Page 94 of Laird of Steel
It was instinct that made her grind against him. But though she sought relief, her lusty craving only worsened.
“I need ye,” she gasped out.
“I know,” he said.
“Swive me,” she begged. “Swive me now.”
“Och lass, I dare not.”
“Just this once,” she pleaded.
“But I’m bound to another.”
“Your hand is bound. Your heart is your own.” When he hesitated, she forged ahead. “We needn’t tell a soul. No harm need come to anyone.”
“’Tis reckless,” he warned, removing his hand from betwixt her legs.
“’Tis more reckless for me to trust a stranger with my maidenhead.” She knew if she appealed to the protector in him, he’d find it hard to refuse. “Once ye’re gone, ’twill be in the hands of fate.”
He sighed, wrestling with his morals.
“I trust ye,” she said. “I know ye’ll be kind. And gentle. And sweet. Unless…” She dipped her eyes. “Do ye not desire me?”
He smirked. His cock was still hard in her hand. “You know I do.”
“And ye admitted ye love me.”
“I do.”
“Then know this,” she said, placing his hand over her beating heart and gazing up at him with dewy eyes. “Know that I have loved ye since the first time I saw ye. For four long years, I ne’er forgot ye. And even if I can’t have ye, I’ll love ye fore’er.”
Clearly touched, he lowered his head, resting his brow on hers.
“On this night of all nights,” she whispered, “when all may be forgiven, can we not have a wee taste o’ heaven?”
Chapter 16
Even sotted, Gellir was sober enough to know he was making a mistake.
He told himself he was doing it for Merraid. To save her from suffering. To guard against clumsy knaves who might snatch her virginity without the proper gentleness. He convinced himself swiving her would be his one final act of protection before he left her side forever.
That’s what he told himself.
But he didn’t believe it.
In truth, he wanted this as much as she did.
He longed for a taste of paradise. Just once, he wanted to make love with someone who genuinely cared for him. Someone for whom it was not just a marital duty, but an expression of affection. Of adoration. Of trust.
So when she whispered that entreaty—looking up at him with a hopeful smile, reminding him it was Beltane, when all turned a blind eye to indiscretions—he was powerless to tell her nay.
“If I do this,” he murmured, “it must ne’er happen again.”
She nodded, promising, “I won’t ask.”
So she claimed. But they were the words of a lass who’d never been swived. He wouldn’t be surprised if she broke that promise.
Carefully, reluctantly, he extricated her hand from his braies. He tugged her kirtle back up over her breasts so she wouldn’t grow cold while he gathered leaves to make a soft bed.
