Page 72 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
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Robena hadn’t stopped smilingall evening. As the sounds of the wedding celebration faded behind them and they headed into the woods, she tucked herself up against Kester’s side, twining both sets of fingers through one of his.
He carried a torch in his other hand but turned to send her a worried glance. “Ye must be exhausted, lass. We’ll give ye a few days to rest afore we—”
“Kester MacBain,” she interrupted, knowing good and well what he was hinting at. “I am fine. I ammorethan fine. If ye think ye can use that wee bit of excitement yesterday to get out of yer husbandly duties tonight…”
Apparently, her threatening tone wasn’t all that threatening. With a chuckle, he stepped into the little clearing and tossed the torch toward a fire ring someone had set up. The kindling flared to life, revealing a small tent, just as he pulled her into his arms.
He rested his chin on her head, his arms around her waist. “Husbandly duties, eh?”
Just having him this close was intoxicating. He’d bathed sometime today—not just the impromptu dip in the loch he’d taken yesterday, but an actual bath, complete with soap and a shave and whatever other manly things men did in the bath.
He smelled delightful.
“I love ye,” she whispered against his neck, her lips skimming his skin. “And I dinnae want to sleep yet. I want ye inside of me, husband.”
Perhaps he wasn’t as unaffected as he was trying to be, because his hips gave a sort of involuntary jerk at her words—or mayhap the touch of her lips—and his hardness pressed against her belly.
“Robena,” he groaned, “ye ought to have a fine bed for yer wedding night. No’ a simple tent and a few blankets.”
“Nonsense.” She kissed his collarbone, then lower. “I will have ye to keep me warm. And I plan on sleeping atop ye tonight, husband, and that cannae be any softer than the ground.”
In case he misunderstood her meaning, she reached between them and cupped his hardness. The noise he made was a sort of strangled, hopeless laugh.
“I’m beginning to suspect ye just like calling mehusband, lass.”
“Och, well, husband, I’ve waited long enough, have I no’? I’m entitled to it, husband. For certes, husband, the novelty of ‘twill wear off, husband, in a year or two. Husband.”
Chuckling now, he captured her lips in his.
Likely, just to shut her up.
With a moan of her own, she wrapped her arm around his neck and held on, while her other hand caressed him through the MacBain kilt.
“Do ye ken how much I love this gown?” he murmured, while his lips trailed hot kisses along her jaw and down her throat. “This yellow silk? It makes ye look… God’s Wounds, Robena!”
Since she’d squeezed him involuntarily in response to the way he’d cupped her breast through the fabric, she thought she could be forgiven.
“How?” she gasped. “How does it make me look?”
“Like alady,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Like a gift. Like a fine piece of pottery. God Almighty, I want to unwrap ye with my teeth.”
His metaphors needed a little help, but since he was currently attempting to unlace her gown while his lips were still on her, she decidedhecould be forgiven as well.
So, all she said was, “Let me help.” This was, after all, the only gown she’d packed.
‘Twas a slow process, one frequently interrupted by kisses and touches and a growing desperation.
But soon enough, she was naked, spread out atop the blankets stacked in the tent, and he was crawling in as well. Mayhap ‘twas the position she was lying in—leaning back, supported by her elbows, her heels on the ground and her knees spread—which gave him the idea, but a speculative look came to his eyes.
“Kest—?” was all she managed before, with no warning, he lowered his mouth to the junction of her thighs.
Oh.
This was…
Thiswas…
