by Sabrina York
He opened his mouth to respond, but she didn’t hesitate. She straddled him and kissed him silent. His lips moved warmly, wetly, beneath hers. As she devoured him, she settled on him more fully, rubbing against him where their bodies touched, entranced by the feel of his hard belly on that aching spot between her thighs.
She lifted her head and smiled at him. His eyes were glazed over. His jaw slack. His fingers played restlessly over her hips.
With great deliberation, she leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Beautiful,” she announced.
His brow, his cheek, the tip of his crooked nose.
“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.”
His scar.
He winced as she kissed him there. Tried to turn away. “Hannah…”
“Hush.”
From the place it began on his temple over his cheek to the puckered end near his chin, she peppered the wound with tiny kisses, murmuring her acceptance of him, of his perfect imperfections. All of them.
She trailed her lips over the muscled column of his neck and nuzzled him there, as he had her. Then she licked her way over his collarbone and the flat slabs of his chest, riffling her fingers in the wiry hairs, dabbing his nipple with her tongue, glorying in his taste, his scent, the response of his skin.
He lay beneath her silent and still, but he watched with glittering eyes as she explored him. His hold on her hips was gentle, but his fingers drifted in languid circles, awakening her, inciting her.
When he shifted, restlessly, something nudged her bottom. Something insistent and hard.
A shaft of need lanced her.
She stared at him, at the hunger etched on his features.
As delightful as this was, this slow, lazy, lingering discovery, she wanted more.
Holding his gaze, she braced her palms on his chest and edged back, just a tad. She rose up and settled her silken cleft over the length of his cock as it lay across his belly, engulfing him in the damp embrace of her folds. When she rubbed against him, back and forth, he shuddered. His lashes fluttered.
“Lord … have mercy,” he breathed.
Mercy?
Not a bit of it.
It excited her that she could stir him.
It thrilled her that she could make him writhe and pant.
Slowly, teasingly, she bathed him in her arousal, stroked him in a relentless massage.
Ah, but she tantalized herself as well. With each movement, the hard bundle of nerves at the center of her being scraped against him. And with each nudge, shards of pleasure blossomed.
It wasn’t long before she had to have more.
As she lifted up again, his nostrils flared. His gaze locked on her hand as she searched for and found him.
His cock was heavy and full, slick and hot in her fist. His pulse thrummed along his length. Her fingers drifted over him, caressing and testing his girth, but not for long.
She’d never been a patient woman.
With a small adjustment in her position, she guided the head of his cock into her weeping channel. Every nerve awoke and sang as she slipped down and down, impaling herself on his glorious length. She didn’t stop until he was fully seated in her. He filled her so perfectly, so completely.
Testing the fit, she edged forward and back; she gasped as new sensations, new bursts of pleasure, exploded in her. Thusly encouraged, she tried a new movement, and yet another. She rose up and dropped down. She circled him. She rode him.
One particularly glorious lunge made her body seize as a wave of delight took her. She clenched around him and the wave swelled. She wasn’t sure if the groan echoing through the room was hers or his or a twining of the two.
Though sweat formed on her brow, though her breath caught and her heart raced, she worked him relentlessly, pleasuring herself—and him—in a lazy, languorous ride.
But her need grew. Hunger raged within her. Some inexorable force compelled her to move faster and faster still. She planted her palms on his chest, glorying in the feel of him beneath her, around her, and in her. She allowed her instinct, the savage, knowing woman within, to direct her thrusts.
He hissed out a breath as her pace, her intensity, increased; his fingers tightened on her hips. “Hannah,” he growled. His body tensed, his muscles quivered. She had the sense he was yearning to flip her over, to cover her and take her and slake his passion. But he did not.
It was clear his discipline cost him.
She resolved to make this worth his sacrifice.
His attention locked on her breasts, bobbing with her every move. He loosed his hold on her hips and took them, one in each hand, thumbing her nipples and then, to her shock, pinching them.
It was a gentle pinch, but the scream of sensation it sent through her was not gentle in the least.
Ach. Had she thought she’d been savage before?
With a growl she sank her fingers into the flesh of his chest and raked him. He hissed and tightened his hold. Something wailed within her, screamed, clawed for release.
As though he could no longer hold back, his hips began to arch, to thrust into her, meeting her movements with an urgency that bordered on ferocious. Slick with sweat and arousal, bound in an insanity she’d never experienced, they battled against each other and with each other and for each other.
Her grunts and his groans echoed through the room, along with the sharp slap of flesh against flesh.
Faster and faster, tighter and tighter, wilder and wilder she pummeled him, each lunge on the knife’s edge. Barreling toward oblivion, but going there together.
It was magnificent torture. She was stretched on a rack of bliss, poised between pleasure and some grating, aching need. She kept reaching for it, but it danced away, just beyond her grasp.
And then, just when she thought she could bear it no more, just when she thought she might expire from the agonizing frenzy of unfulfilled need … he swelled inside her. The added pressure, the tightness of his fit, the sudden jolt of his cock, scraped at her sanity, loosening her grip, catapulting her up and away and beyond this bed, this room, this consciousness. Lights exploded behind her lids; glory rained through her.
He snarled something that might have been her name as he closed his fingers on her thighs in a pinioning clasp; holding her tight, he thrust up and up and up, though he was already as deep as he could go. Each manic lurch sent new waves of delight through her, but none so much as the hot stream of heaven that filled her as he released.
Instinctively she clutched at him, but as she reached her bliss—as she succumbed, dissolved, melted—her muscles lost their vigor; her deliberate clenches became no more than feeble squeezes and then uncontrollable ripples.
A shudder racked her from head to toe and she collapsed on his chest. His arms came around her, strong, tight bands. He cradled her close, pressing tiny kisses on her brow and murmuring into her hair. He tipped up her chin and stared at her, then thumbed at the tears on her cheek.
Hannah blinked in surprise. Was she crying?
Why?
Ah, but she knew why. This joining had been so much more than a physical tangling. It had been something ever so much more.
She knew, because there was a tiny tear in the corner of his eye as well.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He awoke her with a kiss. An enthusiastic swab of his tongue over her mouth. And then her cheek. And then the shell of her ear.
It wasn’t romantic as much as … slurpy.
And drooly.
Hannah opened her eyes to glower at her husband for making her so damp first thing in the morning and …
Well, it wasn’t his handsome visage that greeted her.
Unless he had grown fur. And a snout. And a lolling tongue.
With a growl, she pushed Brùid off her—he was looming over her with a paw on either side of her head, the better to lap her with. He didn’t make it easy for her, tipping his great head this way and that so he could continue slathering her with canine adoration.
Or perhaps he was hungry.
She finally managed to wrangle the hound off of her and sat up, glancing at Alexander’s side of the bed.
It was illogical to be disappointed that he was already gone. She should have expected it.
It was illogical to be annoyed to find a letter on the pillow where his head should have been.
Hannah picked it up with a sigh and waggled the parchment in Brùid’s direction. “This better be good,” she muttered.
Brùid grinned.
In something of a snit, she ripped the parchment open and began to read.
Her heart skipped a beat at the first line and then, as she read on, her fingers went numb and her body softened. Her annoyance drifted away like smoke on a breeze.
Because he had written her a love poem.
Well, not a love poem, per se, but close enough.
Hannah
I love her hair, like ebony silk
Her skin, so soft, like mother’s milk
Her gift, a smile
Her laugh, a song
A kiss for which my heart does long
She speaks to me with dancing eyes
In their warm depths the answer lies
With a glance, she does my heart cajole
For there I see her pure bright soul
Hannah sighed.
Romantic? Most certainly. And it rhymed. She preferred poems that rhymed. In fact, it should be written into law that they all did.
There was something scribbled beneath the verse in tiny print. She held it closer to read it and a laugh burst from her.
He’d written: And I do love brown.
Of course he did.
The thought flittered through her mind that she should go find him in his tower and … thank him for this poem, but she remembered the ferocity on Fergus’ features when he’d declared that no one bothered His Lairdship in the mornings and she decided against it. She could be patient. She could wait for him to finish his work.
Ballocks.
She was his wife.
If she couldn’t distract him from his work, what was she good for?
* * *
Alexander frowned at the report before him.
It wasn’t bad enough that he’d received a truly concerning report from his men in Dounreay, one that he needed to respond to immediately.
It wasn’t bad enough that reports were coming in from Olrig, that the bastard had started clearing his land. Hell, homeless refugees had already begun showing up at the gates.
It wasn’t bad enough that Alexander’s mind was beset with worry over Caithness’ demand that he do the same in Dunnet.
It wasn’t bad enough that as he struggled to concentrate he very much wanted to be elsewhere. Preferably in bed. Making love to his wife.
But now he could smell her.
Smell her.
She had, indeed, sunk into his soul.
It surprised him that it had happened so quickly, but then again, it was Hannah. He’d wanted her on sight. That she continued to delight him, enthrall him, as he came to know her better should be no great shock.
But bluidy hell. He couldn’t make love to her, couldn’t find her and yank her into his arms as he so yearned to do—until he finished his work.
He had several reports to review and matters that required his attention, including the new wool mill in Brough and another squabble in Lyth … not to mention the ever-growing flurry of letters from the neighboring barons urging him to join their ranks. Beyond that, he’d lit upon a plan to propose to Caithness, an option to the Clearances the duke seemed so intent upon, and Alexander wanted to sketch out the details. There was so much to do, and so much depended on his effectiveness as a manager. Especially now.
This was no time for distraction, even as delectable as she was
With a sigh he pushed away from his desk and stood, stretching his neck with a crack. He’d been working for hours. Answering letters, writing out orders for supplies, and plowing through these endless reports. He was exhausted and—
He stilled as his gaze snagged on a movement by the door; someone was perched on the landing just outside his office.
He took a step closer to investigate—though he knew who it was; he could smell her, after all—and she glanced up. A smile flooded her face.
“Hannah, what … are you … doing there?” He didn’t intend for his voice to be so sharp, but it must have been, for her smile dimmed. He held out his hand to her in recompense. “Come in.”
She hesitated. “I doona want to bother you.”
Ah, but she did. Bother him. But only the best possible way. “Come in.”
“Fergus said I shouldna.”
Alexander took her hand and pulled her to her feet and then, because he couldn’t resist, he yanked her into his arms and kissed her. He intended it to be a quick kiss—he did have a lot of work to do—but it lingered.
Ah, he was glad she’d come. He’d needed her.
And Fergus be damned.
Though he did mean well.
Fergus had always been Alexander’s champion, although, nowadays, he was often more diligent than he needed to be. Old habits did die hard. Besides, there had been a time when that diligence had saved Alexander’s life, and he would never complain about it.
When the kiss ended, Hannah sighed and looped her arms around his neck. “Will you be working verra much longer?”
Alexander glanced back at the desk and winced. “Aye.”
“You should let me help you.”
He tried not to snort, but it escaped. She had no idea how difficult his work was, what a burden. It was a weight he would never want her to bear, and as he was her husband, it was his responsibility to protect her from the worry it all entailed. He would do whatever it took to protect her from that onus.
But it was sweet of her to offer.
Her brow rumpled. “I can help you,” she insisted. She opened her mouth to add more and he kissed her again, although he shouldn’t have, because she was distracting.
“You … shouldna be here,” he sighed. He kissed the tip of her nose to soften his words.
“I’m bored.”
He gaped at her. Bored? Lord in heaven above. He would love to be bored. “You could ride.”
“I canna ride all the time.” She put out a lip. “The servants won’t let me do anything—”
“You are … a baroness.”
“I’m used to being busy. For heaven’s sake, Alexander, at Ciaran Reay I did everything.”
He chuckled. Surely not everything. When she frowned at him, he cuddled closer. “I can think of … something for you to do.” Again, not wise to even jest about it. There were several pressing issues on his desk that had to be handled at once. So he amended, “Tonight.”
While he invested the word with a sultry tone, she wasn’t mollified in the slightest. “I want something to do now.” She sucked in a determined breath. “Alexander—”
“Aye?”
“There is … something that has been bothering me.”
His throat tightened. “Aye?”
“Fergus said the library is expressly off-limits.”
His bowels clenched with a ferocity that stunned him. Why it hit him so hard he didn’t know. Or perhaps he did.
He did not like to think of that library.
Ever.
Once, it had been a magical room, filled with his father’s prized collection, each tome lovingly acquired and attended to. The very smell of it evoked memories of hours spent at his father’s knee, learning to read and exploring the treasures on those shelves. But when his father died, all that had changed. His uncle had wasted no time in turning that sanctuary into his own depraved haunt.
A shudder rippled through Alexander as a cold finger traced his spine. Now the room held only repulsive memories. Nightmares. Alexander had locked the doors when his uncle finally met his maker and hadn’t opened them since. No one was allowed in there, not even to clean. The room had housed Dermid’
s squalor for years.
Hannah wrapped her arms around Alexander’s neck. “I should verra much like to visit the library. I should verra much like something to read. Surely that isna too much to ask.”
“H-Hannah…”
“Alexander.” She nestled closer.
She was warm and soft in his arms. He knew damn well what she was doing, and while he didn’t much mind being seduced, the thought of unlocking that room was beyond him. He very much wanted to give her everything she desired, but he couldn’t give her this. At least, not yet. He wasn’t ready to brave his ghosts in that library. He doubted he ever would be. The thought alone made his gut churn.
“What-what kind of … book would you like?” He glanced over at the shelf on the wall, filled with almanacs and dusty volumes about crop rotation and animal husbandry.
She fluttered her lashes. “Do you have any … poetry?”
“Not … I.… Not here.”
“Hmm. I read a verra pretty poem this morning.” She nestled against him. His cock stirred.
“Did you?”
“Umm-hmm.”
“Did you … like it?”
“Aye.” A whisper.
“I shall have to write you more.”
“I would like that.” She leaned back. “In the meantime, is there something else I could read? A room, perhaps full of books, I could visit?”
He winced.
He could just hand her the key, he supposed, but the room had been closed up for years. He had no idea what manner of disaster she could find. Mice at best. Dermid’s howling ghost at worst.
Indeed, though it was not a logical thought, the locking of the doors had been akin to trapping the specter of his uncle in a hell of his own making, locking the memories away. Alexander despaired of letting them rage free.
He waved at the shelf of boring tomes. “Help yourself.”
She sauntered over and surveyed the meager offerings. She picked up one and flipped through it in a desultory fashion. Her sigh was heavy as she set it back on the shelf. “I’ve already read this one.”
Really? He leaned closer and checked the title. Agricultural Tenancy by Harlan Arbruthnot. No wonder she’d sighed. That one had been deadly dull.
