Page 113 of Laird of Flint
Then he added, “But I do need to see his quarters before we…”
“Before we…?”
The smoldering glance he gave her said everything. Her heart flipped like a fresh-caught trout. The blood sang in her veins. And her body awakened as if his gaze had physically touched her.
“I missed ye so,” she whispered.
“It turns out you were right,” he whispered back. “I’d make a terrible monk.”
They reached the physician’s quarters, and she opened the door with her key.
He stepped in and closed the door behind them.
She whirled about and immediately collided with him in an outpouring of affection. A fortnight’s worth of yearning spilled from her like ale from an uncorked barrel. In his arms, she felt like she’d come home.
Hew responded in equal measure. Attacking her like a starving man at a feast. As if he could never get enough of her to fill the cavern of his heart.
Arms squeezed. Hands grasped. Mouths sought out flesh. Breath mingled in a whirlwind of desire. Their passion was frenzied and fearless, a ferocious storm they braved together.
As they kissed, he turned and backed her against the door. Then he used the deft fingers of one hand to gather her skirts, hiking them higher and higher. His other hand he crooked around the back of her neck, pulling her close. His body molded to hers, and she could feel the hard evidence of his desire against her hip.
He deepened the kiss. His tongue swept the interior of her mouth, and she answered him, snaking her tongue around his in a dizzying dance.
Then his fingers reached the hem of her skirts, and he rooted beneath them.
She stiffened as he threaded his fingers into the curls guarding her womanhood. But then, driven by instinct, she pushed against his hand. The pressure was divine. His fingers glided farther, urging her thighs apart and moving toward the center of her need.
Her mouth fell open. She let her head fall aside.
He swooped down on her exposed neck then, where his lips found a sensitive spot just below her ear. A place that stirred her senses. Made her head hum. And drove her to madness.
When he slipped his fingers between her wet nether lips, she pressed hard against his hand, stretching, yearning, aching for more.
He whispered in her ear, “Do you like this?”
She shivered, moaned softly, and nodded.
He moved his fingers over her then, stroking and circling her swollen flesh.
“You’re so soft,” he whispered. “So wet. So beautiful.”
She should thank him. The laird’s daughter was always gracious with compliments. But she couldn’t center her thoughts. She could barely stand.
Instead, she clung more tightly to him. Squeezed her eyes shut as the lovely sensation betwixt her thighs grew more pronounced. More focused. More inevitable.
“Shall I go on?” he murmured, slowing his pace as her tension increased.
“Aye,” she breathed.
“Are you sure?” he asked, stopping his movement.
“Aye,” she insisted, on the edge of frustration. “Damn ye.” The ache was unbearable. She tried to grind against his palm.
With a throaty chuckle, he resumed his motions.
Already primed, she burst rapidly into flame. She burned high and hot as she arched toward him, shuddering with sweet deliverance.
Afterwards, her knees turned to custard, and she collapsed against him to catch her breath.
