Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the stone walls of the chamber.
The scent of peat smoke mingled with the faint musk of dried lavender strewn across the furs, the air thick with the kind of quiet that only existed when two people had been circling each other for too long.
Matilda stood close to him. The wind howled against the castle walls, a restless, hungry sound, but she barely heard it. Her pulse was louder.
“Ye’re tense,” he murmured, his voice rough, the burr of his accent wrapping around the words like a caress.
His hands settled on her waist, where she had put it few seconds ago, fingers digging in just enough to make her breath hitch.
Not painful. Possessive.
Matilda exhaled slowly, the sound unsteady. “Aye. And if ye keep daein’ that, I’ll only get worse.”
A chuckle vibrated against her neck as he brought his face closer. The wool of his kilt brushed the backs of her bare legs. She’d already shed her stockings, the fire’s heat too much, the anticipation more so. His lips grazed the shell of her ear, his breath hot.
“Then let me help ye with that.”
His hands slid down her arms, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of her.
When his fingers found hers, he laced them together, pulling her flush against him. The hard ridge of his manhood pressed into the cleft of her thighs, unmistakable even through the layers of fabric between them.
They clenched. She could feel how wet she was, the slick heat between her legs growing with every drag of his lips along her neck.
“Ye’ve been drivin’ me mad fer weeks,” he growled, his teeth scraping her earlobe before he sucked it into his mouth.
The sharp sting of the bite sent a jolt straight to her core.
“Every time ye walk into a room, every time ye look at me with those damn eyes,” His hands slid up, palming her breasts through the thin linen of her shift, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they peaked, aching.
“I’ve been wanting tae dae this fer a long while. ”
Matilda arched into his touch, her head falling back against his shoulder. “Then why wait?”
His answer was a growl, low and feral, then he kissed her. The kiss was nothing like the stolen, chaste ones they’d shared before. It was hunger, it was need.
His tongue plunged between her lips, claiming her, and she met him stroke for stroke, her nails digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. He tasted like whisky and sin, the kind of flavor that lingered, that made her want to lick every inch of him just to chase it.
Ivar broke the kiss only to tear her shift over her head, the fabric ripping in his haste.
The cool air hit her bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire in his eyes as he took her in.
Her heavy breasts, the dark pink of her nipples, the way her ribs rose and fell with every ragged breath.
His calloused hands cupped her, thumbs circling her nipples until she whimpered, her back bowing.
“Highland gods, Matilda,” he groaned, his voice rough as gravel. “Everytime I see ye, all I can think about is how perfect ye are.”
She didn’t let him admire her for long. Her fingers fumbled with the brooch at his shoulder, then the belt at his waist, her need making her clumsy.
She pulled the kilt away, and then there was nothing between them but skin and heat. His manhood jutted out, thick and flushed, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
She wrapped her hand around him without thinking, her thumb smearing the wetness over the swollen crown. He hissed, his hips jerking into her grip.
“Ye keep daein’ that, lass, and this’ll be over before it begins.”
Matilda smirked, stroking him again, slower this time. “Who says I’m done?”
Ivar’s control snapped.
With a growl, he turned her over in the bed. The furs were soft beneath her back, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress a delicious pressure.
His mouth found her breast, his tongue swirling around her nipple before he sucked hard, the pull of it arrowing straight to her folds.
She cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, his teeth grazing, his lips leaving marks she’d feel for days.
His hand slid down her stomach, fingers dipping between her thighs. She was soaked, her folds slick with arousal, and when he dragged a finger through her slit, she bucked against him, desperate for more.
“Please,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “Ivar, please.”
He didn’t make her beg twice.
His fingers circled her clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles while his mouth found hers again. The kiss was filthy now, their tongues tangling, their teeth clashing. When he slid two fingers inside her, she moaned into his mouth, her inner walls clenching around him.
“So tight,” he murmured against her lips, his fingers curling, finding that spot inside her that made her see stars. “So wet for me.”
She was close, her body coiling tight, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. But she didn’t want to climax like this.
Nae yet.
Matilda carefully rolled him onto his back, and straddled his hips.
For a moment, she paused, her hands trembling slightly as she reached between them.
Her fingers brushed against him, and her breath hitched at the heat she felt, the sheer intensity of it.
She hesitated, not from fear but from the overwhelming rightness of the moment.
Ivar’s hands came up to her waist, his touch firm but gentle, guiding her. He held her gaze, his eyes soft, and she could see the concern there, the care he was taking to make sure she wasn’t overwhelmed.
"Easy, lass," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. "Take yer time. I willnae rush ye."
His hands slid down to her hips, his grip steady as he helped her find the right position. Slowly, he guided her, his voice coaxing, reassuring.
"Tell me if it hurts," he whispered. "I’ll stop if ye need me tae."
Matilda nodded, her heart racing as she sank down inch by careful inch. The stretch was overwhelming, a mix of burn and fullness that made her gasp, but Ivar was there, his hands tender on her hips, guiding her, watching her closely.
"I’m right here," he said, his breath warm against her ear. "Let me ken if it’s too much."
She gave a small, breathless laugh, her hands resting on his chest as she steadied herself. "It’s fine," she whispered, her voice a little shaky. "Just… slow."
Ivar nodded, his expression softening. He adjusted beneath her, taking her slowly, allowing her body to adjust to him.
The burn was still there, but it was becoming something more. It was the feeling of completion, of belonging, and Matilda felt herself relax into it, her body slowly acclimating.
Ivar’s voice was a steady presence, grounding her. "There ye go," he murmured. "I’ve got ye. Just breathe."
“Gods,” he groaned, his head falling back, the cords of his neck standing out. “Ye feel like heaven.”
Matilda didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Instead, she began to move, rolling her hips in slow, deep circles, her clit dragging against the rough hair at the base of his manhood.
The friction was maddening, the stretch of him inside her hitting every nerve ending.
She braced her hands on his chest, her nails scoring his skin as she rode him, her pace growing faster, more desperate.
Ivar’s hands slid up her body, his thumbs finding her nipples, pinching just hard enough to make her gasp.
“That’s it, lass,” he growled, his voice a dark purr. “Take what ye need.”
And she did.
She rode him harder, her breath coming in sharp, broken cries, her body tightening like a bowstring.
Ivar’s hips snapped up to meet hers, his manhood driving deeper with every thrust, the slap of skin against skin filling the chamber. The sound was obscene, wet and messy and perfect.
“Dinnae hold yerself. I want tae see ye ride high fer me.”
Matilda didn’t hesitate.
His fingers found her clit, rubbing in tight, frantic circles. The dual sensation was too much. His manhood filling her, stretching her, his thumb pressing against her. Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, her thighs trembling, her breath a broken litany of his name.
“Ivar. Ivar, I’m—”
“Now, Matilda,” he snarled, his hands gripping her arse, holding her down as he thrust up, burying himself to the root. “Come fer me.”
The orgasm crashed over her, her body locking around him as wave after wave of pleasure wrung her out.
She cried out, her nails raking down his chest, her folds pulsing around his manhood, milking him. Ivar groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed her over the edge, his seed spilling inside her in hot, thick pulses.
Matilda collapsed against his chest, her skin slick with sweat, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. Ivar’s arms wrapped around her, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“There ye go,” he murmured, his voice rough. “We’re daein’ that again. Soon.”
Matilda laughed breathlessly, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her climax.
“Aye,” she agreed, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “Soon.”