Page 86 of For a Scot's Heart Only
He inhaled like a dying man when her hand slipped inside his breeches. His John Thomas was quite happy. That part told him he was alive. Blood-engorged and anxious to be petted. Mary stroked him, her hand outside his smalls.
Air heaved in and out of his lungs. The more she explored, the more heightened his sensations—one rush after another. His legs shook, and he was rogue enough to admit he lived for what was going on in his smalls. The linen caressing his flesh. The rustle of cloth. Mary’s warm hand playing with him.
She was quite creative.
“Your soap...” She popped another button from its hole. “An intoxicating potion.”
His breeches slouched. His knees trembled.Shite. He reached for her, weak as a newborn lamb.
Gray eyes glittered with mischief. He hooked his fingers in Mary’s bodice and hauled her to him. She laughed, her hand flattening in his placket and her mouth inches from his.
“Sure you want to talk about soap?” He barely finished before devouring her mouth.
Feral urges swamped him, so primal, he couldn’t think straight. He yanked hard on her bodice. Pins tumbled. Her stomacher sagged. Mary’s eyes rounded as the robe à la française slackened off her shoulders. Fire glowed softly on her shoulders. He shoved her gown lower and they kissed. Hard. Frantic. Desperate kisses. Wet and imperfect.
He bit, sucked, and pulled.
Mary’s carnal kisses were her answer.
What torment, her passionate mouth on his, her fingers exploring his ballocks, cupping and rolling them like a practiced harlot. Lust arrowed through him. So sharp and hot and nearly painful.
Shite.He was about to spend himself inside his smalls.
Clutching her arms, he broke away.
They were panting hard.
Firelight painted Mary in orange and yellow. Her high cheeks, her linen-covered breasts. She tipped her chin, a haughty angle. The same as when the corset maker won an argument on the docks.
One sight wrecked him—round nipples jutting against her shift. The light caressing them, molding their shape.
The image burned him.
He bent over her cleavage, his breath stirring her shift’s little bow. Her sweet curves pebbled. Little goose bumps disappeared into the prettiest cleavage he’d ever seen. How mysterious that shadowed line. He set his mouth on it, open and hot. She hissed and cupped the back of his head, encouraging him. He took the bow between his teeth and yanked it.Linen ripping was a satisfying sound. A small tear, two inches. He could’ve done worse.
Mary’s breath skittered when he looked her in the eye.
He was none too gentle, dragging down her shift. Her breasts spilled, their fullness perfection. Pearlescent and swaying. He stared, awed. Reverent. His jaw slack. Moments slipped by. Time was nothing until he forced his gaze upward.
Her soft-lipped smile saidI’ve conquered you.
Shite.She had.
“You like it rough, do you?” he growled.
“I like you.” She was nonchalant. A natural at this.
Teeth clenching, he was irritated at her power to turn him into a base animal. Like a starving man too weak to fight nature’s need, he stared at her breasts. Round and soft, the tips more russet than pink.
Impertinent nipples.
He touched the end of one with the pad of his thumb. Barely there circles, so light. So erotic. She moaned, her body twitching from sheer pleasure. He peacocked, glad to give as good as he got.
“Now do you want to talk about soap?” His ragged voice shredded his words.
Mary’s laugh was husky, her body melting into his. He could count their heartbeats, standing this close. Better was the intimacy in her little laugh—an admission, power belonged to him too. But this would be an evocative night-long battle. The possibilities... endless. As though confirming this, Mary slid her hand inside his smalls with atake thatsmile.
White-hot pleasure shocked him. He wheezed when the heel of her palm rubbed him.
