Page 147 of Laird of Steel
His warm breath filled her with desire. His arousal, rigid against her thigh, drove her wild with yearning. Her breasts tingled as he squeezed them tenderly through her velvet gown. The ache between her thighs intensified as she arched and writhed upon the pallet.
She wanted him now. She could wait no longer.
Somehow he managed to tear loose long enough to whip up his surcoat and untie the laces of his braies.
Then he dragged her skirts up and knelt betwixt her legs.
She held her breath in mindless anticipation as his skilled fingers moved between her thighs to find the swollen fruit of her desire, ripe and aching for his touch.
With bold eagerness, he spread her nether lips and pressed the tip of his cock against her willing flesh.
Unable to endure any more, she surged upward, sheathing him like a welcome dagger inside her.
His deep groan sharpened her passion.
His thrusts, tentative at first, rapidly became more forceful, driving her to a frenzy.
Gasping and grunting, they collided again and again.
Every inch of her skin felt alive. Every pore seemed to sweat desire. Every breath took her a step closer to heaven.
And then she felt him squeeze and strain in all his muscular glory, catapulting her across the skies of yearning, until they both reached that infinite, shuddering place of pure ecstasy.
Then together, they floated gently back to earth.
For a long while afterward, they could do no more than lie in a boneless heap and gasp for breath, like combatants weary of war. Merraid had no wits left to think, much less speak.
Eventually, Gellir rolled off of her and drew her into his arms. She dozed for a long while, falling asleep with a smile on her face.
When she woke, the sun was already low in the sky, streaming in through the window. Gellir was on one elbow, looking down at her with amusement.
“What?” she asked drowsily.
“Sooner or later, we have to join the feast.”
“Shite.”
She’d much rather stay in bed with her new husband. Indeed, since she was awake now, she was keenly aware of his long, lean, muscular warrior’s body pressed against hers.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said.
“Like what?” she said, all innocence.
“Like you want to spend the rest of the night ravishing me.”
“I do want to spend the rest o’ the night ravishin’ ye.”
“Fine.” He began to take his surcoat off over his head. “But don’t blame me if you have no strength left for the tournament tomorrow.”
“Och, the tournament!” She sat up. She’d almost forgotten. And now that he mentioned it, she probably should be a bit more judicious about how she expended her energy.
He laughed and let his surcoat fall back down.
“Ye’re right,” she said, standing up and smoothing her skirts. “We should go down to the feast. Do I look all right?”
Gellir grinned.
Her velvet surcoat was crumpled. So was her linen underdress. And her hair? Sprays of coppery tendrils and wee wilted flowers escaped the tangled nest of braids.
