Page 21 of To My Scot, With Love
“More,” she whimpered.
He shifted her, pulling her back into him, her bottom nestling against where he was hot, hard, and demanding. And then the heel of his palm replaced his thumb, and his fingers picked up in a punishing rhythm, driving deep, curling inside her, pressing, pulsing, pulling her pleasure from her. And she was helpless to stop it.
Malcolm’s hips ground into her, just as she ground into his hand, riding the heel of his palm. The rush of bliss was right before her, about to crash down. His thrusts grew unrestrained and fervent—both his hand and his hips—and something about the hard length of him pressing against her was too much for her to take. A tantalizing hint of what else they would share.
The tide came crashing down. Her hips jerked, legs shaking, as white-hot pleasure tore through her, engulfing her in ecstasy. She reached blindly for him, up behind her head until her fingers found the soft locks of his hair. And she grabbed a fistful and held on tight, because she was lost, untethered, her body shuddering, heart racing as overwhelming feeling continued to sweep over her, ripping sobs from her chest. Because the pleasure was so profound, the only possible reaction was to cry.
He pulled her tight against him, his hips bucking wildly against her. And then a hoarse roar tore from him, muffled into the crook of her shoulder, his body trembling and spasming behind her before falling limp, the same way she had just done.
His hand slipped from her, and he tugged her back flat against his chest, his rough exhalations dancing over her skin in between the endless kisses he was painting over her shoulder. And she leaned back and let herself melt into him. Pure, relaxed, lethargic, contentment. Unbounded happiness.
“Ye unmanned me, mo chride,” he said between breaths.
She filled her lungs with air, trying to regain control of her own breathing. “What does that mean, exactly?” she asked. “I… It appears you came to completion, too. If you are not inside me when it happens…is that what that means?” Her blush burned up her cheeks, and she lifted her hands to cover her scalding face. She hated how little she knew. At her age, she should understand what these things meant.
Malcolm lifted to his elbow next to her, gently pulling her hands away, his blue-grey eyes soft and kind, and pray, she thought, perhaps even adoring.
“No’ exactly, love. It’s more that I wanted to hold out for longer. But simply touching ye was more than I could bear. Just the feel of ye, how it was sweeter than cranachan, more intoxicating than the warmest amber whisky. I spent with nothing more than yer heaven on my fingers and the friction of yer body against mine.”
“So, it’s not a bad thing then?”
“Nae, no’ bad. I wanted ye too much.” His voice lowered. “Starved for ye, Lydia. I was starved for ye.”
She rolled the back of her head against the floor, gaze tracing over his flushed cheekbones. The deep red cresting over them from what they just shared made the blue of his eyes more prominent somehow. She lifted a finger and traced his jawline.
“You’re beautiful, did you know that?”
A boyish smile tugged at his lips, and he dipped his chin, giving a little shake of dissent. Bashful thing.
“You are,” she insisted. “A beautiful person.” She slid her hand to his chest so that her palm rested over his heart, over where it still thumped vigorously beneath his heated skin. “Everywhere.”
“Och, lass. I’m supposed to be saying these things to ye. No’ the other way around. Ye’re stealing the words right from me.”
She grinned at him, her heart swelling in her chest. “You’re saying you feel the same way, then?”
Malcolm leaned forward and pecked her on the lips. “Aye. I feel those things. And then some.” He pulled away and helped her lift to sitting. “Now, off with those clothes, lass. I had said I wanted ye naked.”
Her brows pinched. “Are we not done?”
His lips curved, slow and sinister, and full of promise. “Nae, lass. No’ even close.”
14
Mal
Malcolmkissedhiswayup Lydia’s body, teeth grazing over her hipbones, tongue dipping into the hollow of her belly button, reveling in the small squirm it elicited. Her chest rose and fell heavily, skin warm under his lips, flushed a dusty rose. She was magnificent in the aftermath of her pleasure. And fooking delicious. He could have feasted on her for days. But they didn’t have much time left tonight. And the need to be inside her, to have her surround him, was compulsory in its force.
He quickly gathered the sheath at his bedside, slid it on, and secured it. His lips twitched. He didnae think she had any idea what he was doing. Her head languidly tossed from side to side, her gaze as hazy as the misty moors, still lost in the wake of her orgasm. He had made her a promise before, though. He would make her come. Again. And again.
It was time foragain.
Malcolm settled between her thighs, and she let out a contented purr. He coasted over her once, twice, and then notched himself at her entrance.
“Are ye ready for me, mo chridhe?”
Her gaze, clearer now, met his. “Yes. Please.”
He pushed inside, just barely. And stilled. Let her stretch around him. His muscles hardened. Mary, Joseph, and the Holy Trinity—fookshe was tight, her sweet muscles clenching around him.
