Page 63 of A Scot's Pride
“Aye,” he breathed, kissing her knee and then the soft flesh of her inner thigh. The tips of his fingers stroked higher as his mouth stayed on her inner thighs—hot breath, velvet tongue. She sucked in a breath, holding it with anticipation until her lungs burned.
Freya licked her lips and watched him as his head disappeared beneath her gown, his breath hot on the dampened curls between her legs.
Oh, this was tremendously wicked. What was she thinking, letting him…
But then the heat and softness of his wet tongue stroked over her folds and between, nudging a bundle of nerves that made her gasp and spread her thighs wider. Freya sucked her lower lip into her mouth, biting down to keep from crying out.
But she couldn’t stifle the whimpers as he continued his delicious assault on her senses. She gripped the arms of the chair, holding tight as her body rocked into his mouth.
She moved her grasp from the arms of the chair to where Bryson held her thighs. The feel of him holding her there as his tongue swirled in delicious circles over the very heat of her ignited a ravenous need within her.
Freya’s breaths came in erratic puffs as Bryson increased the pace of his delicious licks. Her legs shook, her fingers curling into his. Whimpers and moans of pleasure escaped her, and she had no power to stop them and hoped the walls were thick enough to keep her noise inside this room.
Her hips rolled forward, searching for more of what he offered, more pleasure, searching for a climax she had no knowledge of… Until she did. Bryson sucked at her nub of pleasure, and Freya burst, the pinnacle of pleasure she had been building toward shattering inside her. Her legs shook, her body trembled, cried out.
Bryson kissed and kissed until the waves subsided, and her body stopped rocking. Then he kissed the inside of her thigh, giving her a gentle nip. Then he slid out from under her gown and grinned up at her, satisfaction on his handsome face.
“Well,” she said, her voice still a little shaky. “I think if you’re allowed to kiss me like that, I should be allowed to do the same.”
Bryson seemed caught off-guard as he sat back on his heels, his mouth hanging open. “Och, lass, I think that’s best saved for the wedding night.” He swallowed. “I’m afraid if I let ye do that…well, then I will no’ stop there.”
“Do we need to stop?” This was a side of herself she hadn’t known she possessed. This wicked temptress. She wanted more.
Bryson glanced toward the door. “’Tis no’ so much the stopping as the worrying about who might hear.”
Freya laughed. “I tried to be quiet.”
“Aye, and if we do more, love, ye will no’ be able to contain yourself.”
She leaned forward, resting her arms on his shoulders and toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ll hold you to that promise, future husband.”
“And I’ll make good on it.” He kissed her, the musky scent of her on his lips.
22
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Lord Ashbury is to marry Miss Riley Grysham.
The ride back to Sunderland was paved with bickering.
Leila couldn’t stop lamenting her plight and twisting the tale around so much that, at one point, it was even Freya’s fault for what had happened. The hysterical adolescent had been screeching for so long, her voice had gone hoarse, and Freya’s ears seemed to buzz permanently.
For her part, Lady Daven had so much patience that she barely murmured a word during the verbal assaults from Leila—or was she sleeping, it was hard to tell—while Freya practically ripped the carriage benches off in gripping them so hard to keep from shaking sense into her sister.
Campbell rode, hands tied, beside the driver up on the buckboard and was warned if he caused any mischief they’d drop him at the nearest jail, and he’d be forgotten forever. Miraculously, he’d listened, and there’d not been so much as a peep from him. He probably was counting his blessings that he hadn’t been shot on the road because he could be categorized as a highwayman now.
Bryson rode his horse beside the carriage, though he constantly moved. Looking ahead, looking backward, doubling back, going forward, as if he expected they’d be ambushed again. It was rather endearing how he sought to protect them. But Freya wished she could ride with him rather than remain in this stifling carriage. However, there was no way she would force Lady Daven to endure her sister all alone, no matter the woman’s patience. Everyone had a breaking point, and for as much as Lady Daven had been willing to help, there had to be a limit to what she would tolerate.
At last, they arrived home to the slowly crumbling manor house at dusk a day later, exhausted and dusty. Before they’d even alighted from the carriage, her family came crashing out of the house, stumbling over one another in haste.
Mama’s screech was so loud, it could probably be heard miles away at Lady Heaton’s house. Leila burst from the carriage and threw herself into her mother’s arms, crying loudly about the ill treatment and stabbing blaming fingers at Freya, who gritted her teeth and tried to calm her seething heart.
“Oh, Freya, how could you treat your sister like a common prisoner?” The baroness glowered at Freya as if she’d been the one to hold up the carriage on the road.
Freya’s shoulder suddenly throbbed like the devil as if to add salt to a wound.
Riley hurried forward and slipped her arm through Freya’s, anchoring her, perhaps so she didn’t fly up in a rage. Freya squeezed her sister’s arm gently in thanks. While she was excited and grateful that they’d both found love and would be off to their respective lives as wives, Freya would miss her sister dearly. It wouldn’t be the same to wake up every morning and not gossip with Riley. Not have her sister there for support. They would have to make a pact to see each other at least every other day.
