by Sandy Blair
Hoping to lower her guard, he reached for her hand. He turned it palm up in his.
Some claim eyes were the window into one’s soul but her delicate, decidedly feminine hands had already illuminated her soul to his perusal. With them, she had brought him back from the brink of death. And--if Angus was to be believed--she had cried over him in the process. That alone warranted his best efforts as he consummated their vows. He ran his thumb gently across her palm, noting new flesh were the water had burned. He was taken aback by her skin’s softness. A softness now mirrored in her eyes. “Have ye a passion in life, lass?”
She blushed. “I love to cook and to read. And you?”
He grinned. Dare he tell her? She hadn’t pulled her hand away. Nay, not yet. “Being laird is enough.”
“All work and no play will make you a dull lad, Duncan.”
He grinned and lifted a brow. When he murmured, “My thoughts, exactly,” she choked on her wine.
He pounded her gently on the back. When she finally turned a natural pink he asked, “Are ye finished, lass?” When she nodded, he went to the door.
Within moments the room had been cleared, the door locked, and his lady had backed herself into a corner again.
He stood at the foot of his large bed and held out his hand. He whispered, “Lass, come here.”
She shook her head, and he shrugged. He could give her more time. He had to undress anyway and snuff out all but one candle. He saw no point in giving the blasted priest more than a glimpse of this coupling. No more than need be to insure his holdings were safe.
He tended to the candles first, suspecting his size might put his shy lady off should she get too clear a view of things. He then tried to shrug out of his coat and immediately groaned.
To his surprise Beth ran to his side. “Duncan, you’re going to tear yourself open again. Let me.”
She carefully eased his jerkin off. As she started to walk away with it folded over her arm, he caught her wrist and pulled her into his embrace.
“Nay, my lady, ’tis time.” He lifted her chin with a finger and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I promise this eve will be as slow as ye luste.” He placed a hand on her neck and felt her pulse bounding under his fingers. He smiled when fabric slip past his legs, surprised that just his touch had been enough to cause her to lose her grip of his jerkin. He kicked it under the bed.
She pressed both palms to his chest. “Duncan, I really don’t want...”
“Sssh, lass, ye have nay reason to fash.” He gently brushed his lips against her forehead. He heard her little intake of breath when he drifted lower to kiss her eyelids. When his lips slid over her soft cheeks to hover over her lips, the pressure she applied to his chest eased.
Ah. Apparently, she didn’t mind being kissed, perhaps was even curious. He’d not argue with that. He’d been staring at her lush, full lips for days wondering how they’d feel.
He ran his tongue along the crease of her trembling lips then nibbled on her plump lower one. Plain though she be, his lady did have a nicely shaped mouth, full and nearly liquid under his. He licked and she gasped, opening for him.
Never one to miss an opportunity, he delved into her. Ah. To his delight she tasted of wine and mint, her tongue felt like velvet as it slid slowly against his. He deepened the kiss, languishing in the silken interior of her mouth as her warm feminine scent filled his chest. When he changed angles to plunge deeper still, she moaned. Her velvet growl set his heart racing. He could not remember when that had happened last. Mayhap, never.
His blood heating, he ran a gentle hand up from her waist to caress the sweet fullness of her breast, only to have her stiffen in his arms. Ah. She did mean slow. No matter. ’Twas all the better for his purposes.
With any luck the priest hidden behind the wall was already in his cups and half way to sleep. Since noon, Angus had been pouring as much mead as possible down the damn man’s gullet. Hopefully, he’d be out cold when they joined or near enough that he’d not dare naysay their coupling done.
Duncan refocused on the task at hand--his assault against his bride’s shy nature. Since she’d not pushed his hand from her breast, he gently swirled his thumb along the side of the decidedly firm globe. He could have hoped for more to hold, but what he stroked felt deliciously female and his manhood rose.
He cradled her to his hips. As his fingers captured her nipple, to stroke it firm, she gasped and he deepened his kiss. To his delight her breath heated, as did her skin. Her hands began inching up his chest to his shoulders, traveled as if by their own accord. When they slid around his neck, fingers burrowing deep into his hair, he groaned into her mouth and slid a hand to her buttocks. Delighted with her unexpected response, with the taste and feel of her, he gently drew her against his throbbing need and slowly backed her toward the bed.
His height, while a good thing in battle, made aligning inflamed body parts while standing with a woman nigh onto impossible. He needed her on her back, and he needed it now.
He deepened his kiss before lifting her with his good arm. She mewed into his mouth as he slowly lowered her onto the bed. He settled as best he could—-given her blasted skirt--between her warm thighs. Her tongue caressed his. Ah, yes, this is what a man lives for. A woman not afraid to show pleasure, a woman willing to give as well as receive.
He cradled her left breast in his palm, his thumb finding joy as it traced the firm nub of her nipple. Would they be pink or a deep caramel, he wondered, sliding his lips along her jaw and settling on her shoulder. He needed to taste her, needed to suckle her nipples like a hungry babe. Needed to rock into her hips, to feel the heat and moisture that hid beneath the layers of fabric keeping him at bay.
He shifted his weight to his left arm, much to his shoulder’s dismay, and slid his free hand down her leg.
Her hands suddenly slammed into his chest.
“No!” She pushed again at his chest. “Duncan, please, we can’t.”
He blinked. “Huh?” What in God’s name had taken her out of her warm lassitude so suddenly? He rocked up onto his elbows, his hands now on either side of her face. “What’s wrong, lass?” He studied her anxious expression and silently cursed. Had he been moving too quickly? Had he been too rough? What?
“I...” Her pupils were still dilated with lust as her gaze darted from his face to the door. She nibbled on her lower lip, her breath still hot and fast from their kissing. Nothing made sense to him.
She swallowed hard. “I...I have my flowers.”
Her flowers? Nay. This couldna be. He’d have noticed her waddling like a babe with a load in its nappy. At the least, she would have occasionally cradled her belly.
He inhaled, his nares flaring slightly as he sampled the heated air between his face and hers. Nay, ‘tis nothing here to indicate flowers.
As he studied her features more closely, she blushed and turned her face away.
Ah huh! The wench lies.
“Humph!” He ran a gentle finger along her lower lip. When he did it again, her gaze locked on his lips and took on the decidedly unfocused look of passion. He watched, bemused, as her tongue tentatively slid along the path his finger had taken. Aye, she’s lying, but why?
“Ye flowers, lass?”
Her gaze shifted to his chest as she nodded like a sandpiper. She started worrying her lovely lower lip near to death with her upper teeth. “Uh-huh.”
He brushed a loose strand from her forehead and fingered its silky texture. “Ye’d not be telling a fib out of fear or mayhap shyness, now would ye?”
“Oh, no! No, no, no. I have my flowers.” She had yet to look him in the eye. “Definitely.”
“I see.” He kissed her brow, and was pleased to see her gaze found his lips once again as he pulled away. “Well, my ladywife, then I fear I canna go on....” She sighed, visibly more relaxed. She patted his chest.
He rocked up onto his knees, his hands coming to rest on either side of her hips. He smiled. When she offered him a t
entative smile of her own, he added, “...until I check.”
He buried his face between her skirted thighs and heard a squeal loud enough to wake the dead.
Chapter 12
Please, God, take me now!
Beth squealed louder and longer as Duncan noisily snuffled and sniffed at her crotch again. This time she tugged on his ears for all she was worth. “Duncan! Stop! What hell are you doing?”
If a body could die of mortification, she wanted to be on the short list. Had to be on it. She struggled to sit, and finding she couldn’t, she swatted his head. “Damn it, Duncan!”
He finally came up for air, laughing to kill himself. “Ah, lass, ye are a wondrously poor liar.”
In less than a heartbeat he rocked forward and settled on top of her, as he had before, his knee gently wedging her legs apart. Her treacherous thighs instinctively separated to accommodate his weight before she’d realized what they had done, so she again found herself pinned under more than two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and if her loins were correct, nearly as much bulging manhood.
He captured her hands in each of his own and settled them above her head. She stared wide-eyed at his suddenly inscrutable features. Then slowly, one corner of his mouth curled and a wicked gleam took shape in his eyes.
Uh-oh!
He started to slowly rock against her hips as his grin widened.
Now, God. Now would be a good time to take me!
She turned her face as his mouth drew near. She’d play no part in this...this seduction. He’d not said, “I’m fond of you,” much less said “I love you.” The fact that she’d mooned over him, cried over him, and was totally confused by her body’s response to him didn’t matter one wit. She couldn’t make love to him. She just couldn’t.
His lips grazed along her neck. “Ah, lass, ye are a wonder.” When he sucked gently where her neck and shoulder met, she gasped as unexpected tingles raced down her spine. Oh my word.
No, she just couldn’t open her heart to the pain again, could not allow herself to become vulnerable.
He licked the spot and she moaned. He then moved his lips only an inch further down and did it again.
When his lips stopped to nibble again, she did manage to whisper, “Duncan, husband, I really don’t think...”
His pelvis, gently rocking between her thighs, was driving her to distraction, causing an unaccountable heat, an indefinable yearning to build within her that clouded her analytical mind. To her surprise, he agreed with her, mumbled, “Aye, lass, ‘tis best we dinna.” But his mouth continued to dine on her flesh in the most protracted manner as if it were imperative he memorize every dip and curve of her face.
For some inexplicable reason her mouth sought his. It came as a bit of a shock to realize her body had apparently decided it would not flatten its learning curve despite her brain’s protests. When he captured her lower lip with his teeth, then ran his velvet tongue slowly across it, her mouth opened to his sweet invasion. She sighed. Her heart whispered, “This man of your fantasies--of your heart--certainly knows how to kiss.”
She had no idea when he’d released her left hand, none at all, but took advantage and slid her fingers into the thick waves of his ebony hair. When he started to pull away, to explore some uncharted territory, she pulled his mouth back to hers. She’d never been kissed before-—not like this at any rate--and found she wanted her fill before she had to put a stop to it. Surely, just a wee bit of kissing couldn’t hurt? Surely.
To Duncan’s relief his once reluctant ladywife had started moving beneath him. ‘Twas a most encouraging sign, but having loosened the lacing of her gown, he was most anxious to dine on her breasts. And still he couldn’t get to them, for every time he tried, she’d pull him back to her mouth. He felt inordinately pleased that she wanted his kisses, for no wife before her ever had, but there were times when a man just had to do what a man had to do. And now, with her panting setting her little globes to wobbling before his hungry perusal, was one such time. He recaptured her hands.
Her mewing protest as his lips left hers played like music on his ears and in his soul, but knowing she should garner as much pleasure from his next effort, he paid no heed.
With the palm of his right hand he slipped her bodice off the prize he sought and growled in deep satisfaction. Aye, her breasts were as he imagined: perfect creamy-white cones with deep rose crests, like tiny mountains tipped with jam. As his mouth closed over the first peak, he entered heaven.
She moaned and arched her back, giving him full access. “Aye, lass,” he murmured, “’tis truly wondrous, is it not?” He suckled, enjoying her texture, the way her breath began to hitch, the way her hips began to rock in response. He lapped gently at her slopes, licking his way to the top so he could suckle once again.
“Duncan...my hands...please...”
He released his hold. Her hands immediate burrowed into his hair and she arched once again.
“Perfect, lass,” he groaned as he ran his tongue around the rosy crown then pulled it into his mouth. He slowly released it. “So perfect, my eyes ache.”
He slid her arms free of the gown as his lips moved from peek to peek. Her anxious hands tugged at his shirt. “Help me, lass.”
And she did, her eyes becoming glassy as she ran her hands over his chest. He rolled onto his side and draped a tree-trunk thigh gently over her more slender ones. His mouth again captured hers as he slid a hand down her leg and lifted her gown.
Lady Beth, now flushed and mewing, was all his heart had ever hoped for in a wife and never had.
Her skin felt oddly smooth, like new porcelain, as his fingers glided along her legs, seeking the warm moist place hidden deep within her skirts. She groaned into his mouth when his hand finally brushed the curls at the apex of her thighs. “Aye, lass, open for me.”
When her legs slowly spread he slipped the clasp from his kilt, and it fell away.
His hand slowly ruffled her downy thatch, and he wondered at the color. He dared not slip the gown from her hips just yet, not until his hands were slick with her woman’s dew. Aye, he wanted her on the brink of ecstasy before he stripped her naked and drank his fill.
His joy in her response knew no bounds as his hand drew slow circles on the inside of her thighs, each circle easing closer to the heat. Her hips ground against his swollen manhood, her breath coming in pants into his mouth. His fingers did as her body asked.
They slipped though the dense soft curls in search of the magic place. Finding her nub, they lingered to massage, which caused her to gasp, then groan. Her thighs started to quiver, and he slipped a finger into the pearly, moist heat.
Her cry made him pulse with need. He pressed against her hips as his finger entered the sacred pathway to her womb. With gentle, rapid movements, his thumb began to massage.
Her hips began to grind in earnest. “Please...now.”
He kissed her eyelids, having found her tighter than expected. Much tighter. “Not yet, dearest, but soon.” He continued to stroke her, easing her open, wanting release as badly as she apparently did.
“Now, Duncan, love...please!
Love? Had she said love? His heart tripped with excitement never having heard a woman call him thus. Aye, she had, surely. Knowing—-hoping--her to be as ready as she’d ever be, he settled between her thighs. Her hips came up to meet him.
“Now!” Her hands pressed down, her nails digging into his flesh.
“Aye, lass,” he whispered into her mouth, as he rubbed his swollen tip against her, once, twice, gathering as much moisture as her body would offer. He sucked her exhaled breath into his lungs and murmured, “Now.”
As he thrust forward, she cried out and turned to marble beneath him.
Red pain seared through her.
Not now, God! Not now!
Rigid, unable to breathe, Beth asked God why he’d chosen this moment to take her. And why on earth had He taken a cleaver to her? Surely, she’d died just a heartbeat from ecstasy.
She felt a light touch on her cheek and opened her eyes. “Oh.” Duncan hovered above her. She mustered a tiny smile. She hadn’t died, after all. She’d merely been impaled. Dear God above.
“Ssh, dearest, dinna cry. ‘Twill pass in a moment.” She still couldn’t speak, and it certainly didn’t help when he amended, “Or two. Mayhap three, but ‘twill pass.”
God, I am literally screwed to a mattress, here! Are you listening? I’m serious! HELP!
Duncan caught a tear as it slid down her cheek. “I swear before God, lass, I didna ken ye to be a virgin.” He looked as dejected as she felt. “I thought ye a widow, was told so, in fact. Had I known...” He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on hers.
They were still physically engaged, but she could feel the pressure lessening, the pain easing within her hips. He hadn’t moved--not by so much as a millimeter from the waist down since entering her. She appreciated his restraint more than words could convey, but...
“Duncan, is this hurting your shoulder?”
He shook his head.
And pigs fly, she thought, seeing beads of sweat multiply rapidly across his forehead. She ran a fingertip along his finely crafted lower lip before closing her eyes to focus on where they were joined. The pain had eased considerably. “Duncan?”
“Aye, lass?”
“Could we roll onto your right side?”
“But yer pain...”
“It’s fading.” When he continued to look skeptical, she touched his cheek. “I knew this would happen. I’d been forewarned. You did well.”
“Nay, lass, ye dinna reach the stars. Ye wept.”
He looked dejected. Rachael had been right. Men apparently did have very fragile egos, at least when it came to making love. And he had done everything right. He’d been slow, careful, had brought her to the brink of madness. She’d been ready--past ready if the truth were told--when he entered her. How could you fault a man because he’s--what’s the expression?--hung like a horse?
