by Pamela Clare
“You should be in your own room.” He turned fully to face her, the broad expanse of his chest and the muscles of his abdomen cast half in shadow, half in golden firelight. He looked like some pagan god or a great mythic warrior, his masculine sensuality enough to make her legs unsteady.
She realized she was trembling, fisted her hands in the linen of her shift. “I couldn’t sleep. Jamie, I—”
“Go.” His face was a stone mask.
She closed her eyes, swallowed. “No.”
“You’ll go back to your room if I have to carry you there.” He took a step toward her, and she sensed the tension in his body, every muscle taut, ready to spring.
“No.” She glanced out of the corner of her eye at his enormous bed, stepped sideways toward it. “I want you, Jamie.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” His voice was strained.
She took another step sideways toward the bed, her gaze locked with his in a battle of wills. “Aye, I do. I am not a child.” She felt her right leg bump up against the bed and sat on the edge.
“No, Bríghid.” But regardless of the words that passed his lips, she could see in his eyes the battle that raged within him.
Push me further, and you’ll discover how very much I am like most other men.
Amazed at her own daring, she stretched sideways across the coverlet, did her best to look seductive, her gaze never leaving his.
She heard his growl, saw the exact moment when his control broke.
In three strides he reached the bed, and in one fluid motion, he dragged her toward him by her ankle, lifted her, and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Jamie, no!” His rejection of her stung, but the indignity of being carried in such a manner infuriated her. “Put me down!”
But he didn’t listen. He strode angrily to the door, threw it open, and in a blink he was carrying her back down the hallway toward her room.
“Stop this!”
Jamie ignored her protests, the pounding of her small fists on his back. He didn’t know which urge was more powerful at the moment—the urge to toss her onto her back on the floor, spread her legs and take what she had just offered him or the urge to throttle her. He’d spent the better part of the evening trying to rein in his hammering need for her, only to have her sneak into his chamber and reawaken a hundred unwanted feelings.
It was difficult enough for a man to resist a beautiful woman, doubly so if he loved her and wanted for all the world to claim her. Jamie was trying so hard to do what was best for both of them—and she was doing her best to make certain he failed.
“A amadáin cruthanta!”
She was cursing him in Gaelic now. Good. He preferred her anger to the alluring sweetness that had been on her face when he’d looked up to find her standing in his room. If she hated him, it would be so much easier to let her go.
“A phutaigh raithní!”
He reached the door to her chamber, threw it open, and tossed her unceremoniously onto her bed. In a flash, she was on her feet, and she would have slapped him across the face had he not caught her wrist.
She glared up at him, reminding him of a hissing kitten. “I am a woman, not a sack of potatoes!”
“I can see that.” He could see it all too clearly. That was the problem. Despite his best intentions, his gaze was drawn to the contours of her body beneath the white linen of her shift. Her delicate curves, the pert outline of her nipples, the dark curls of her sex were all too apparent, even in the half-light of the fire. Pure physical need raged through him, shot straight to his groin.
He heard her breath catch in her throat, knew she felt the heat of his perusal. Eyes wide with emotion, her dark hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, her skin satin in the firelight, she was utterly, irresistibly feminine.
Take her.
Jamie felt the call of the brandy in his blood, tried to ignore it. Gathering the last ounce of will he possessed, he turned, strode toward the door.
“Jamie, please!”
It was the catch in her voice that stopped him.
He turned to face her, felt as if someone had knocked the air from his lungs. His heart stopped.
She stood trembling and completely naked, the white linen of her shift pooled at her feet. Her skin glowed ivory in the firelight, her soft curves enhanced by the play of shadows. She met his gaze, her eyes full of uncertainty. She seemed so desperately vulnerable. So beautiful. So intensely alluring.
A virgin seductress.
“Bríghid.”
“Don’t walk away from me, Jamie. Please!” She seemed to struggle to speak each word. “All I want is tonight—one night out of a lifetime. Is that so much to ask?”
Some primitive male part of him urged him to end the talking and give her—and himself—what they both so desperately needed. But the consequences for both of them would be dire. He stood his ground. “Bríghid, I—”
“I-I know I’m no more than an Irish peasant, and a Catholic at that.” She crossed her arms protectively over her breasts, and her gaze fell to the floor, tears on her cheeks. “B-but I thought you at least felt desire for me.”
If she had yelled at him or played the coquette, he might have been able to walk away. But he could not bear her tears or the sense of shame he felt welling up inside her. He knew without asking this had taken all her courage. He knew she had never offered herself to a man before, and she never would again. That she should choose him …
A voice of caution reminded him that lust was not love. But he didn’t see lust in her eyes. He saw only longing.
“Bríghid.” He lifted her chin, forced her to meet his gaze, ran a thumb lazily over her tear-stained cheek. “Are you certain? What you ask cannot be undone.”
“Aye.” Her voice was a whisper.
“So be it.”
Sexual desire, too long denied, ripped through him, and the battle to refuse her became a battle not to frighten her with the force of his need. She was a virgin. She deserved a first time that was slow and sweet and gentle. He would give her that.
Bríghid looked into the eyes of the man who was about to make love to her. A fleeting feeling of elation was replaced by something that felt very much like fear.
“Don’t hide your beauty.” He drew her arms away from her breasts, kissed her fingertips. “Mo Bhríghid álainn.”
My beautiful Bríghid. Where had he learned such words?
She felt her nipples tighten under the heat of his gaze, closed her eyes, tried to breathe. “I-I don’t know what to do.”
She heard him chuckle, felt his arms encircle her. “Just kiss me.”
His lips were gentle as they brushed over hers, his body warm and strong. He tasted faintly of drink, smelled of pine soap and man. In the eyes of the world, this was wrong, but it felt right, so right.
She gave herself over to the magic of his embrace, to the heady rush of joy she always felt when he kissed her. Her hands found their way up the muscled length of his arms over his shoulders to the sculpted planes of his chest. His skin was soft, the shifting muscles beneath like bands of steel. She found and stroked the ridge of his scar with her fingertips.
He groaned, deepened the kiss, crushed her against him.
She sensed his urgency, felt an answering demand inside. The raw proof of his masculine hunger pressed against her belly, setting off sparks deep within her. She had dreamed of this, wanted this for so long it seemed. Was this what all women felt in the arms of their lovers?
Burning need. Unbearable heat. Sweet desperation.
He scooped her into his arms, carried her to the bed, and placed her gently on the soft, linen sheet. But he didn’t join her right away.
Instead, he stood over her for a moment, his heavy chest rising and falling with each breath, his gaze fixed on hers. As she watched, he grasped the edge of the towel—and pulled. It fell to the floor.
He stood before her completely naked now, his sex full and thick against his belly.
She’d only gotten a glimpse of him before and couldn’t help but stare. She’d heard whisperings of the pain women experienced on their wedding nights.
Now she understood why.
“You have nothing to fear.” His voice was a caress.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Bréagach thú.” Liar.
He stretched out beside her, gathered her in his arms until their bodies were pressed intimately against one another, bare skin against bare skin, the thick length of his arousal touching her belly, one of his legs thrust casually between hers. Then he slanted his mouth over hers, thrust deep with his tongue.
The sensations were almost too much to take in at once—the velvet glide of his tongue, the hardness of his muscled thigh against the soft inner flesh of hers, the sweet rasp of his chest hair against her breasts. She heard herself whisper his name, whimper. When his callused palm caressed her breast, her whimper became a moan.
She pressed her breast deeper into the heat of his hand, eager for more, as his fingers flicked her nipple, teased it, shaped it into a rosy bud. When had she become so greedy, lapping up pleasure the way a cat lapped milk?
But, oh, she wanted more.
When he stopped, she almost cried out in dismay. But soft, hot lips quickly replaced his fingers. Jagged bolts of heat shot through her all the way to her core. She clung to him, almost afraid of the sultry sensations his touch conjured inside her, as his tongue flicked first one sensitive bud, then the other. “Jamie!”
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to taste you.” He cupped one breast, drew its taut crest into his hot mouth, and suckled.
The wonderful shock of it made her body arch. The soft pull of his lips and the rough caress of his tongue caused liquid heat to pool between her thighs, as he sucked first one nipple, then the other. And soon she was writhing beneath him, her fingers laced through his damp hair.
“Mmm.” He scattered kisses across the underside of her breasts, molded them with his hands, his thumbs reaching to tease their wet, sensitive buds. “I can’t get enough of you.”
When he took her nipple into his mouth again, she felt her insides quiver. Her entire body seemed on fire. The heat between her thighs had become a blaze, and she felt an aching emptiness inside.
“You taste so damned good.” His lips continued to tug on her nipples, while one of his hands began to explore her belly.
Fire licked her skin wherever he touched her—the curve of her hip, the hollow of her waist, the rounded flesh of her lower belly. She wanted him to touch her, needed him to touch her as he’d done in the library, his hand between her thighs.
As if to torment her, his hand repeatedly moved nearer to, then further from, the place that burned hottest for him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he caressed her lower belly, tickled the flesh of her inner thighs, brushed lightly over her woman’s curls until she cried out, desperate, breathless, reckless with need.
As if through a fog, she realized he was doing this on purpose to tease her, to taunt her, to heighten her arousal. He knew more about her body than she, knew how to unlock its secrets, how and when and where to touch her to fuel her hunger. When at last his hand cupped her sex, she lifted her hips to meet him.
“Oh, aye!” The pressure was sweet as the heel of his hand moved in slow, deep circles, delicious new sensations unfurling in her belly. She writhed beneath his touch, whimpered, whispered his name. “Jamie!”
His lips left her breasts, found the sensitive skin of her throat. “I’m going to open you now, but slowly.”
He lifted one of her thighs, draped her leg over his, preparing her for his more intimate touch. She fought the impulse to draw her thighs back together. Never had she felt so exposed. Then his fingers slid between her slick woman’s folds, parted her, and began to stroke the sensitive nub hidden there, and she felt only delight.
Tremors of pleasure pulsed through her at this exquisite, new feeling. The aching emptiness inside her grew sharper. Her whimpers became breathless moans as he rhythmically flicked a finger over her nub, circling and teasing her. And when she thought she must surely die, he slid a finger deep inside her.
This was what she wanted, what she needed.
His deep groan mingled with her own cry, as he stroked her deeply, caressing a part of her that had never been touched before.
“You are so wet.” His teeth nipped her earlobe, her throat. “Soon, I’ll be deep inside you, but I want you to feel it first. I want you to know how good it is. Come for me.”
His English words made no sense. Come for him?
But her mind was too full of mist, too fogged with desire for her to work it out. And when he slid a second finger inside her, stretching her so sweetly, she could no longer think. There was nothing in the world but Jamie, nothing but the way he made her feel. “Oh, Jamie, it … feels … so … good.”
“And it only gets better, love.” Gently, persistently, he stroked her, sliding his fingers in and out of her, his thumb pressing relentless circles against her swollen nub. “I’ve wanted you for so long, a Bhríghid, so long.”
Something overwhelming began to build inside her, something reckless and hot. She was being washed away, carried to some perilous edge. She tried to draw her thighs together, tried to hold the precipice at bay.
He shifted his leg so that its weight held hers firmly apart. “You can’t escape it, Bríghid. Surrender. Give yourself to it.”
Her fingers dug into the muscles of his back as she fought to keep her hold on the world she knew. She heard his whispered endearments, her own frantic cries.
“Aye, Bríghid. Take it! Take pleasure from me.”
She cried out as the fire within her drew itself into a tense, hot ball in her belly—and then exploded. Waves of ecstasy washed through her, buffeting her with sensations too good to be true. A shower of sparks. Searing bliss.
Jamie moaned with her, trailing gentle bites along her throat, his fingers thrusting deep, until the quivering inside her had ceased and she lay weak and panting in his arms.
“Mo Bhríghid bhán.” My fair Bríghid. He rained kisses across her brow, her cheeks, her lips, her breasts.
If she hadn’t felt him, warm and strong, beside her, she’d have thought she was floating on some calm sea. She opened her eyes, met his gaze, saw the intensity burning in him. And it dawned on her that everything he’d done so far had been intended to give her pleasure. He had yet to sate himself. She was touched by his tenderness, astounded at what she’d just experienced. She’d had no idea it could feel so good for a woman.
She must have spoken that last thought aloud, as he chuckled, smiling at her. “You’ve had but the merest taste, my sweet. Are you ready for the feast?”
His voice was deep, husky, laden with sexual promise.
She didn’t know if she was ready, but his question, the tone of his voice, made her belly lurch. Then she realized with a start his fingers were still inside her. She felt a blush creep over her skin and looked away.
“Look, at me, Bríghid.”
She fought to lift her gaze to his.
“You’ve no reason to feel shame, sweet.” He gazed down at her, slowly withdrew from her, and began to caress her sensitive bud with fingers made slick from her own juices. “Everything about you is beautiful, made for a man’s touch, my touch.”
It felt so good, better than before.
The fire that had burned down to embers burst into eager flames inside her, as his fingers slid quickly, easily over that most sensitive spot. She ran her hands over his chest, drinking in the manly feel of him. “Kiss me, Jamie. Please.”
When he took her lips again, his kiss was savage, relentless. It was a kiss meant to claim her, not seduce her. It left her bruised, breathless, longing for more. It was everything she needed, everything she wanted. And she realized that whatever he’d been holding back had now been let loose.
He had given, and now he would take.
Like a mighty wave, his passion washe
d over her. Had his weight not anchored her fast to the bed, she’d surely have been swept away by the force of it. His body pressed against hers, flesh against burning flesh, his arousal straining against her belly.
A jolt of answering heat. A taste of fear.
Would it hurt?
She couldn’t imagine having him inside her without pain. Even were it so, she wanted him. She needed him, needed to bind herself to him, needed to give him the gift that was hers alone to give. There was no turning back now.
Still kissing her, he stretched his body over hers and settled between her thighs. “Open your eyes. Look at me, Bríghid.”
His eyes were dark with passion, his pupils wide. Sweat beaded on his temples, strands of hair clinging to his face, his chest rising and falling with each powerful breath. Every muscle in his body seemed tight, as if he were a drawn bowstring about to snap. And she felt a rush of happiness to know that she was the cause of this.
Then she felt the thick head of his shaft tease her cleft, nudging slowly inside her to press against the taut barrier of her maidenhead. With a groan, he thrust and breeched it.
She cried out, squeezed her eyes shut.
The pain was white hot.
He captured her cry with his mouth, held himself still within her, whispered reassurances, his voice deep, soothing. “From now on, only pleasure, love. I promise.”
Slowly, the pain faded. Instead, she felt an erotic sense of fullness. He was inside her, a part of her. And in that moment, it seemed to Bríghid their bodies had been destined to join together in just this fevered way. They were one, she and this strange, wonderful man, this Sasanach.
Slowly, he withdrew. When he entered her again, she couldn’t help but moan as he stretched her, filled her, made her complete. And just when she thought he’d buried himself totally, he withdrew, then pushed himself deeper still, until she could feel him against her womb. He was deep inside her now, all of him.
“God, Bríghid!” He sounded as if he were in pain. “You are so tight. So hot.”
His rhythm began to build, stroke upon stroke, each thrust making her hungrier, more desperate for the next. How had she lived without this? How had she lived without him? Never had she felt anything like this melting ecstasy, this fevered yearning.
