Page 78 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
His hands stroked her hair, tangling his fingers in the curling wisps around her cheeks, outlining her jaw, caressing her throat. She clutched his hand.
“What we did together stays in me heart.” She looked up and his eyes were dark as midnight, showing that his desire was as strong as ever. It matched her own.
Taking his hand she led him to the bed, reached up and slid open the velvet drapes.
Feeling the heat rush into her cheeks she turned to him. “I wish us tae lie taegether as we did. I wish tae feel ye inside me again.”
She reached for the buckle on his belt and slipped it open.
He laughed softly. “Och, ‘tis a wee wanton ye’ve become, Lady Mackenzie”
She swatted his shoulder. “And is that nae tae yer liking, Laird Mackenzie? After all, it was ye and yer wicked kissing and fondling that have turned me intae a wild woman.”
The sound he made was nothing less than a growl and his voice was husky when he spoke.
“Aye. ‘Tis very much tae me liking, wild woman. ‘Tis what I’ve dreamed of even when I never dared tae think of such a thing.”
He grabbed her shoulder, turning her, crushing her lips with his mouth in a breathless kiss that shook her to her core and had her melting against him.
“Yet I ne’er believed the wild lass of me dreams was real.”
Laughing, she pulled off his belt and his kilt slipped to his feet, leaving him in only his boots and shirt. Her hand strayed to his hard shaft making a tent of the front of his shirt.
Seizing her in both his arms, he lifted her onto the bed before him. “I’ll nae be naked wi’out ye naked beside me.” After quickly shedding his boots, he reached for the lacing on her dress and pulled it undone, so that the dress was open at the front, the soft nubs of her breasts on display.
He growled again and leaned down, taking one rosy-pink nub in his mouth and one between finger and thumb. He tweaked and suckled her until she cried out and moaned.
His hands found the hem of her gown and raised it to her waist, baring her. She shivered, anticipating what was to come. He bent lower and suckled at her mound, his finger sliding into her slick folds. She writhed under his probing fingers and pulled him up so she could kiss his lips.
“I cannae wait, lad. I’m aching fer wanting ye inside me. Yer fingers are sending me tae that place where the fairies dance and the mad people dwell wi’ flowers in their hair.”
“Ye mean, these wee fingers?” He stroked and teased some more, so that she gritted her teeth and seized his shaft. “That thing of yers is what I want, dinnae tease me more. Ye’ve made me mad wi’ wanting ye Mackenzie, now ye must gi’ me what I ask.”
She arched her back, moving her hips under his hand.
He buried his head at her shoulder where her hair was spread, her braid undone, the ribbons hanging free, and rolled her so that she was above him her knees apart.
“I am yers tae dae whatever ye wish,” he said, as she drew herself up, a hair’s breadth from his upright shaft.
She shifted so that she was sitting over him, sliding down onto what she craved, while his clever, wicked, fingers toyed with the hard little nub between her thighs that brough her so much delight.
It took only the slightest of movement and she was poised over his tip. Straddling him, his shaft between her folds she gasped as she lowered herself, taking in the length of him, looking down at his face in the throes of ecstasy.
He rolled her again so that she was under him, and thrust hard, taking her.
“Ye’ll nae be able tae complain now, lass, that I’ve nae given ye yer heart’s desire.”
She grunted, reaching up for him so that his head came down to meet hers for a fierce kiss that lasted through the coming rapture. She was tipping over the cliff, tumbling through wave after wave of infinite joy, until he joined her, taking his shaft from insider her, to empty into his hand.
When they at last came to their senses, she was frowning.
“I want all of ye, Ewan Macenzie. I am yer woman, and whatever ye fear I’ll risk it all tae have a wean wi’ ye.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The night was silent. It was the kind of heavy silence that pressed against the walls and crept into the bones. Tyra moved cautiously through the corridors of the keep, each step muffled against the stone floor. She had not intended to be out of bed at this hour, but the milk—warm, creamy, and soothing—called to her like a small promise of comfort, something that would help sleep come despite the tumult of her thoughts. Ewan was busy and she could not shut them out.
She scanned the hall for a servant who she could send to the kitchen to fetch her a cup of milk but she saw no one. Impatient, she flicked her braid over her shoulder. The kitchen was only a few short steps across the courtyard; surely it was safe enough to venture there. She wrapped her cloak tight against the chill and hastened down the steps. It would take her but a moment to warm the milk and be back in her chamber before she was missed.
