Page 46 of Bride of the Beastly Laird

He lowered his head and layered kisses over the delicate arch of her neck and, peeling the kirtle down, kissed first one shoulder and then the other.

She signed and moved in his arms so that she was lying on her back.

“I want ye tae take me once and fer all, Arran.” She favored him with a mischievous grin. “Now ye cannae deny me. I dinnae care if I am with child. I would be most happy tae bear yer babe. I want nothing more than tae be yers.”

He leaned over her and kissed her again, her arms twined around his neck and her fingers wound into his hair, holding him. “I’ll die fer wanting ye, now that ye showed me the pleasure. If ye had nae lived beyond the fire I would never have kent the joy of making love with ye, or having ye as me man.”

She drew the kirtle over her head, and lay before him bare to her waist in her underskirt and aught else.

“I wish fer naething more than tae make ye mine.”

He lay beside her, gazing at her nakedness. “I’ve never seen so lovely a sight as ye.” He cupped her breast with one hand lowered his lips to suck the puckering nipple, growing hard at the sound of her sigh and the movement of her hips against him.

“I wish tae see yer manhood,” she brushed her hand against what was now a sizeable bulge. “I cannae believe such a thing can enter me body.”

He shifted so that he could untie his trews and let his hardness spring free.

She gasped and reached a hand to gently stroke him. He grinned. “Ye can treat it a little rougher if ye like.” She tightened her grip and now it was his turn to gasp.

She wrapped her fingers around his shaft and he moved his hips, thrusting into her hand.

“Why, ‘tis so smooth, like velvet. And so very big,” She looked up at him in amazement.

“Ah, I cannae take much more of that.”

“Why, what will happen if ye keep on, or if I dae this…” She moved her hand up and down the length of him and he groaned mightily.

“What will happen is that I’ll nae be able tae contain meself and I’ll have tae make love tae ye at once.”

She pouted. “And what would be so bad about that?”

“Naught,” he said and kissed her again. “But I want tae feel ye.”

They kissed some more, and then kissed and kissed again and again until Arran had quite lost his mind. All he could think about was the way his hands stroked up and down her perfect body, and her warm touch on his chest. His fingers went exploring the most delicate and private parts of her, and she released a moan.

“Och, Arran, I am aching fer ye.”

He did his best to chuckle but, truth to tell, he had only the most tenuous grip on his senses. The honeyed taste of her and the wildflower scent of her hair had all but driven him mad.

Panting like a horse that had galloped a mile he rolled over so that he was lying on her, supporting himself on his elbows. He looked down at her precious face, her eyes were closed and her mouth was ajar in a picture of passionate joy. She opened her legs to accommodate him as it seemed the most natural thing to do, while he scooped her rear up so that she met his shaft which was, by now, a solid piece of granite.

Still, he gritted his teeth for restraint. While every bit of him wanted swift release, he held back, lowering himself slowly, parting her folds with his fingers so that the merest tip of his manhood moved to her slickness and made a leisurely slide, entering her slow and easy.

She gasped once and then he was inside her, up to the hilt. Dahlia raised her hips to accommodate him even further, and then the two of them surged together in the age-old rhythm of passion, thrusting and withdrawing and thrusting again, eachtime more compelling and wilder. He had never felt this way making love to a woman and let himself drown in the pleasure of it.

When Dahlia felt Arran entering her, she tensed slightly, but he was being so delicate she immediately relaxed. He must have felt it because he then pushed into her all at once. She gasped at the initial discomfort, which was immediately replaced by a feeling of such intense pleasure that it made her buck her hips up towards him. They began moving together and the waves of pleasure she felt became stronger and stronger.

Calling his name and clinging to him she found her bliss beside the burbling burn in a bed of bracken. Not at all how she’d girlishly imagined how she’d lose her maidenhood. Her fantasy had always been a giant four-poster bed in a castle, where she’d be worshipped by a handsome someone who was her husband.

Never in all her wildest dreams would she have pictured herself in a peasant’s chemise under a spreading oak tree with the chorus of birds for music and the gentle flowing stream for background.

And never had she imagined that the one who worshipped her with his body would be a lion-like man who had stolen her heart with his bravery and his beauty. All the years she’d held onto a dream of the Black-Mask, the mysterious man who had risked his life for her, never did she dream he would one day be her lover.

They collapsed together, still holding each other tight, drifting, drowsing, not even attempting to speak, allowing their heartbeats to calm down and their breathing to return to something like normal.

They woke to a chill in the air and, shivering a little, shuffled into their clothes.

“I cannae bear the thought of Bairre anywhere near me.” Dahlia smoothed down the kirtle she wore and set to work tidying her hair, brushing a few leaves and grass from where they were ensnared in the silky tresses.

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