Chapter Twelve #4
‘Are we done now?’ she asked. ‘I have more to read and you are in the way.’
He watched Ailsa open the scroll and read the contents. She did her best to ignore him, but he was incapable of ignoring her. He wanted her, this woman, this wife, but again he asked himself, could he chance it?
If he confessed the facts to Paiden, what would he say? That he was a fool...no, Paiden would use a more colourful insult while also challenging him. Paiden most likely would want Ailsa to himself. Any man would. But after he treated her the way he did, did he deserve her? ‘I don’t want to leave.’
Ailsa lowered the scroll and finally, finally, looked over her shoulder and up at him.
‘You’re still kneeling next to me.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘And you’re closer.’
All true. ‘You told me of Magnus. I couldn’t stay away.’
Great green eyes held him. How long had he known this woman?
Mere hours, moments. Carefully, holding her gaze, he leaned forward until his body almost touched her curved back.
Her eyes widened and then darted to his arms, as he cradled her and clasped her hands beneath his.
Then one by one he lifted her fingers until the scroll fell into her lap and he brushed it aside.
With so much revealed between them, he wanted nothing in their way.
She smelled of lavender and old parchment, she smelled of her, and he wanted a taste.
‘I told you of Magnus, so you’d leave,’ she said, her voice a shiver.
He relished that telling response. ‘Are you certain?’
The heat of Rory’s body sank through her skin, thawed her cold limbs. Ailsa felt the slight dig of his knees in the small of her back before he eased them open, edged forward and pressed against her hips, her thighs.
The rasp of their clothing was barely heard above the pounding of her heart, the choppy exhalation of his breath.
Then she heard nothing but the wet slickness of his tongue, felt nothing but the tiny flick against the back of her ear. Her body flooded with awareness, her skin prickled with need.
Another warm exhalation from him and the soft press of his lips to the back of her ear, down her neck and to the edge of her gown. Another flick of his tongue before his lips followed the path upwards.
‘Rory.’
With his lips against her throat, he growled, ‘The way you say my name.’
Possessive. Territorial. Ailsa swore she could feel that very male sound to the marrow of her bones as it swept need, lust, desire through her.
Too much heat, too fast as he lifted his head, and she turned hers to see his eyes rake from hers to her lips, down the curve of her neck and along her spine, then back up again.
Despite knowing better, she asked, ‘How do I say it?’
‘As if you always wanted to.’
Every defence Ailsa held crumbled. Why bother when he saw her so clearly? ‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘What does it appear I am doing?’ Rory asked, his gaze locked on to her lips.
‘I think...do you want to kiss me?’
His eyes to hers again. Dark, so dark there was hardly any colour to them at all. ‘Soon, but first I want more of this.’
More of this was more of those soft, heated kisses along the fragile cords of her neck until he was lifting her hair and kissing underneath.
The warmth of his breath contrasted with the whispering chill of the room.
Then he clenched her hair in one fist and the imprisoned tendrils swept against her overly sensitive skin until her body shivered.
He groaned and continued his path on the other side, up to her other ear.
She couldn’t touch, couldn’t kiss him. She could do nothing but bow her head to give him more access, of which he took advantage.
One of his hands contained her hair, the other now pulled on her gown, trying to expose more of her to his touch, to his kisses. The fabric cut into her neck and she flinched. He stopped immediately. ‘Sorry.’
A heartbeat. Two. There was no one here but them, daylight still and she heard no one above. The door was secure; they were alone. ‘Don’t stop.’
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘I know.’
Another heartbeat. ‘I meant what I said; I don’t want to leave...ever.’ His voice low, rough. A man trying to be gentle.
She turned her head. His cheekbones were mottled, his lips soft, his eyes, however, were hardened with a hunger she hadn’t seen before, but that she wanted. Desperately. She’d lied when she’d said that she’d told him about Magnus to push him away. She’d told him to bring him closer.
‘I said my vows,’ she said. ‘I meant them as well.’
He released her hair, his hands going to her laces. Fumbling. ‘Did you tie these?’
‘Yes.’ He let out a frustrated breath and she laughed. Another tug and she felt the laces give way to his intentions. To hers.
He’d have access to her now if they weren’t kneeling on the cold floor, if they weren’t faced the wrong way. She shifted so she could turn and strong hands came to her hips. ‘Stay.’
‘But—’
He squeezed her hips, adjusted himself closer until all of him was pressed against her back. ‘Stay,’ he rasped.
His hands pulled and tugged at the fabric of her gown, loosening and widening it. She felt the gaps along her torso and collarbone. Felt his expansive chest against her delicate spine, felt his need pressed hot and hard against her lower back.
Then his warrior’s hands, calloused, lethal, greedy, pulling her up and back against him by her hips to clench and shove himself forward.
He shuddered. She gasped with pleasure. Her back to his front, it shouldn’t feel like this, and yet she was sensitive, aware, needy.
Reverently, he caressed along her waist, stroking upwards to gently cup her breasts.
His fingers swiping across her nipples, his head bowing until it was side by side with hers.
Like this, she knew Rory could watch his hands rolling the sensitive flesh of her breasts which became full and heavy.
Could observe her response as he flicked and swiped her nipples until they were taut and achy.
Like this, she could see his hands rake down in the valley between her breasts, down further until his urgent fingers slowly dragged the bottom of her gown up and over her knees.
She could watch as his hand crept under the cream linen of her gown and touched the bared flesh of her legs.
As he splayed his fingers against her inner thighs to give him purchase to roll his hips again, then again.
Heat flared and again. She wanted so much, she cried out.
‘I’m sorry.’
His stillness rather than his words, registered with her. ‘Why are you...?’
Another flexing of his fingers against her delicate aching skin, his hips shifting as if wanting to move more, fast, hard.
The tension in her mounted. His forehead skimming her shoulder, his kisses and hot fast breath striking the side of her neck.
‘Ailsa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t seem to help rutting against you like some great beast.’
She wanted him like this. So different than he was their first time together. There he’d brought her pleasure and forsaken his own. There he’d remained in control and denied them both.
Never again. ‘Rory, I want this.’
A rough exhalation, a stroke of his fingers, a brush against the juncture just where her thigh curved.
Her bowed head, her eyes half-open to watch, to see him touch her.
But the generous swathes of linen from her gown hid everything.
Frustrated, she clutched the folds and swept them back. Revealing everything.
He shook, he spoke her name on a ragged whisper. So much desire. She shifted, tried to turn. He splayed his hands wide, held her still. Why? ‘Let me turn. Let me...’
‘I need to touch, to ready you. Holding you like this, I can control what is between us.’
‘No more. I want this.’
A guttural growl, his body tense, a burst of his breath against the side of her ear, her cheek. She turned her head, beckoning for his kisses. He gave them.
One, then another, a litany of the same words in between. ‘I know, I know.’ An answer to her needs, his, theirs.
Where he could touch and kiss and watch, she could only clutch his forearms, her fingernails dragging down and gripping back up. She wouldn’t soften her touch, couldn’t when she wanted so much more.
As if hearing her need, he gave more caresses, rapid feather-light strokes through her growing slickness.
His breath hot against her collarbone, his lips continuing their trail of kisses behind her ear.
‘To feel you like this.’ He delved his fingers deeper and she couldn’t breathe at all.
She was about to break apart, without him.
She clutched his wrist, hard, sharp, and he stopped. She knew nothing of a marriage bed. Nothing of how to bring as much pleasure to Rory as he brought to her. But everything in her knew he felt as equal a desire as she and she wouldn’t let this moment pass like she had last night. ‘No more.’
He eased his fingers from her core. They glistened with her need, the sight a jolt to her senses.
Then he brought those fingers to his mouth.
She slammed her eyes closed against the knowledge, against what flared inside her, against everything knowing he touched her, tasted her.
Knowing that finally, finally there would be more.
He had stopped and now there would be more.
Because she could move, would move, but he stood first and took her hand to pull her up.
Her gown fell to her feet, her chemise held to her shoulders, but she felt the looseness of it and the chill in the room.
Without Rory’s great body surrounding her, she became aware of her surroundings.
That it was the middle of the day, that there was no lock on the door.
That this wasn’t a bedroom, but a storage room and the floor was covered in parchments.
‘We can’t... I don’t want to leave.’
A small smile. ‘We’re not.’
He spared the room a glance, strode to a wall nearest a torch and sat down with his back to the wall.
‘Come sit right here,’ he said, indicating his lap.
She hesitated.