Page 68 of Winter Longing
Apparently at ease with his own nakedness, he walked slowly to the bed and sat down next to her. Gently, he tugged at the blanket, pushing all the layers down below her knees, leaving her—inexplicably at this moment—vulnerable. He pushed her arms and hands aside and leaned down to cover one nipple with his lips, while his fingers gently explored the triangle of silken hair between her legs. Ailsa was overcome, delirious with some notion that she was being attacked on several fronts.
Her eyes flew open wide. “Cole!” She struggled up on her elbows and stared down at him, at the muscled perfection of his body. Her objection, if it could be called that, lacked authority, sounded yet like another plea.
Unprepared for the sheer delight that tore through her, she moved her hips against his fingers. With his free hand, Cole slid his palm and fingers up over her belly and between her breasts, gently pushing her down until her arms went limp and she melted into the mattress. She stared at the ceiling and let herself feel. Somewhere inside her an emptiness burned, and instinct told her Cole knew how to fill that. His fingers stroked her, blatant promise in every caress.
An urgent look hardened his face when she lowered her gaze to him.
Slowly he slipped one finger inside her, the strange and exquisite sensation wringing a startled moan from her. He changed position, stretching out beside her, kissing her everywhere, wherever he pleased, nuzzling her neck and crashing down against her lips, then traveling back to her nipples to tease them gently. All the while, he worked magic with his fingers, discovering her while she discovered herself.
Ailsa moaned his name again, her voice low and wispy. She slid her hands into his hair, holding him to her, lest he stop or leave and deny her the mysterious, spiraling pleasure he brought her.
He ceased anyway, gently pulling his finger from within her hot channel a moment before he moved over her. His weight and warmth as he came over her was wonderful, sturdy, yet he took care that he didn’t press too heavily upon her. She ran her hands over his arms, feeling the muscles tighten as they held his weight on his elbows. Her legs parted naturally to cradle him and she sighed at how perfectly they fit together. Her body opened to him as he moved against her, slowly nudging. His eyes held hers, a smile in them that Ailsa selfishly, hungrily decided held more promise.
The head of his cock met with the very center of her, and Ailsa somehow knew this would complete her and deliver to her what her untutored body craved right now. She moved her hips to draw him inside her, heard him growl, suggesting he liked this, and she shifted again. Cole went still, his lips returning to hers as he flexed his hips and answered her want of more, entering her slowly. With his elbows and forearms on either side of her head, pressing into the flat mattress, he watched her as he pushed further inside her. Ailsa stared back, her fingers digging into his sides with this new sensation and wished now for so much more light inside the chamber to see him, to see if he felt what she did, how beautiful and perfect and right this was. She saw only that his eyes were shiny and that he breathed through his mouth as he watched her.
In the next moment, he slid his hands down and gripped her hips, and his mouth tightened as he murmured, “I’m sorry, Ailsa,” just before he thrusted firmly, tearing her maidenhead.
She cried out, shuddering against the burning pain, clutching at his shoulders.
Cole stopped moving. “Give it a minute,” he advised huskily. “Kiss me, Ailsa.” His arms returned to her sides, his hands pressing into the mattress near her shoulders. He lowered his mouth at the same time Ailsa obediently lifted hers, and their lips met in a slow, languid kiss.
“It feels...very full,” she murmured when their lips parted. She shifted her hips, hoping to find ease from the aching pressure. Alas, it didn’t particularly feel good anymore.
Cole groaned when she moved, however—in restrained pleasure, she thought—and she moved again, suddenly deliciously aware that she held some power. Expecting more pain, she stiffened as she lifted her hips again, but to her surprise there was little, and then less again when next he moved, withdrawing and then pressing forward again.
“Oh,” was all she could manage as that odd, tantalizing heat began to build again within her. The feeling continued to build until she thought it would be the death of her. She tightened her hold on his shoulders, desperately seeking more, that promise he’d made with his fingers. Her breath came in short, rapid bursts.
He lifted himself and slid deeper inside her, into the narrow passage he’d claimed as his own.
She sighed when he withdrew again, nearly all the way, and then entered her with excruciating slowness. He did this over and over, kissing her further into senselessness. Ailsa felt the need to move and rocked her hips against his, mimicking his motion.
Her body was slick and wet. Mindlessly, Ailsa arched her back as the wave crested, until finally it broke. Sensation washed over her, hot liquid pleasure coursing through her veins. She moaned her disbelief, the “Oh,” being drawn out, being breathed with startled delight. She opened her eyes.
Cole’s neck was arched, his head tilted upward. His eyes were closed, and he wore a tortured expression as his own body was racked with what she imagined was the same shuddering ecstasy he had given her.
A moment later, he slumped against her. Breathless yet, Ailsa swirled her short nails around the top of his back.
She couldn’t smile, could scarcely move, but she felt a smile inside.
She was his, and he was hers now.
Chapter Eighteen
Cole had officially moved into the keep. It felt strange to take up space in what still felt like Ailsa’s world.
The chamber they now shared was modestly sized, yet warm and inviting, tucked at the far end of the corridor on the same floor as Tavis’s quarters. Thick stone walls framed the space, their surfaces softened and warmed by colorful tapestries depicting hunting scenes, heraldic symbols, and one long and thin one with blooming vines. A single, narrow window let in faint light during the day but at night was shuttered against the chill, with a fur-lined curtain drawn to keep drafts at bay.
The centerpiece of the room was the large wooden bed with a tall canopy draped in rich, if slightly worn, fabrics dyed a deep crimson. The mattress, stuffed with straw and feathers—about half a foot taller than what Cole had been sleeping on for the past few weeks—was covered with a heavy woolen blanket and furs that promised warmth during the cold Highland nights. At the foot of the bed sat a sturdy trunk—kist, Ailsa called it—its dark wood carved with intricate knotwork. It was here that Cole had stowed his few belongings, and where he kept the clothes he’d arrived in.
A small table and two chairs occupied one corner near the hearth, where a fire burned at almost all hours of the day, its glow casting flickering shadows across the room. The mantel above the hearth bore a few personal touches: a brass candlestick, a neatly folded stack of small cloths, and an unassuming earthenware pitcher. Ailsa’s comb and a few small porcelain jars rested atop a second chest of drawers, clearly her domain, while an iron wall hook nearby held her woolen shawl and a spare cloak.
Against the opposite wall, a modest washstand with a basin and pitcher provided for their daily needs. A wooden peg rack next to the door offered a place for Cole’s cloak and his borrowed sword, which looked slightly out of place hanging among Ailsa’s more delicate belongings. Despite the practical arrangement, the space felt lived-in, marked by the subtle contrast between her touches of refinement and the hints of his presence now woven into it.
The sword, by the way, had been given to him by Dersey. There’d been no ceremony to the gesture; instead, Dersey had called out Cole’s name shortly after arriving on the training field two mornings after Cole had wed Ailsa, grumbling under his breath as he tossed the sword at him with a casual, almost careless flick of his wrist. It sailed awkwardly across the few feet between them, hilt-first, leaving Cole no time to think. Reacting on instinct, he’d managed to catch it—barely.
Dersey, unimpressed, had grunted, “Laird dinna want to be embarrassed by ye, having nae weapon. What kind of man is that, a weaponless one, I dinna ken.”
Moments later, Tank had received a sword in much the same way, its handle as plain and unremarkable as Cole’s, solid but bearing none of the personalization that might mark it as a warrior’s own.
