Chapter 23 #2
In his mind, he had sketched out what a perfect woman might say or do, and she had walked into that net of words and thoughts, performing the role with exquisite ease.
At any other time such ability would mark her as the one woman in the world he must have.
Now, however, all it did was render the moment bittersweet.
He wanted to place his hands against her temples and hold all her thoughts and his at bay. The world would not intrude and there would be only the two of them. Family and friends, soon-to-be husband were all unimportant now.
Nothing was more important than the two of them.
He reached out his hands, pulling her so close that a whisper couldn’t come between them. She gasped as he covered her mouth with his. Her hands gripped his shoulders as he swung her around, pressing her gently against the abbey wall.
His mouth was suddenly on her neck, then her temple, burning a trail across her cheek to her lips once more. He murmured something, a word, an oath, an order, she wasn’t certain. Her eyes were closed, her head arching back.
She’d thought hunger was reserved for food, thirst for drink. Nothing had prepared her for this. Her hands clenched in his hair, then on his back. Her laces were being unfastened, her bodice loosened, and then his hands, his fingers were on her bare flesh, cupping her breasts.
“Yes, please,” she said in a voice barely recognizable as her own. She sighed in surrender, or complicity, as he deepened the kiss.
She had waited for this, wanted it. Dreamed about it.
Her body heated, felt constricted, as if her clothing was an obstruction that must be removed. Her heart felt as if it was in her throat, and her breathing was so fast that she felt almost faint with it.
Her hands joined his in removing her clothing. Her skirt was finally loose, her dress falling to the ground in folds of fabric. She stood before him in her corset, shift, and stockings, wondering at her wantonness. Only for a second, before he smiled and reached for her.
Slowly, she began to unfasten his shirt. His hands covered hers, not to still her actions as much as hasten them.
They shared a look, open and honest. No denial was allowed in these silent moments.
A conquest everywhere he walks. Rory’s words.
“You’ve made one more conquest, James MacRae,” she admitted finally, her voice faint.
“If I’ve made one of you,” he said, “then it’s only fair. My heart was stolen the first moment you spoke.”
He didn’t counsel her to prudence, or argue decorum or decency. Instead, he picked her up in his arms, the feeling of being cradled against his naked skin deliciously wicked and decadent.
Had she always been so wanton in spirit? He’d done more than remove her clothes; he’d swept aside any barriers between them. They couldn’t be rebuilt with regret.
Love me. Teach me. Touch me. Words she ached to speak. But she was constrained to silence, not by shyness, but by wonder. The moment, sunlit and brilliant, seemed almost perfect.
The only ornament to their trysting place was the abbey wall behind her. The sun was their candle, the ground was her bed, and around them, as if summoning assistance from the wind itself, were the tall swaying grasses shielding them from accidental discovery.
He kissed her again, imbuing their embrace with a sense of wonder. Or perhaps it was simply that nothing at Ayleshire was quite as magical as James, naked and holding her. He placed his thumbs along her jaw, tilting her head at just the right angle to kiss her.
Uncertain yet eager, she flattened her hands against his chest and felt the muscles dormant there, heard the beating of his heart as it pounded against her palm.
He lowered her so that her feet touched the ground and she stepped forward, until her naked toes touched his. They both lowered their heads, startled at the intimacy of the gesture. Hers whipped up again and she stared at the far grasses, her face warming before she returned to her inspection.
He was so very large.
Curious, she stroked his manhood with one finger, feeling him draw back, then surge forward as if he could not help himself. She measured him, startled to find that his erection was longer than the distance from the tip of her longest finger to the end of her thumb.
She wasn’t certain what to do, but some instinct told her that he would gain pleasure from touching her.
Reaching out her hands, she gripped his, placing them on her breasts, moving them until her nipples were in the center of each palm.
Leaning against him, she kissed him, then entwined her arms around his neck, raising up so that she could deepen the kiss.
James made a sound deep in his throat as his hands dropped to encompass her waist, pulling her closer to him. His legs widened until she was standing between them, his erection, hard, proud, and heated, bumping against her stomach.
She leaned her cheek against his, feeling lost. She wanted to touch him, marvel at the strength of muscles and bones and sinew.
He lowered his head to kiss a breast. His lips encircled a nipple, pulling slightly, exerting a little pressure and then just a bit more. Another lesson, that she wanted the feeling to continue.
She wished her breasts were larger and that she was taller.
No, more diminutive. And that her scent was more alluring than barley and summer flowers.
Her fingers were callused, and her lips felt almost rough to her own tongue.
If he hadn’t wound his hand in her hair, she might have draped it in front of her artfully, baring herself to his gaze at the same time she hid her most glaring faults.
Her insecurities both maddened and embarrassed her.
He laid her on the ground, neither of them caring where they were. Neither of them capable of altering the moment or being sensible or prudent.
His hand slid down her body, over her stomach, where his fingers rested for a moment. She buried her face in his neck, wishing that she had more talent and experience.
He touched her then, parting the delicate folds between her thighs.
His fingers were tender and gentle, sliding over the dampness.
Her mouth opened as she breathed against his throat.
Her hands gripped his shoulders, but not to push him away.
Rather to hold him close as he softly stroked her, inciting a wondrous feeling.
More, please.
“As much as you want.” Until he spoke, she didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud.
Her hips arched up, following his hand as he gently caressed her. Her head tossed from side to side and her hands linked behind his head, pulling him down for a kiss.
Hours, moments, years later he slid a finger inside her.
She flinched, expecting to feel pain, but experienced only a slight tightening.
Curving his finger slightly, he stroked slowly and deliberately against one particular spot as his thumb circled her flesh.
The sensation was strange, beginning as a tingle of light, before deepening to become pleasure.
He whispered something, words of instruction, of praise, of inquiry. They were lost beneath the startling feelings he was evoking.
The pleasure was too intense, too much. Too delightful. She felt speared by it. Her vision turned golden and she reached down to hold his hand there. Pure and selfish bliss held her captive as her hips arched and a low, soft moan escaped her lips.
The moment elongated until she couldn’t tell how long it lasted. A moment, a year, a lifetime.
She weakly blinked her eyes open as he entered her. Holding her hands, he gazed into her eyes.
“Have I hurt you?”
“No,” she said, surprised to find it true. All she felt was fullness. He was too large, or she too small. Neither seemed to fit the other.
“Tell me what you feel,” he said, pulling out of her gently, then entering her again a moment later.
Her hands lay against his back. She felt enervated, weakened. Yet the feeling was beginning again. She began to tap her hands against his shoulders in an unconsciously impatient gesture as he moved in and out of her. Patient, yet demanding movements.
“Tell me.” He spread his fingers into her hair, pulling her head back gently before kissing her throat.
Her feet brushed up and down on his calves. “I feel too much,” she admitted.
“Tell me.”
“I want you deeper,” she said. “But then to leave me.” A contradiction of feelings. As he moved out of her again, she gripped his arms tightly. “And come back quickly.”
He entered her again.
“Deeper.”
He moved again, a slow, relentless rhythm that had her breath coming sharp in her chest. She’d never felt this way before, as if she were glowing from within like an ember.
Her feet felt suddenly warm and tingly, and her hands splayed and lost their ability to grip.
Every sensation was focused on where they joined, as if nothing else in the world was more important than this.
Nothing was.
Riona wanted to laugh and weep at the same time. A dozen emotions, a hundred thoughts cascaded through her heart and mind, and yet none of them was coherent.
Only James.
Her mind seemed to expand, even as her body contracted around him.
He was hard and huge and invasive, yet at the same time she gloried in his act of possession.
She felt herself being stretched even further to accommodate him, but she only pulled him closer, wanting James to experience that same joy she’d felt earlier.
No wonder women were counseled against sin. It blinded her of reason, stripped her of concerns. All she wanted was him.
Gently raking his arms with her nails, she arched her hips, meeting his downward thrusts with a surprising impatience. Again, and her vision darkened. Once more, to his groan. Suddenly, she was there again. Blinded and deafened, inert as the feeling surged through her, then wild as it crested.
Long moments later, he rolled with her, placing her across his chest. She laid her cheek against his skin. Her arms fell, stretched out on either side of them. She was exhausted, beyond tired.
She felt James’s kiss to her throat, made an inarticulate sound to acknowledge the curve of his lips against her skin.
Placing her hand flat against his chest, she felt the rapid beat of his heart. Hers, too, was racing.
Her lips curved beneath his when he kissed her. “What amuses you, Riona?” he asked a moment later.
“I am not amused,” she said slowly, her smile not abating. “Merely happy.”
“Happy is not a word to be coupled with merely. Joyously, perhaps. Or completely. But never merely.”
In a tender benediction of touch, she smoothed her fingertips over his face, touching his cheek, his jaw, his lips. He took her hand, kissing her knuckles before entwining his fingers with hers.
Thank you. A prayer of thanksgiving for the moment, the day, and the man.
James sat up, then stood, granting her an unspoken wish. There he was, crafted of muscle and bone and sinew, naked for her eyes.
His buttocks were perfectly formed, his hips narrow, his thighs strong and fit with muscle. But then he turned to face her in the act of reaching for his clothing, revealing even more wonders.
Her eyes widened as she took in each separate part of his body, one of which was growing.
Riona opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of any words to say. What should she do? Apologize for her curiosity? Or her lack of maidenly reserve? Or for being so fascinated that she couldn’t look away?
A perfect man, she thought. A creature God might have formed at night, then made the sun for the sole purpose of illuminating His work.
In that instant their gazes locked. She should have been the first to look away, transfixed by shyness, but she didn’t feel as embarrassed as spellbound.
Suddenly, there was a tension in the air, an awareness that was elemental, like the progression of growing things from seed to harvest. Ordained by God and nature, immutable and as fixed as the seasons.
“He shouldn’t have you,” he said roughly.
“But he does.”
He held out his hand to her. “Come with me, instead.”
“Where?” she asked, taking his hand and slowly standing.
They stood, brazen and naked and bared for all the world to see. Face to face, with nothing hidden. Not flesh or wishes or wants.
“Anywhere.”
The decision was not only hers to make. If it had been, she would never have chosen to marry Harold in the first place.
“I cannot.”
He studied her for a few moments, as if to test the resolve of her words. Finally, he turned and began to dress, each garment hiding his body from her gaze.
She couldn’t take back her actions. Nor, given the choice, would she. Until the day she died, Riona knew that she would remember this afternoon.
He fastened his shirt with deliberation, as if knowing her sudden reluctance to see him clothed. What would he say to hear her thoughts?
Please, come back and let me reach out and touch you, smooth my hands over your skin to prove that my eyes do not lie.
She’d touched upon magic of her own, she suspected. Something she now knew as truth. His touch brought her delight, but so did the sight of him.
They returned to the house separately, Riona going first, followed by James.
He stood and watched her circle the Witch’s Well, wondering why he was not suffused with guilt.
All his life he’d been constrained by decency, wrapped in it so tightly that it felt like swaddling.
In one afternoon, he’d ignored all the tenets in which he’d believed.
Yet he’d never felt so complete, so whole.
She amused him and delighted him. He’d been disconcerted at her frank inspection of him. She’d not looked away, but studied each portion of his anatomy as if to gauge his height, build, and shape.
An interesting phenomenon, being viewed with such intensity. He’d never before had the experience. Had he proven worthy?
Intimacy had come to them, and it seemed natural and right.