting pleasure from her. He had hardly tried. She had been ready to melt the moment of his touch.
He trailed a hand down her front, lingering on a breast, which he teased gently to send her squirming beneath him. His hand ventured further down, running circles over the space between her legs. She sighed. She couldn’t help it. She felt him take himself in hand, felt him press his helm into her, felt him push inside her…
Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Her knees, bent and spayed wide, shook. Her fingers clenched him, bit into his skin as she held on for dear life. She was giving Eachann Donnachaidh her innocence. He grasped her cheek, his thumb holding her lips and his fingers pushing into her hair, and withdrew from the kiss, though his nose continued nuzzling hers.
“I’ll always protect you. God, I’m so glad it’s me lying with you,” he declared, and she sensed his relief that he had managed to fight Gregor off. “I’ll never allow a man to harm or frighten you again, you hear?”
She nodded at his sweet vow.
“Hold tightly to me, sweet Caty.”
She did so, closing her eyes and bracing herself for his entrance. He thrust swiftly, breaking through her maidenhead. He groaned a low growl. She cried out, clinging to him. Aye, there was pain, stretching pain and sharp pressure against her womb, but her belly warmed further and slowly, the pain eased.
One Scottish Knight: A Medieval Novella (Perthshire Series) Page 8
