Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  The woman was daft, and if he kept thinking of her that way, perhaps he could forget the pain in his chest every time he looked at her. She gave the dog a last pat and stood, turning to face him.

  He should go now. He’d forgotten to keep his eyes on her face, and they’d dipped to the low bodice of the dress. He’d seen her wear ball gowns cut even lower, had managed not to ogle the swells of her chest when she wore them, but that was before he’d touched the soft flesh of her breasts, kissed them with his lips. That was before he’d been alone with her in a bedchamber, before he’d thought she might be dead or injured, before he’d thought he’d never see her again.

  She raised her head, her eyes a deep green in the firelight. He meant to take a step back, toward the door, but instead he took a step toward her.

  “Ewan.” The word came out on a strangled sob, and then she launched herself at him, running into his arms. He caught her, lifted her, buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair. She enveloped him—her arms about his neck and her legs about his waist. Her soft body, so warm and generous, pressed against him with a desperation he understood very well. Her hands pulled fervently at his hair, and he lifted his head, claiming her mouth.

  He was home. He, who had never belonged, never had a place to call home, belonged here in her arms, his body pressed to hers. He slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her deeply and still unable to take his fill of her. He moved, stalking across the room until he pushed her against a wall. Now his hands were free to cup her face, pull back, and look into her eyes.

  “Yes,” she whispered, looking up at him.

  He wasn’t aware he’d asked a question.

  She turned her head, her mouth grazing his palm, brushing kisses on the inside. “Yes,” she said again. Her hands on his neck tugged, lowering his head so their lips could meet again in that frenzied dance of heat and lightning. “Yes,” she said as her lips met his with a bruising need he knew well and could no longer keep in check.

  “Yes,” she said when his hands slid down, pushing the dress off her shoulders, so his lips could plunder the skin there.

  “Yes,” she cried when he cupped her breasts, his thumbs circling the hard points of her nipples through the fabric.

  “Oh yes,” she moaned when a hand slid up her bare thigh to curve around her plump bottom.

  The question of whether or not to take what she offered had been answered, but how to take it still remained. Ewan was no gentle lover. His lovemaking, if one could call it that, had always been rough and wild and a little savage, but he could hardly take a virgin up against a wall or shove her face down on the bed and lift her skirts.

  If he was to be her first, he would have to do this right. Reluctantly, he slid his hand from the smooth skin of her rump and lowered her to the ground. She clung to him, her kisses fervent and distracting. She made him forget his good intentions.

  For once he wished he’d listened to Rafe’s talk of women more. Rafe would have known what to do, how to seduce and tease, how to be tender, how to ease her pain. He had no idea what to do. Perhaps if he—

  Her hands slid from his hair to his coat, shoving it off his shoulders until it fell to the floor. He couldn’t help but think of her garments falling to the floor. If he had her naked, he would forget all of the rubbish about gentleness, push her hands over her head, and thrust into her until she screamed his name in ecstasy.

  He clenched his fists to ward off the image, and her hands slid down his back, leaving a hot trail of fire behind. And just as he steeled himself to that sweet torture, she pulled his tails from his trousers and ran her hands up the bare skin of his back.

  He made a strangled sound, and she looked into his eyes, her own sparkling with mischief. “Yes,” she whispered, sliding the linen shirt up and over his head. He allowed it, allowed her to strip him because he needed her hands on him. He didn’t expect her to step back and give his chest a perusal worthy of a rake prowling a line of wallflowers. Her gaze slid from his shoulders to his pectoral muscles to his abdomen and then to the bulge in his trousers.

  She licked her lips and took a shaky breath. “Oh yes,” she murmured.

  Ewan’s control shattered. He took her wrists in one hand, pinned them to the wall above her head and ravished her mouth. She met him, kiss for kiss, thrust for thrust, nip for nip. He needed this, needed her with a desperation that terrified her. It wasn’t just her body—though God knew he adored her lush body—it was the feeling he had when he held her. He didn’t know what to call it. Didn’t know what it was, but he felt warm inside. His chest ached, his lungs burned, his heart clenched almost painfully. And yet, there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

  His hand slid to the bodice of the dress. He wanted to drown in the softness of her body, bury himself in the silky heat she offered. When he couldn’t free her breasts, impatience reared a head and he tugged hard.

  “No,” she breathed.

  He froze.

  She looked up at him. “This isn’t mine. Unlace it in back.”

  He released her hands, and she twisted around. He pressed her against the wall as his thick fingers fumbled with strings and tapes and tiny little clasps.

  He thought he would never touch bare skin, would go mad with need for the feel of her, when the dress suddenly slid down, revealing a very thin chemise underneath.

  And nothing else.

  His breathing sped up as he realized he had no stays, no petticoats, no more layers to breach. One hand fisted around the waterfall of her hair, and he moved it away from her neck and the bare scoop of flesh at her back. He kissed her there, felt her shiver. His lips moved her to her spine, and he kissed each ridge of it until the thin fabric of her shift impeded his progress.

  Her hands were splayed on the wall, her cheek turned toward him, but now she pushed away slightly, her hands going to her heart. Her back still to him, her eyes locked on his, she made a sharp movement, and the chemise went slack. She lowered her arms, and the fabric fell away. She stood before him, naked, skin burnished by the glow of the fire, an offering even a saint could not refuse.

  God knew Ewan was no saint.

  Twenty-one

  The cool air brushed her skin, but Ewan’s gaze was enough to heat her flesh. She could feel his eyes rake over her, making her skin tingle as he studied the hills and valleys of her back and buttocks like a general surveyed a battlefield. Lorrie wanted to be taken. She knew all the reasons she should not allow this, but now she also knew life was short. She was safe. She would return home to her father and mother, but everything might have ended so differently. She didn’t want to look back on her life and know nothing but regret.

  She did not want to look back on her life and wish she’d had one night with Ewan, with the man she loved. Because Lorrie knew she loved him. She’d thought she loved Francis, but that feeling had been paltry—nothing but infatuation with charm and good looks. Ewan had no carefully crafted charm, no boyish good looks, but he was true and honest and flawed. And she loved him. It was that simple. Lorrie loved him because of his flaws, not in spite of them. And fifty years from now, she would look back on this night and know that for one brief moment, she had loved and been loved in return.

  He hadn’t said he loved her, but Lorrie looked at him over her shoulder now and no words were necessary. He didn’t need to say the words. She could see his feelings written on his face. She shivered at the predatory look in his eyes as he swept his gaze down her body. He wanted her as fervently as she wanted him.

  He made a low sound, almost a growl in his throat, and then his hand was on her hip. His bare skin on hers, that place where no other man had ever touched, burned. He took her with both hands and pushed her against the wall again, the cool wood making her breasts pucker and long for the inferno of heat behind her.

  His body pressed against hers, and his hands coiled in her hair, pushing it over her shoulders. His ho
t, wet mouth was on her neck, then her shoulder, then tracing every single vertebra down the column of her spine.

  Her fingers splayed on the wall, and she dug her nails into the wood as his lips made slow progress down her back. Finally, he knelt behind her, his breath warm against the small of her back. His hands slid up and down her thighs, making her tremble with need as they crept closer to her center. His lips trailed down her bottom, kissing the curve as his hands slid up to part her legs.

  She knew the pleasure he could give her now, and her body ached for it. With the gentlest pressure, she parted for him, moaning softly when his fingers tangled against her damp curls.

  She knew this was wanton. She’d always imagined her deflowering would take place in a bed, in the dark, with her nightgown ruched to her waist. But this would be no hurried coupling in the shadows, and when his fingers stroked over her small, sensitive nub, she felt more vulnerable than she ever had.

  “Ewan,” she breathed.

  He made a sound, like a low rumble of pleasure.

  “Ewan, I…” She caught her breath as his fingers teased at her center, making her want to buck her hips. “I…love you.”

  “Yes,” he said, the stubble of his jaw brushing against her rump.

  That was the closest he had ever come to acknowledging his feelings for her, and her heart jumped at the same time her body convulsed. Her knees went weak, but Ewan braced her, his fingers plying her until he had wrung every last bit of pleasure from her.

  This time had not been the violent climax she’d experienced in his chamber, but a long, sweet rise that left her brow damp and her body flushed.

  Hands on her waist, he turned her around, pushing the back he had just claimed against the wall. His eyes seemed to drink her in as she struggled to catch her breath. One hand touched her hard nipple and she shuddered. The pink tip was sensitive, and the one finger he ran over it seemed to tug at a string inside her.

  Heat flooded her body again, making her legs wobble. She put her hands on his chest, as much for support as for the pleasure of touching that hard, honed body. Then she leaned against him, rubbing her breasts over his chest, and had the satisfaction of hearing him inhale sharply. She took her time exploring his back and his chest, finally resting her hands on the fall of his trousers. They bulged with the force of his erection, with the proof of his desire for her. But when she tried to unfasten the fall, his hands caught hers.

  “Not like this,” he said, his voice even rougher than usual.

  “Then how?” she asked. “Show me.” She leaned back against the wall, expecting and hoping for another thorough inspection by his lips, but instead he swept her up in his arms. She laughed at the unexpected rush of dizziness as her feet left the floor and dangled over his arm. He walked to the bed, kissing her, then laying her down gently on top of the bedclothes. He knelt, his knee between her calves, and reached for his trousers. Then he hesitated, looking at her face uncertainly.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, barely able to resist pulling him down on top of her. She wanted the feel of his body on top of hers, his hard muscles against her softness.

  “Nothing. You are perfect.”

  She shook her head. “You are perfect. Look at you.” She gestured to his chest. “You are like a marble statue in a museum. Touch me again. I’m cold.”

  He reached for her, then paused again.

  Lorrie’s heart caught. Dear God, please do not let him stop. She would die from needing his touch if he had changed his mind.

  “Touch me, Ewan.” She took his hand, placed it on her abdomen, then slid it up to the curve of her breast. His hand fisted. She shook her head. “Don’t stop.”

  “I don’t know how to go on.”

  Lorrie blinked. “Have you never—”

  “I have, but…” He seemed to struggle for words, to search for the right words. “I never cared.” He shook his head. “That sounds wrong.”

  Lorrie smiled, love for him rushing through her all over again. “I mean something to you,” she said. “This means something.” She gestured to him and then to herself.

  He nodded.

  “Show me what I mean to you.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She waved a hand. “You would never hurt me. And if there’s some pain, it will be worth it to have you inside me.”

  He made a low groaning sound. “You make me lose control.”

  She smiled. “Good. Take off the rest of your clothes.”

  She thought he would take her then. His blue eyes flashed fire, and sharp arousal pierced her. But he seemed to rein his need in, determined to go slowly and cautiously. He put his hand on the fall of his trousers. “Don’t be scared.”

  “I’m not a complete innocent,” she said. “I have seen statues, you know.”

  He made a noncommittal sound, obviously unimpressed with her knowledge of male anatomy. And then he flicked the fall open, and he sprang free, and she understood why he’d cautioned her.

  He was as large there as he was everywhere else.

  He rose and removed the rest of his clothing, and though Lorrie wanted to enjoy the view of him entirely naked, she could not quite drag her gaze from his magnificent manhood. It jutted proudly from a thatch of blond hair between his legs, hair slightly darker than that on his head. His organ was thick and the skin darker than the rest of him, the tip slightly pink and slick.

  She blew out a slow breath as he first knelt, then changed his mind and lay down beside her.

  “You’re scared.” His body was inches from hers, but he didn’t touch her. She wanted to roll into his warmth, but she couldn’t quite find the courage to move.

  “A little. You’re larger than the statues.”

  “I’ll dress.”

  She grabbed his shoulder before he could roll away. “No.” She wrapped her arms around him, moving closer to him until her body was flush with his. His organ lay hard against her belly. The sensation was rather pleasant. “I want you, Ewan Mostyn. Just like this. There’s nowhere I’d rather be, no one else I want to give myself to.”

  “One day you might regret—”

  She put a finger over his lips. “One day you and I will laugh about this.” She had to believe there was a future for them. Had to believe this night would not be the only night. She kissed him, giving herself over to hunger and need. He pulled her closer, his body fastened against hers, his knee parting her legs and sliding between them until he rubbed her at her core and she could not stop a small moan of pleasure.

  His mouth turned hungry, and she went from taking to giving as he rolled on top of her, bracing his weight on his arms and pressing her legs wider. And then his hand replaced his knee and she writhed against the pressure building inside her. “Yes,” she whispered. She put her arms around him and pulled him against her, closing her eyes to memorize the feel of his body on hers.

  He groaned at the same time a finger slid inside her, and she clenched around him, pleasure already beginning to build. And then his finger was gone and something hotter and larger replaced it. Lorrie felt the first stirrings of a deeper need and she slid her legs up and around him.

  “Yes,” he said, his breath against her ear. And then he kissed her neck and her cheek and looked down at her, his gaze meeting hers. He kissed her gently, easing himself inside her. Lorrie wet her lips as her body stretched to accommodate him.

  He kissed her lips softly, then looked back into her eyes. Heat flooded her where their bodies met, heat and need, but when she tried to move, he grasped her hips. “Not yet.”

  And then he moved again, filling her more, and she had to bite her lip at the first sting of pain. His brow creased as he watched her face, then he bent and kissed her lip, easing the tension there. Under her hands, his body felt like a tightly coiled spring, and she knew he was holding himself back for her. He was giving
her time to adjust to the feel of him inside her, and the more time she had, the more the need built. She wanted to move against him, to push up and ease the ache of longing.

  Seeming to sense her need, his hand stroked where their bodies joined, and when he skated over her tight bud, she gasped.

  “Open for me. Yes,” he said. He moved deeper inside her, stretching her more than she ever thought possible. How much more of him was there to take in? But just as worry threatened to overwhelm pleasure, his thumb circled her, and she cried out, her hips rising slightly. Pain lanced through her as she took more of him in, and stinging tears sprang to her eyes. But his lips took hers with a sweetness that cut through the pain, and then there was the pleasure again as he circled her slowly, so slowly.

  “Ewan.” She clutched at his back as the pleasure built, and the feel of him inside her, filling her, made that pleasure all the sweeter. And then he finally pressed against her center, and she broke apart, sobbing his name. He surged into her, and the pleasure sharpened and she was not sure where it ended and pain began. She cried out at the invasion, at the sting of penetration, then fisted her hands and gritted her teeth to hold in her cry.

  “Sorry,” he said. “So sorry.” His voice was tight and sounded muffled through the haze of her pain.

  “Does it hurt you too?” she asked, wiping away a tear that had escaped.

  He shook his head.

  “Oh.” The pain had faded enough for her to gather her thoughts. “Then you are worried about hurting me?”

  “Yes,” he said through clenched teeth.

  The sweet man. How could anyone ever think him a brute? He was a gentle giant. Unclenching her hands, she wrapped them around his bare back, pulling his chest against hers. “I love you, Ewan Mostyn.”

  He shifted to look down at her, and the movement made her grimace with pain.

  “I have to say I don’t know why anyone should want to couple like this. Are you certain we are doing it properly?”