Page 121 of Laird of Flint
His chest heaved as he gazed silently at her.
“Lie with me,” she said.
She could see a battle raging in his eyes.
She clarified. “Now that we have a real bed, I want to feel ye next to me. To feel your warm flesh against mine. To feel our hearts beatin’ together.”
He still looked wary.
She let her gaze fall to the male part of him, straining against his trews with fierce need.
She licked her lips and whispered, “If ye like, we can lie together, and I can use my hand.”
The silver flash of passion in his eyes was answer enough. He unbuckled his belt. Kicked off his boots, Stripped off his clothes. And when he wrested out of his braies, his cock—big and bold and brazen—almost gave her pause.
Was she sure she was ready for this?
But there was no time to reconsider. In the next moment, he stretched out beside her on the pallet. And though they hadn’t yet made contact, she could feel the heat of his need like the glow coming off of a blacksmith’s forge.
Suddenly he loomed large and imposing. She felt overwhelmed and overpowered. Despite his gentle, caring nature, being this close to his naked body reminded her that he was a fierce and dangerous warrior with Viking blood and shoulders like an ox.
What if he became angry with her?
But in the next instant, she forgot her fears. He draped one leg over hers and drew her close, taking her into the circle of his arms and cradling her against his chest. Strength and warmth and energy emanated from him as he surrounded her in his protective love.
He must have felt their combined potency too. He moved his hands over her, groaning at the sweet friction between them.
With bold purpose, she sought out his staff with her hand, wrapping her fingers around the firm column.
He gasped in awe.
But again she wondered if she’d made a mistake. He seemed impossibly big. What if she injured herself?
He took her hand and brought it to his mouth, using his tongue to make her palm wet and slick.
She found him again and began to move her hand in the rhythm he’d taught her.
He growled with pleasure and dug his fingers into her buttocks, pressing her hips toward his until they were flesh to flesh. There was just enough room for her hand to squeeze between them. Yet it still didn’t feel close enough.
As she sensed the changes in him—his focused expression, his quickened breathing, his tightened muscles—she decided it was time.
She wrapped one leg over him and turned him onto his back, straddling his hips.
He stiffened in surprise and threw up his hands. But when she continued to stroke him and began rocking herself against his hips, he melted back into a sensuous languor.
She too found pleasure at the pressure of his body upon hers. She began climbing the mountain of erotic delight. The higher she climbed, the less control she had. Soon she was bucking and arching, searching for the right movement that would catapult her to the top.
And as she ascended, so too did Hew. His face was strained. His fists were as white as the bedlinens he clutched. As his cock thrust within her hand, his hips crashed into hers.
Finally, when her passions were stirred to a fever pitch and she sensed he was about to explode, she rose on her knees and aimed his dagger of flesh toward her womanly sheath. With urgent haste, she lowered herself onto him.
There was a wee pinch, less painful than a bee sting, and then a throbbing fullness.
He cried out, half in ecstasy, half in dismay.
Then he froze. A look of horror and disbelief crossed his face. A look that made her panic. Had she been wrong to do it? Did he think she was a shameless wanton? Did he despise her now?
Unable to endure his judgment, but unwilling to stop now, she closed her eyes and resumed her movements. He didn’t resist. Soon the feeling of invasion became one of union as they strove together toward a common goal.
