Chapter 23 #3
Nandag didn't hesitate. She ground herself against his leg, the friction of her skirts and his trousers creating a maddening, delicious pressure on her clit.
She was soaking wet, her folds slick and swollen, aching to be filled.
Every roll of her hips sent a jolt of pleasure through her core, building a tight, coiling knot deep in her belly.
Fearchar watched her, his eyes dark and hooded, drinking in the sight of her falling apart in his arms. He claimed her mouth again, swallowing her whimpers, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of her hips.
While she rode his thigh, his hand left her breast and traveled downward, pushing past the barrier of her skirts until he reached the heat between her legs.
He didn't tease. He cupped her mound through the thin fabric of her underthings, his middle finger pressing firmly against the damp cloth, right over her aching center.
"Christ," he hissed, feeling how wet she was. "Ye're drenched, Nandag."
He tore the fabric aside. Before she could gasp, his fingers were on her bare flesh.
He slid his fingers through her wet folds, spreading her arousal, coating his digits in her essence. He found the sensitive nub of her clit and circled it, slow, deliberate strokes that made her vision blur.
"Look at me," he ordered.
Nandag forced her eyes open, locking gazes with him. His face was taut with restraint, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he fought for control. But his eyes... his eyes were burning her alive.
He pushed one thick finger inside her. She was tight, clenching around the intrusion, but she was so wet he slid in easily. He curled his finger upward, finding that spot inside her that made her see stars, and began to pump it in and out, in rhythm with the circling of his thumb on her clit.
"Oh God," she cried out, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders. "Fearchar... please."
He added a second finger, stretching her, filling her. His fingers plunged deep and hard, mimicking the act they both craved but couldn't yet have. "Let go fer me, Nandag. Let me feel it."
The pressure was too much. The coil in her belly snapped.
Her orgasm ripped through her with the force of a storm, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers, her body shaking violently against his.
She cried out his name, her head falling forward onto his chest as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, leaving her gasping and trembling.
Fearchar didn't stop. He worked her through it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last drop until she was slumped against him, her legs barely able to hold her weight.
But he wasn't done.
He pulled his hand from between her legs, glistening with her juices, and brought it to his mouth. His eyes never left hers as he licked her essence from his fingers, savoring the taste with a groan of pure male satisfaction.
"Sweet as heather wine," he muttered.
Then, he grabbed her hand and pressed it flat against the front of his kilt. He was hard as iron, the thick length of him straining against the wool, throbbing with a life of its own. He was huge, and the heat radiating from him was scorching.
"Ye did that tae me," he said, his voice strained. "Feel what ye dae tae me."
Nandag stared at him, her chest heaving. She curled her fingers around the shape of him through the fabric, feeling the heavy, thick pulse of his manhood. Fearchar hissed, his hips bucking involuntarily into her touch.
"Touch me," he commanded, his head falling back. "Take me out."
With trembling fingers, Nandag lifted the heavy wool of his plaid. She undid the leather belt, the buckle clinking softly in the grass. When his manhood sprang free, it slapped against his stomach, thick, the head wet with pre cum.
She wrapped her hand around him, her fingers barely meeting around his girth. He was velvety soft over steel, burning hot in her palm. She spread the bead with her thumb, making him shudder.
"Like this?" she whispered, stroking him from root to tip, squeezing him tightly.
"Yes," he gritted out.
Her hand moved up and down his shaft, establishing a rhythm. She watched his face—the way his eyes squeezed shut, the way his breath hitched in his throat, the way his hands gripped her hips hard.
She reached down with her other hand to cup his heavy sac, rolling the sensitive balls in her palm.
"Christ, Nandag," he groaned. "I'm close."
She sped up her strokes. She could feel him swelling, getting even harder in her grasp.
With a guttural roar, he exploded. His manhood jerked violently in her hand, thick ropes of hot seed spurting out, coating her fingers. He bucked against her, his whole body rigid as the orgasm tore through him, emptying him.
Nandag drew out every last drop until he was spent, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. They stayed there for a long moment, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the distant rush of the river.
Fearchar reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping her hand clean with a tenderness that belied the violence of their passion. Then, he tucked himself away and refastened his belt, though his eyes never left her face.
He cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing her swollen lips.
When they finally moved, brushing the dry grass and clover from their clothes, they walked back down toward the tethered horses, her hand tucked comfortably into his.
As they approached the ash tree, Fearchar's eyes drifted away from the riverbank, looking past the grazing mounts toward the steep, rocky crags that guarded the western side of the castle valley.
His gaze caught a break in the heavy hazel brush.
A subtle, narrow depression in the earth that cut between two massive granite boulders, almost completely hidden by hanging wild briars.
It didn't lead to the main road or the lower ford.
It angled sharply upward, snaking through the shadow of the ridge directly toward the weak, unfortified rear wall of Strathglass Keep.
His smile vanished. The warmth of the afternoon gave way instantly to the cold, sharp instinct of a commander.
Fearchar released Nandag's hand and walked toward the rocks, pushing aside the thick curtain of thorns with the hilt of his dirk. The earth beneath the briars was soft, carrying the old, faint impression of small deer hooves—and a single, sharp rut left by a heavy iron-tipped boot.
Nandag stepped up beside him, her light mood fading as she read the sudden hardness in his face. "What is it?"
"A goat track," Fearchar said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet rasp as he peered up the hidden slope. "It cuts right through the dead ground where our sentries cannae see from the gate tower."
He turned back to look at her, his jaw set tight.
"If Robert sends a strike team under cover of a moonless night, this is the path he’ll use tae bypass the gates entirely.
" He drew his dirk, stepping up to the nearest oak tree at the mouth of the hidden track, and carved a deep, jagged X into the thick bark.
"We fortify this gap tomorrow, or Strathglass falls from within. "