Chapter Eighteen #2
His eyes were shiny in the firelight, lit from within.
She saw desire there, and felt it flow through her limbs as well.
He pulled her close against his body and kissed her again, his tongue lapping at the seam of her lips, demanding entry.
She opened, tasted the honey on his tongue, the bitterness of the herbs and the ale, and him.
She put her arms around his neck and pressed closer, wanting to do nothing but kiss him.
The heat of his mouth gave way to the cool of the evening, as he stepped back.
He clasped her hand in his and grinned down at her, his teeth white in the firelight.
Alec couldn’t take his eyes off the woman in his arms. Her red hair burned as bright as the flames.
Her lips were soft from his kisses, her eyes golden-green.
Could he truly be so fortunate to have this woman for his bride?
He’d marry her tomorrow—this very moment—if he could.
The drumbeats filled him, or perhaps it was more than that.
She smiled up at him, bit her lip as she stumbled against him in the dance, the length of her body against his for a moment.
She felt right in his arms, familiar, perfect.
He’d felt the same surge of desire in the tower when she fell.
Arousal stirred, hard, and powerful. She lifted her arms above her head as she danced, her body lithe and sleek.
His eyes roved over the firelit silhouette of her breast under the muslin of her gown.
Her white feet trod the steps perfectly as she moved away, then came back to him in the rhythm of the dance.
He couldn’t wait to take her in his arms again, to spin her, to hold her close, to smell the sweet fragrance of her hair under the crown of flowers.
He was suddenly glad to be Laird of Glenlorne.
Surely there was nothing he couldn’t do with this woman by his side, his Midsummer queen, his countess, his wife.
He pulled her close and kissed her again, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his, her hands in his hair.
“Come with me,” he said, grabbing her hand, pulling her up the slope toward the tower.
He let go of her just long enough to lift the bar from the door, and drop it in the grass.
He tugged her into the velvet darkness, and the wind blew the door shut behind them, leaving them in deep darkness; the sound of the revelry was distant now, the drums still beating in his ears, his veins, filling him with excitement and need.
The roof was open to the stars, and the light of the moon made a soft pool in the center of the room, and he drew her into it, tipped her face up, stared down at her.
Caroline stared up at the moon, breathless, and stepped into the circle of the light.
He took her in his arms, held her, looked down at her face, stroked her hair.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. She stood on her toes and cupped his face in her hands, her fingers moving over the rough stubble of his beard as she kissed him again.
He moaned softly and pulled her closer still, pressing her against the length of his body, breast to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh.
She opened to his kiss, sparring with his tongue as if she’d done this a thousand times.
Could he tell she hadn’t? She should stop, but she didn’t want to.
She was the queen of Midsummer, and he was her king, at least for tonight.
She tilted her head so he could kiss her neck.
It felt so good. How was it possible to live as long as she had and never know that such a sensation existed?
She could feel his arousal, knew what it meant.
He desired her. He groaned as she pressed closer still, shifted her hips, moving against him.
She tangled her hands in the rough linen of his shirt, holding him to her, needing more than kisses, yet she couldn’t imagine anything more delicious than his kiss.
She could not have stopped kissing him if she wanted to. She was bewitched.
He trailed his mouth down her throat while he opened the ties of her gown ahead of his questing tongue and teeth.
She slid her hands inside his shirt, felt the heat of his skin under her hands.
He pushed her gown off her shoulders, baring her breasts, and drew her nipple into his hungry mouth.
The sensation drove the last clear thoughts from her mind.
She wanted this, wanted him, and he wanted her.
She writhed against him, pleading for more.
She pushed back his shirt and the plaid that covered his chest the way he’d done with her gown, baring his shoulders and chest in the moonlight.
Hard muscles gleamed in the soft glow, turning him golden and glorious, a mythical Midsummer king indeed.
It must be magic. She ran her fingertips over him, exploring the silk of his skin, the fascinating flex of his muscles beneath.
His body was marvelous, male perfection.
The scent of his skin poured over her, intoxicating her far beyond anything the ale had done.
She pressed her mouth to his chest, kissed him, tasted him, and he groaned.
She felt his heart pounding under her lips, felt the breath singing through his body in time to the beat of the drums beyond the walls as his muscles tensed with pleasure at what she was doing to him.
Power sang through her own veins. She found his nipple and bit gently, then sucked the hard pebble, and he gasped for breath, his hands tangling in her hair.
“Wait,” he murmured. He pulled his shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt, and let the folds of his plaid drop.
She drew a breath at the sight of his naked body.
He spread the plaid over the ground, a makeshift blanket, a bed padded by the soft moss beneath.
He used his shirt to make a pillow. He knelt.
“Come here,” he said, holding out a hand to her.
This time, it wasn’t hard to decide what she wanted.
She put her hand in his and knelt before him.
He tugged her gown over her head, tossed it aside.
She held her breath as went still, he looked at her in the moonlight.
What was he thinking? No man had ever seen her this way before. Was she beautiful?
“Oh, lass,” he murmured, and ran the back of his hand over her cheek, her shoulder, her breasts. “I trust we should go slow,” he said. “Or stop. The choice is yours.” His voice was thick with desire.
She put her arms around his shoulders, tangled her fingers in his hair, and brought her mouth to his.
He groaned and pulled her down onto the soft bed of his plaid.
He groaned and tumbled into her embrace, covering her body with his.
She reveled at the sensation of hard muscle and hairy legs against her skin, the sound of the murmured endearments he whispered in her ear in Gaelic.
He suckled her breast as his hand explored the curves of her body, finding places she hadn’t even known existed before he touched them.
He set her on fire everywhere his fingers brushed, until she arched upward, restless, desperate.
“Please,” she said softly.
“Wait,” he whispered against her mouth, and she whimpered as he returned to suckling her nipple, slowly, sweetly.
She gripped his shoulders, dug her nails into the hard flesh, begging wordlessly for much more, but he took his time.
He blew cool air on her heated flesh, then took the sensitive bud back into his mouth again.
She writhed as his palm descended over her belly and hips, moving with infuriating slowness to caress the curls between her thighs.
She bucked against his palm, wanting more, wanting—well, whatever it was that made the poets sing, and the ladies swoon.
It was within his power to grant it, but he held back.
He brought his mouth back to hers and she opened to him, biting and sucking at his tongue and lips, hearing his breath turn into grunts of suppressed desire.
His erection pressed into her hip, and she reached down to touch it.
She closed her hand on it and he gasped, cried out in Gaelic.
His hand still hovered over the delicate lips of her sex, and then his fingers dipped between, found the place she needed him most. She cried out in English, and he began to circle the wild, wet bud with his fingertip, taking her beyond madness to a place of such exquisite pleasure she feared she would die of it.
Her hand fluttered over his, half afraid of what was to come, half afraid he’d stop.
The sensation burst over her, like a bonfire roaring to life, shooting flames and sparks, all-consuming, holy. She clung to him, saw the stars above the tower, feeling them descend upon her one by one to sing through her blood, lifting her.
He kissed her, murmured endearments as he shifted, and she felt the blunt tip of him where his fingers had been.
She took a deep breath and arched back, her teeth gritted as he drove into her, stifling a cry at the sharp pain.
She dug her nails into his shoulder as he waited for her to adjust to him, to being filled for the first time, kissing her neck, stroking her face.