Page 95 of Laird of Flint
It was his own fault. He knew that. Aye, she’d made the first move. But she was untried in the ways of romance. He should have taken responsibility and refused her kiss.
He sighed.
That would have been impossible.
Her kiss had been heavenly. Her lips as plump and succulent as a ripe cherry. Her breath soft and sweet as she gasped against his mouth. And her tongue… Holy Mary, her tongue touching his had set off a lightning bolt of pleasure.
Her fingers brushing his face—at first as lightly as the wings of a butterfly, then with the strength of desperation—had made him shiver with longing.
But it was the brazen crush of her body against his that had sent him past the realm of resistance. Even as he relished her soft curves and engaging warmth, even as his cock strained at its linen prison, he’d dreamed of what it would be like to wake up with her each morn, to have her in his arms and in his life.
He shifted in the saddle. It would do him no good to revisit the moment. It would only serve to frustrate his already aching loins.
There would be no satisfaction tonight. Or for many nights.
He had to keep temptation at bay. And the only way to do that was to keep her at a distance.
Unfortunately, all his good intentions didn’t even last a day.
Despite refusing the laird’s bedchamber and sleeping in the great hall with the rest of the clan, Hew woke to Lady Carenza’s lovely, smiling face. She crouched beside him the next morn with a bowl of steaming frumenty.
“I hope ye like cherries,” she said.
His gaze lowered reflexively to her lips. What he thought was,They couldn’t be as sweet and delicious as what I tasted yesterday.What he said was, “I do. Thank you.”
“Would ye like me to feed ye?” There was a subtle smokiness in her eyes.
He very much wanted that. To stare into her eyes as she slipped the spoon into his mouth. To lick the frumenty from it while holding her gaze.
“That won’t be necessary.” He sat up and took the bowl in his bandaged hand, turning it so he could use the spoon with his good hand.
She leaned close and whispered, “I missed your snorin’ last night.”
He shoveled frumenty into his mouth to avoid having to reply. It was warm and sweet. But not as warm and sweet as her kiss.
She murmured, “I had a dream about ye.”
He almost choked on the frumenty. He’d heard that phrase before from lasses’ lips. Usually in the privacy of a bedchamber. It was always followed by an arousing account of her dream coupling. Andthatwas always followed by an actual coupling.
“Ye were in my bedchamber,” she began.
The anticipatory tingling in his ballocks didn’t bode well.
“Lookin’ all bold and menacin’ with your axe across your shoulders.”
Was this going to be a plundering Viking dream where he seized the woman, tore off her clothes, and forced her to his will? He didn’t much care for those.
“I had brought the rat-catcher in, as my father requested.”
He stopped chewing the frumenty. The tingling had gone away. A rat-catcher? Where was this going?
“And sure enough,” she said, “Twinkle made an appearance.”
“Twinkle?”
“My pet rat.”
He grunted. He dished up another spoonful of frumenty, not sure he wanted to hear a romantic fantasy that included a rat.
