Chapter Fourteen #2
“I am readying you,” he told her, carefully urging her thighs a few inches wider. “And, aye, your legs must be opened, lass. As wide open as you can stand it, for the farther apart they are, the better exposed you are to me, and the greater will be the pleasure I can give you.”
“I am already fair dying of the pleasure,” she blurted, the rivers of liquid golden heat pulsing through her woman’s flesh sweeping away her modesty.
“You have not yet even tasted pleasure,” he swore, brushing a kiss across her lips.
“See you, whether you are a bold, lusty lass or nay, you are yet untouched. I would be sure you are well roused enough before we move to the bed—and unless I have forgotten all I e’er learned about pleasing a woman, your enjoyment will be heightened if we first indulge in a bit of touching and caressing. ”
“And your enjoyment?” A fiercely sweet heaviness, hot and languid, began weighing her belly. “What of making you roused enough?”
“Ah, my minx, but I told you.” He shook his auburn head. “You rouse me—just by being you. Look down at yourself, my heart, see how beautiful you are in your arousal. Watch me touch you.”
“Touch me there? Play with me?” she breathed, doing as he asked, the speaking of it exciting her almost as much as his intimate touch.
“Saints, yes, but I shall play with you, lovely,” he growled, sliding his hands round to the tender insides of her thighs, caressing her with the lightest of circular strokes. Exploratory touches he worked ever higher until his fingertips just brushed the welter of curls between her thighs.
“Ooooh!” Amicia cried, nigh shooting off the table’s edge at that first stimulating contact.
“Shush,” he soothed, lightly toying with her lower hair, taking great care not to let even the tip of a finger touch the heat of her slick-dampened woman’s flesh. “Be at ease, and just feel . . . feel my touch and get to know my hands on you.”
Scarce able to breathe, she watched him, looking on as he returned his hands to her thighs. Very deliberately, he smoothed down to her knees and then back up again, each bliss-spending stroke sending a new floodtide of heated tingles ripping across the hot-pulsing flesh at her core.
“Your scent is stronger now,” he said, his voice husky with his own need. “Can you tell?”
Oh, could she! The scent was near overpowering—a cloud of baseness pressing close around them.
But she nodded, the whole of her body quivering with desire. Faith, the deep-stabbing ache of being so vulnerable, so fully open to his hungering gaze and questing explorations, almost made her delirious with hot-burning need.
But another, admittedly wee part of her cringed at the imminent execution of the very thing she found so stirring.
He was about to go down on bended knee, let his handsome face hover just above her deepest secrets, lock his blue gaze on hers and . . . scent her.
Fill his lungs with the essence of her and intoxicate himself on her musky, female scent.
Aye, that was what he was about to do.
There was no denying it.
She could see his intent written all over his bonny face. Truth be told, it stared right back at her from his dimpled, wolfish smile, the determined gleam in his eyes.
And, saints help her, but just the thought had that part of her flooding with a hot, wet rush of exquisitely tingling dampness! Dear Lord, but she could already feel the moisture misting her inner thighs.
“If I let go of you, will you keep your legs open as wide as they are now?” he asked, and she swallowed.
Nay, gulped, for the power of speech had left her.
He was toying with her nether curls again, plucking at them and brushing his fingers across their tips with the greatest of leisure. “Well?” he asked again, his gaze not on hers but upon his task. “Will you?”
She nodded, but slid a glance at the bed, her pulsing need now begging, demanding, the cataclysmic union she knew they’d find there.
“Your legs, lass. Will you keep them wide?”
She inclined her head again. “I told you once there is naught I would not do for you.”
“Good. Then I shall do something special for you,” he promised, tracing just one finger along the very center of her womanhood. “You are soft and warm as heated honey and I think, lass, aye . . . I think I must taste you.”
“Taste me?”
Her heart stopped. She hadn’t expected that.
He nodded. “Och, aye, minx . . . all your sweetness and then some.”
Looking well-pleased, even eager, he dropped to his knees and settled himself between her thighs, just as she’d known he would. He held them apart, looked his fill of her.
“Saints, but you are beautiful.” He leaned close, breathing of her, a visible shudder rippling across his broad shoulders.
“Ne’er have I seen greater loveliness,” he vowed, the slight tremor in his voice assuring her he meant every word, his soft pluckings at her intimate curls unleashing a ferocious need inside her.
“You are glorious beyond my deepest dreams.” He let his gaze sweep her, noted the rise and fall of her every breath, the sweet firelit flush across the top swells of her breasts.
And most delightful of all, the dark thatch of curls at the juncture of her thighs.
“You are my heart’s joy,” he vowed, moistening the tip of one finger in the slick wetness of her arousal, then sliding that questing fingertip to the very top of her woman’s cleft.
There he gently stroked and circled the sensitive bud he knew would bring her the greatest pleasure.
“Oh, dear saints!” she cried, her voice breaking, glorious in her passion.
She gripped the table’s edge with white-knuckled hands, her back arching, her body rocking with need. Her breath hitching, she sought his gaze, capturing and holding it, her own filled with a delightful mix of stunned wonder and mounting desperation.
The sweetest kind of desperation a man could give a woman.
And he hadn’t even touched his tongue to her . . . yet.
All the want in him clenching deep, he fought for control, the need to drench his senses on her near unmanning him. But he kept his finger circling the hard little bud.
“Does this please you? Do you like having me touch you this way?”
“I cannot stand it, but, oooh, it will be worse if you stop,” she gasped, her breath now coming in short little bursts, the deep red flush across her breasts shouting her pleasure.
“And when I do this?” He spread his fingers to cup the whole of her, rubbing her heated softness with slow, insistent pressure.
“Oh, aye,” she moaned, her eyes heavy-lidded as she looked down to watch him caress her.
He glanced down as well, caught the drop of glistening moisture pearling at the tip of his hardness. “I cannot wait much longer,” he told her, more than half-certain he’d shame himself any moment. “But I shall lick and kiss you until you, too, can bear no more of it, that I promise you.”
If he didn’t spill before he could finish even the first sweet drag of his tongue through her heat.
Saints, not only was he hard as granite and near to bursting, his fool limbs were trembling!
But ne’er had he been more consumed by the wish to give more pleasure than he took. The fire in his belly seemed wholly inconsequential next to his all-consuming desire to please, to have her writhing and moaning beneath him.
Lost and abandoned to a total knowing with her, this night and every night thereafter.
“You are my bliss,” he murmured, trailing soft, searching kisses along the smooth flesh of her inner thighs, pleased beyond telling by her urgent little cries and the way she arched and stretched her body for him, the whole of her quivering with unashamed desire.
Well aware he’d lost himself, but no longer caring, he reached up to take hold of her nipples, to lightly squeeze and toy with them—the feel, taste, and scent of her stirring a hunger such as he’d never known.
She grasped his shoulders, held fast to him. “Please . . .”
“Och, lass, and that is my most fervent wish,” he whispered. “I want naught but to pleasure you.”
“And you are,” she cried, twining her fingers in his hair. Breathing hotly, she urged his head lower and lifted her hips to his seeking mouth, unashamedly raising her heat toward the bliss she knew he was about to spend her.
“Aye, Magnus MacKinnon, you please me so much I am about to burst on the sheer glory of it.”
“Not yet, my heart.” He searched her loveliness, easing his hands beneath her buttocks to bring her yet closer. “If the gods are kind, we will soon shatter together. . . .”
With a ragged groan, he lowered his head, brushed his cheek against the lush triangle of her raven curls. Inhaling deep, he pulled in great, greedy gulps of her heady female scent . . . intoxicating himself on the musky essence of her womanhood.
“Ooooh . . . I cannot stand it . . . pray have done. . . .”
“Aye, and I shall,” he vowed, and touched his tongue to her very core, licked her.
“Ach, dia!” She near shot to her feet, the whole of her body tensing like a taut-strung bow.
“Hold you, sweeting. Do not move,” he breathed, moving his head sideways, letting his lips brush ever so lightly back and forth across her silky-moist heat. “Lie back and let me taste you, give you this pleasure.”
And she complied, falling back against the rumpled plaid, her body limp and trembling. Soft little moans and sighs escaped her parted lips as she dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding him there where she needed him.
“Keep your legs opened wide, lass,” he said, pausing to ease her thighs farther apart when she tried to clench them around him.
“Let me kiss you here”—he traced her cleft with the tip of his tongue—“let me lick and savor you, and then we will move to the bed. Then you can wrap your legs around me as tight as it pleases you.”
“Ahhhh, but I cannot wait . . .” she cried, writhing beneath him.