Page 77 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
The kiss that followed was nothing like their first desperate embrace after the village raid. This was soft, tentative, a question asked and answered with the gentle press of lips. Ian felt her sight against his mouth, felt the last of her resistance melt away.
“Rhona,” he murmured against her lips. “Are ye certain? Because fer me, there will be nay turnin’ back.”
Instead of answering him with words, she rose on her toes and kissed him again, deeper this time, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Ian groaned low in his throat, his arms coming around her to pull her closer.
She fit perfectly against him – soft curves pressed against solid muscle, her heart beating fast enough that he could feel it through the thin fabric of her dress. When she broke the kiss to look up at him, her lips were swollen and her eyes dark with desire.
“I’ve never…” she began, then stopped, heat flaring in her cheeks.
“I ken,” Ian said gently. “We’ll go slow… and if ye want tae stop at any point–”
“I willnae,” she said with quiet certainty. “I want this. I want ye.”
The raw admission undid him entirely. Ian kissed her again, pouring all of his longing and tenderness into the touch of his lips against hers. His mouth moved against hers with desperate hunger, his tongue sweeping past her parted lips to taste the sweetness within while his hands fisted in her hair, pulling her closer until every curve of her body was pressed against his hard frame. Her response was eager, bordering on desperate, as if she were trying to memorize the feel of him.
When his robust, battle-roughened hands found the laces of her dress, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she helped him, her fingers trembling slightly as she worked at the fastenings. The blue wool pooled at her feet in a whisper, leaving her standing before him in nothing but a thin chemise that revealed the dusky shadows of her nipples beneath the pale linen, the gentle flare of her hips, and the long lines of her legs.
Ian had to close his eyes for a moment at the sight of her.
“Och, lass,” he breathed. “Ye’re bonnier than a Highland sunrise.”
The rest of their clothing followed slowly, reverently, each newly revealed expanse of skin worshipped with gentle touches and soft kisses. His linen shirt joined her dress on the floor and when he pulled the chemise over her head, baring her completely to his hungry gaze, Rhona’s breath caught audibly at the sight of him in return – his broad shoulders marked with the scars of battle and the intricate tattoos that traced his torso now fullyrevealed. Her eyes drank in the sight of his powerful chest, the hard ridges of muscle around his stomach, and lower, where his impressively thick manhood jutted proudly from its nest of dark curls, already rigid and heavy with need for her. Her fingertips traced the Celtic knotwork that spiraled across his chest, the sharp intake of breath he gave at her touch impossible to avoid.
“Beautiful,” she whispered, marveling at the way the ink seemed to flow like water over the hard planes of his muscular torso.
“Nae as bonnie as ye,” Ian murmured, his hands spanning her waist as he lifted her effortlessly.
He carried her to the narrow bed, every step sending sparks of sensation through both of them – her bare breasts brushing against his chest while his desire swelled even more as it pressed firmly against her soft belly, the scent of need thick between them as his body pulsed with currents of sensation and desire. The rough woolen blankets became silk underneath them as Ian laid her down with care, his green eyes dark with reverence and want.
“Are ye certain, lass?” he asked one final time, his voice hoarse with restraint.
“Aye,” she breathed, reaching up to touch his face. “I’ve never been more certain of anythin’.”
Ian’s kiss was deeper this time, hungrier, and he could feel Rhona melt beneath the heat of it. His hands mapped her body like a scholar studying ancient texts, learning each curve andhollow with devoted attention. His rough palms skimmed over her ribs, his thumbs brushing across the sensitive undersides of her breasts until she gasped into his mouth. He cupped the fullness of her breasts, weighing them in his palms as her back arched off the bed with a small moan.
“Och!”
When his mouth followed the path his hands had traced, pressing kisses to the pulse point at her throat, the sensitive hollow of her collarbone, the valley between her breasts, Rhona arched beneath him like a bowstring drawn taut.
The soft gasp that escaped her as his lips found the peak of her breast sent fire racing though Ian’s veins.
She’s so responsive.
He marveled, watching the way her back arched beneath his touch, the way her fingers clutched at his shoulders as if he were her anchor in a storm.
“Ian,” she gasped, her fingers threading through his dark hair, holding him to her as if he might vanish.
“Aye,mo ghràdh,” he murmured against her skin, the endearment sending visible shivers racing through her. “I’ve got ye. I’ll always have ye.”
His hands continued their gentle exploration, finding places that made her cry out with pleasure, teaching her that her body was capable of sensations she’d never dreamed of.
When his fingers traced down her trembling stomach and found the damp heat between her thighs, she cried out softly, her hips rising instinctively to meet his touch. He parted her folds gently, his fingers exploring their glistening arousal.
“Och, lass,” he groaned against her breasts, “ye’re so wet fer me already. So ready…” His fingers found the swollen nub of her desire, and he deployed short, gentle strokes. For a moment, Ian wondered if she might shatter from the sheer intensity of it, but he knew she was holding back.
“Ah… ah… Ian!” she whimpered, her hips moving with desperate need against his skilled fingers, seeking more of the exquisite friction he was administering.
“Let go,” he whispered against her ear, his voice like velvet in the darkness. “Trust me, Rhona. Let go fer me.”
