Chapter 22 #2
“Oh, I can.” He pushed her down onto the bed. She landed on her back, her skirt raised high. “Ye want to redecorate me room. Move me things. Give orders to me men.”
He reached down without waiting for her response. He grabbed the hem of her skirt with both hands and shoved it above her thighs.
“I was only trying to help—”
“Ye were trying to see what ye could get away with.” He hooked his fingers into her undergarments and pulled. The fabric tore, and a gasp escaped her lips. “I cannae have a disobedient wife going around without a scolding.”
“This is ridiculous—”
“Is it?” He pushed her thighs apart with his hands. She tried to close them, but he held them open.
“If ye want me to stop, say it now.”
She didn’t say it.
“That’s what I thought.”
He knelt between her legs. She trembled slightly as he ran one hand up the inside of her thigh. Then he stopped just before he reached where she was already wet.
“Stay still.”
She obeyed, much to her surprise.
His finger brushed through the curls and found where she was slick. She jerked, and he pulled his hand away. Again.
“I said, stay still.”
“You are making it rather difficult.”
His mouth twitched. “Good.”
He touched her again and circled the sensitive spot with one finger. The pressure built in her belly, and she bit her lip.
“I want to hear ye,” he said.
“No.”
“Nay?” He pushed one finger into her, and she gasped. “That didnae sound like nay.”
He pulled out and pushed in again with two fingers. Soon, he set a rhythm that had her hips bucking.
“Tell me something. Emma,” he purred. “Did ye get wet when ye were ordering me men around? Thinking about what I’d do when I found out?”
“I was not thinking about you at all.”
He curled his fingers inside her. “Liar.”
She gripped the sheets, her breath escaping her before she could catch it. It took only a few more strokes before the pleasure climbed to its peak. She was already close. He must have felt it because he stopped and withdrew his hand.
“No—”
“Nae yet.” He leaned down, his warm breath brushing her thigh. “Ye daenae get to finish until I say so.”
Emma opened her mouth to protest, but then his mouth was on her. The words died in her throat as his tongue traced where his fingers had been. She grabbed at his hair, almost as an anchor. He didn’t push her away. He just kept circling, fingers pushing back inside.
The pressure built higher and tighter. This was it. She was going to break. She was going to—
He stopped again.
“Damn you!”
He laughed against her. “There she is.”
“I hate you.”
“Nay, ye daenae.” He pushed three fingers inside now, stretching her open. His thumb found that sensitive spot again and rubbed slow circles around it. “Are ye going to behave?”
“No.”
He pulled his hand away, causing a frustrated noise to escape her lips. “Wrong answer.”
“Fine. Yes, I will behave.”
“Say it properly.”
“I will behave. I will do whatever you want, just please—”
“Please what?”
She glared at him. “You know what.”
“Use yer words, wife.” He traced one finger through the wetness between her legs. Not enough pressure. “Ye cannae mumble.”
“Please let me finish.”
“Finish what?”
“You are insufferable.”
“And ye’re avoiding the question.”
“Go to hell.”
He pushed his fingers back inside her, and she gasped as he worked them deep. “But I’m nae done with ye yet.”
He set a pace now, hard and fast. The pleasure spiked. She was right there—
He stopped again, and a groan tore from her throat, echoing through the room.
“I am going to kill you.”
“Please.”
He pulled his fingers out. They were wet and glistening. She watched with impatient interest as he trailed them up her body. Over her belly, between her breasts, up her throat.
He pressed them against her lips, and she trembled again. “Will ye disobey me again?”
She turned her head away.
He grabbed her chin and turned her head back to him. “Answer me.”
“No.”
“Nay what?”
“No, I will not.”
“Good.” He released her chin and grabbed both her wrists in one hand. Then he pinned them above her head and brought his wet fingers to her mouth again. “Open up.”
“Why should I—”
He raised an eyebrow, and she opened her mouth without another word. A wicked smile crept on his face as he pushed his fingers past her lips.
His lips parted, a new kind of hunger darkening his eyes. Her tongue slid over his fingers as she licked them clean, one after the other. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, and his length strained against his kilt.
“Good,” he whispered and pulled his hand away.
He brought it back down between her legs, and she flinched when he touched her. She was already sensitive, but he did not stop. Two fingers pushed inside, rougher now, and his thumb worked hard.
It was too much. Too fast.
She tried to twist away, but he kept her wrists pinned with one hand and kept the other moving.
“Logan, I cannot. It is too—”
“Aye, ye can.” He drove his fingers deeper. His breathing had grown ragged, and his hardness pressed against her thigh now. “This is yer reward for taking yer punishment like a good lass.”
She cried out as her walls clamped down on his fingers. She shook violently against him, but he held her in place, curling his fingers and gently rubbing his thumb over her bud.
When she finally relaxed, he slowly pulled his fingers out and released her wrists. She lay there gasping. When she could finally move, he helped her up and held her elbow until she found her balance.
“Thank you for the lesson,” she said, enunciating each word. “Next time you leave without telling me, I will have the ceiling painted yellow.”
His eyes narrowed, but his mouth curved. He knew exactly what she was doing.
“Go tend to yer animals, Emma,” he said. “I am certain the calf missed ye.”
She walked to the door without rushing. That felt important. Her hand did not shake when she turned the knob. She stepped out, the cold air in the hallway hitting her cheeks.
Exhaling quickly, she turned and headed towards the end of the hallway. Isobel stood there with her cloak thrown over her nightdress. The cat slept on the bench where Emma had left it.
Isobel’s eyes flicked from the cat to Emma, taking in her flushed cheeks and mussed hair.
“Did ye just return from war?” she asked.
“I do not want to talk about it,” Emma muttered.
She lifted the cat from the bench, tucked it against her chest, and walked past her.