Page 109 of Laird of Flint
She didn’t.
He slid the linen slowly up her shins to where her stockings were tied.
Still she didn’t stop him.
When he rounded her knees, she gasped. But it wasn’t a protest. It was a gasp of anticipation.
Higher he slipped her leine, draping it above her knees, where the stockings ended and her flesh began. Then he moved his hands atop her knees to gently pry them apart.
She squeezed her eyes shut and instinctively resisted at first.
“May I?” he breathed.
After a moment, she nodded. Turning her blushing face shyly aside, she allowed him to spread her legs.
He bunched her leine around her hips then, completely exposing her to his view. Reaching his unbandaged hand behind her, he shifted her forward to the edge of the chair.
She was even more beautiful than he’d imagined. Her legs were long and lissome, and the nest of curls at their apex was dark and delicate. He lowered his head, stroking one silken thigh while he kissed the inside of the other.
The higher he moved, closer to the core of her need, the faster and harder her breath came and the more she opened to him. Her yearning fed his own. It pulsed between his legs.
Finally he reached the damp warmth of her womanhood, steeped with mystery, fragrant with longing. Drunk on her desire, he nuzzled her curls, tenderly parted her supple petals, and took a tiny sip of her feminine nectar.
Carenza gasped. His touch felt like lightning. A current shocking her to life. Sizzling through her body. Making her writhe in a torment of pleasure.
Just as quickly, his tongue came to soothe the burn, bathing her flesh with a healing balm.
And yet, it wasn’t sweet relief she felt, but more exquisite torture. Like a punishing lash, he stroked her with his tongue again and again. And with each blow, she moaned in agony, sure she could endure no more.
She let her head fall back.
His breath was hot on her thighs.
Her face was hot with shame.
Nay, not shame. Something else.
Awe.
A great power was glowing inside her. A power he’d sparked the way flint sparked a fire. And now that he’d kindled the flames, there was nothing to stop her from bursting into a raging inferno.
She clutched the arms of the chair, fearful of what was to come.
But he clasped her fingers in his own, lending her reassurance. He would keep her anchored. He would keep her safe. He would be there for her.
She thought she could endure no more. But her body acted of its own accord. The power inside took control. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. She stilled as the flames roared higher and higher.
And then, with a taut squeal like a sleeping coal jabbed to life, she exploded into a thousand sparks. She gasped as waves of joy rocked her body and tossed her to and fro, shaking every last vestige of modesty from her.
How he managed to hold her, to keep her from flying in a thousand different directions, she didn’t know. The throes of her desire were powerful and demanding. She could no more control them than she could stop the rain from falling.
But she didn’t need to. Nobody but Hew was witness to her shattering. No one but he saw how she shuddered out of control, becoming a wild and wanton beast, and then gradually collapsed back into herself.
And he would safeguard her. He would keep her sins concealed. That the laird’s daughter, who always comported herself with dignity, grace, and calm, had allowed herself to become passion’s plaything would be their secret. No one else need ever know.
A sudden sharp knock at the door was all it took to destroy her sense of safety.
Panic leaped into her throat. She thrashed on the chair, freeing her hands and trying to tug her leine down.
