Page 60 of Bride of the Wicked Laird
It was another way of drowning, but this gasping for breath was different. It was like being swept over by a waterfall of desire, lifted by the force of it and flung into a sensation of bliss that stirred a need in her she’d never before imagined.
He outlined her jaw with his fingers, dipping them to trace the arch of her throat, teasing the place where her shoulder joined. Then, when she could scarcely bear the waiting, he slid her shift from her shoulder and along her am, so that the loose top fell away exposing her naked breasts. She shuddered, catching her breath, almost afraid of her own anticipation, wanting his touch, yet feeling a sense of shame that seemed to come from nowhere.It was almost as if Dame Maria was tapping her on her shoulder and hissing in her ear.
She closed her eyes, wishing the unruly thoughts and the heartless image to some far distant place, wanting nothing more than to give herself completely to Everard.
His hand toyed with the fabric of her shift, as if he was restraining himself from touching the soft bud that was so tantalizingly close to his fingers.
“I want ye, Everard. I want yer caresses and yer kisses. I’m nae afraid of whatever it is that happens between a lass and a lad.”
With a groan that was something between despair and desperation he rolled onto the bed, taking her with him, so that he was lying alongside her while she lay back, her hair spread on the pillow. Looking up into his dark gaze, she lost all ability to breath evenly, her breath coming in short ragged puffs.
“Lass, ye’re an innocent. I cannae take yer maidenhead. ‘Tis nae right.”
She met his gaze. “I dinnae care fer me maidenhead. I wish tae taste what it is tae be a woman. Sequestered all those years in the convent, I longed tae be free of me bonds and play as others did. I heard of the wonders of love from lasses who were brought tae the convent. I kent then, I wanted tae find a lad I could love.”
“Mayhap ye dinnae understand. I want ye more than I’ve ever wanted a lass. Ye haunt me dreams. Even in sleep yer scent of roses and lavender comes tae me, I long tae hold ye.” He shook his head in wonderment. “When we kissed, I could scarce keep control. Me body aches fer wanting ye.”
Thrumming with need, she reaching her hands to his shoulders drawing him down, her face turned up for his kiss.
“Ah lass,” he whispered, “I cannae resist ye.”
Their lips met in a kiss that held all the longing and desire Davina had ever dreamed of, driven by the same hot, wet, need she’d felt in her fantasies.
This was a primal longing for touch, for closeness. For the feel of another beside her, hands on her bare skin, her own touch on another’s body, the rightness of being desired and the ecstasy of desiring. All this and more she found in his kiss.
She toyed with the coarse hairs on his chest, reveling in the warmth of his body under her stroking fingers, her heart beating faster at the sound of the desperate, urgent groans issuing from somewhere deep in his throat.
Exploring, she brushed her fingers across the roughness of his jawline, the stubble of his beard. She marveled that it was bristly, yet soft to her touch.
And then there was the formidable hardness of his manhood pressing against her, causing a surge of heat between her thighs.
At last his hand found the tip of her breasts and he took to the puckered nub with fingers that were both gentle and rough. Sensations ripped through her, igniting the fire that was already smoldering between her thighs.
“Oh…” she pressed herself against his hardness, moving her hips wantonly and unbidden in a stormy rhythm of rising passion. She heard herself moan against his mouth, as his hand abandoned her breast, stroking down her belly. She wriggled to allow him to lift her night-shift high, granting him access to that most private part of her, that she’d only dared once or twice to touch, in secret wickedness.
His finger slid between her already slick and swollen folds, and she raised her hips to meet his hand. He drew in a sharp breath as his finger found the hard place, the core of her sensations, and she moaned loudly, thrashing her head on the pillow. How could such a simple thing cause such ecstasy?
“Please,” she begged, without knowing what it was she begged for.
She would die if he stopped his touching now.
He lowered his head to take the tip of her breast in his mouth, his finger stroking, her hips reaching for him, wanting more. And even more.
She lost track of herself and time, as whatever strange force keeping her tethered to the earth gave way and she soared to the stars. All she was aware of now, was the man whose lips and hands were building a wild flame inside her that would surely consume her, until all that was left was ash and smoke.
Yet the flames rose higher and higher still, each moment taking her headlong to the brink of… something she yearned for with all her being.
Spasms of bliss and rapture seized her body, causing her to cry out.
“Everard!”
He held her tight while she clutched at him recklessly, wildly, with bold abandon, not caring for her wanton nakedness but only for the sheer joy of his hands on her body and the exquisite, dizzying, sensations convulsing her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Everard watched her sleeping, her long lashes resting on her still flushed cheeks. Her lips plush and swollen from kissing, chest rising and falling under the covers. Her bright hair spread across his pillows, the wee kitten asleep under her chin.
She was tender and passionate, sweet and wicked, wanton and dignified. Most of all, she was an enchantress who had taken his heart and dusted it with magic. She occupied his senses in an all-consuming way that no other had ever come close to.
