Epilogue #2
She reached up, curling her hands around his shoulders and pulling him down. Desire arced through her, powerful and wanting.
“Ye think I cursed ye to love me?”
“If ye did, I hope it never breaks.”
Thomas leaned down and kissed her. The kiss was soft at first, then grew more passionate, more hungry.
He climbed onto the bed, supporting his weight on his elbows.
Emma wanted more of it. She wanted his weight on her, pressing her down into the impossibly soft mattress beneath them.
A fur rested against her cheek, deliciously velvety and smooth.
She slid a hand down his spine, picking out the curve and shift of muscles underneath.
“We’ll have to be careful of yer dress,” Thomas said, his voice almost a growl in her ear. “I’m not sure I can get ye back into it. We’ll have to go slow, I’m afraid, my side still hurts.”
Emma giggled. “Never mind that. We’ll go as slow as ye like. Don’t worry.”
He grinned at that, shaking his head. She felt him smile against her neck. “Very generous of ye, Butterfly.”
The old nickname sent such a spasm of heat and wanting through her that she thought she couldn’t breathe for a full minute.
His hands were everywhere, soft and warm and intoxicating.
They slid over the curve of her breasts, making her breath shudder.
When she felt his fingertips ghost up the skin of her thigh, she gave a little sigh, her fingers tangled in his hair.
He reached the smooth linen of her undergarments, baggy white garments that were easily pulled down and pushed aside.
She could feel his arousal pressing against her thigh, an insistent need that heightened her blood and made her ache more inside than she had ever considered possible.
Her breath hitched in her throat, pleasure curling inside her.
Thomas’s lips grazed the line of her throat, and she arched her back, leaning into the sensations.
“Ye are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” Thomas breathed, and Emma dug her fingertips into his shoulder. “Does that feel good?”
“It feels like nothing I’ve ever known,” she gasped, tilting back her head and closing her eyes.
It could have been hours or just minutes by the time Thomas gently slid himself inside her, and she bit back a cry of surprise and pleasure.
She wound her arms around him, her fingertips pressing in his back, sliding up and down his side—still careful to avoid the sore spot in his side where his ribs were still healing—urging him on.
When her climax hit her, Emma cried out, arching her back, trapped between the warm, solid weight of Thomas’s body and the impossible soft comfort of the blankets and quilts underneath.
It took a moment or two for her breathing to slow and her heart to stop pounding.
His rhythm sped up, and he bit back a cry, pressing his forehead against her neck.
They lay like that for a minute or two, then he rolled off her. He immediately sunk so deep into the quilts that only his nose and some of his hair stuck out.
Emma felt giddy, weak-kneed, and euphoric. That was the final straw. She burst out laughing, her hands over her mouth to smother her laughter.
“Are ye laughing at me?” he demanded, flailing about. “I can’t get out of this wretched bed!”
Emma laughed harder and harder until Thomas, red-faced and grinning, finally levered himself out of the quicksand quilts.
“Good heavens,” he said, chuckling. “I thought I’d met my end in more ways than one.”
She reached up, her fingers ghosting across his cheek. “That was amazing! We should do it again before we go down.”
Thomas spluttered. “Let a man breathe, lassie!” Taking her hand, he turned it over and pressed a kiss to her wrist. “Lady Emma MacPherson. It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t ye think?”
She grinned. “Aye, it does. I’ll still be a healer, though.”
“I would expect no less from ye.”
Leaning forward, Thomas met her lips in a soft, lazy kiss, pulling her close. Emma wrapped her arms around his shoulders and felt that familiar ache of desire once again. It was less urgent now—Thomas would be there tonight, tomorrow, and every day from then.
It was a thrilling thought, and she smiled to herself, hiding her face in his shoulder.
“Maybe don’t pull my hair so hard next time,” he said conversationally.
She winced, guiltily remembering how her fist had tightened in his hair when she had reached her peak.
“Ah. Sorry.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “No need to apologize, trust me. Just know that if I go bald before I’m thirty, it’s your fault.”
Moving back, Thomas sat up on the bed, stretching.
“Are ye going?” Emma asked lazily, reaching out to touch his arm. It occurred to her that they hadn’t even bothered properly undressing. That was fine. There was time yet for that.
“Aye, we’d better get down. We’ve been a while, I think.”
She pouted. “They’ll be fine without us. Ye said that they would, anyway. Besides, they’ll be distracted by the feast, won’t they?”
He grimaced. “About that…”
Emma struggled to sit upright. “What? About what?”
“The feast…”
“Aye, it’s a fine one. I know everyone was hungry. They’ll dig right in and never know we were gone.”
“It’s just that I don’t think they can start without us.”
There was silence.
“What?” Emma squeaked.
The End?