Page 64 of My Scot, My Surrender
Clamping her damp thighs together, she felt something inside her own body tremble, and sensation rippled through her. It was nothing like the pleasure she’d experienced with him, but her entire body felt tied to his…tethered in some kind of sublime harmony.
With a guttural cry, Brandt gently disengaged her from him and moved one hand down to his groin. He drew her up with his free hand until she was splayed over him in his lap, rocking her wet, trembling core against his hard thigh and sobbing with her own unexpected release. A few frenzied strokes later and he thrust upward, spilling his seed between them with a deep groan of satisfaction.
Breathing harshly, Brandt rested his forehead against hers. Neither of them moved for several interminable moments. With a sound of contentment, he wrapped one arm about her, cradling her against his chest and nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck.
Sorcha craved the words that such intimacy brought. But she knew it was a hopeless wish. They would find pleasure in each other’s arms, but not love.
She was ashamed to admit she would rather have that than nothing at all.
Chapter Eighteen
Brandt stretched his legs under the heavy sheets and blankets and turned his face away from the bright morning sunlight slanting through the mullioned window. He didn’t want to wake up, even though the temptress he’d slept beside all night had been sliding her bare legs along his for the last quarter hour as she slowly rose out of her own dreams.
Despite most of the Montgomery keep’s occupants being less than friendly, the bed that Sorcha had finally persuaded him to sleep in last evening had cradled his travel-weary back and limbs with all the tenderness of a pair of angel’s wings. Having Sorcha tucked beside him, her rhythmic breath gusting against the hollow of his neck, had only added to the sensation of being transported to heaven.
Then again, the hard, pulsing tightness of his erection this morning had a distinct quality of hell.
Brandt was trapped between two desires as he lay there in bed, listening to the sounds of a castle rising for the day—chickens clucking, voices out in the courtyard, footsteps passing by their bedroom door. He wanted Sorcha on top of him, rubbing out his need with frantic thrusts of her hips, and he also wanted her away—so that he could stop wanting her so damn much.
She was passion incarnate, and she made him yearn with the same ravenous need. All he had to do was think about her, kneeling between his legs, her sweet velvet lips wrapped around his length, her tongue running in slick, endless strokes from root to tip, and another jolt of pressure filled his already straining erection. Damnation, if he didn’t get up right now he’d lose whatever sanity had kept him from spreading her legs and doing the unthinkable.
In the light of morning, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d kept his trousers on all night, the fall buttoned up. But when Sorcha had asked him to hold her as she slept, he hadn’t been able to deny her. Not after the pure, raw pleasure she’d given him. And herself, he knew. She’d come apart in his lap, her center warm and wet through her drawers as she’d rocked against his thigh. It wouldn’t have taken much to shift her to the side, drive himself into her, and find pleasure together, as one.
But then what? Brandt squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to force away the dull ache of his groin. Hell, they were less than a week away from Brodie lands. After one more day of rest for Ares, they could be on their way again. With the Brodie and her sister, Sorcha would be safe from Malvern, and his promise to Ronan would be met. Brandt would not leave her until he was confident in her brother-in-law’s ability and promise to protect her. Only then would he be on his way back to Essex. Back to the life he’d led before he’d ever visited that damned fated common lands festival.
He tried to picture it in his mind. Worthington Abbey and the stables. Pierce Cottage, where he lived, quiet and content. And alone. Bits and pieces came to him, but they seemed to float through his mind, refusing to settle into place. Instead, Sorcha’s light lavender scent wafted into his senses, and the bright, clear picture of her riding Lockie, galloping in front of him, her long raven hair loose behind her, struck him. He heard her chiming laughter in his memory. Saw the bridge of her nose crinkling whenever she smiled.
A knock on their bedroom door brought him back to his senses. Brandt shifted himself up against the pillows as a maid swept into the room. It wasn’t Morag, but another older woman, and she paid the two of them no mind at all as she went to the windows and pushed the drapes aside, letting in more light. Sorcha rolled over and stretched, her feet tickling Brandt’s shins.
“The duchess is waiting for ye both in the great hall to break yer fast,” the maid announced as she placed a fresh ewer of water and a new length of toweling near the washbasin.
“Thank you,” Sorcha said, her eyes tracking the maid as the woman laid out Sorcha’s own dresses, now laundered and mended, upon a bench at the base of the bed.
Brandt shifted himself away from Sorcha but didn’t get up. It was bad enough his own wife was going to get an eyeful of his uncomfortable state. He didn’t need this maid blushing as well.
As soon as the maid had closed the door behind her, Sorcha sat up, clutching the blankets to her breasts. She wasn’t unclothed, but the shift she wore was of a fine cambric. When she’d climbed into bed, the torchlight doused and the fire in the hearth crackling low, he’d still been able to see the dusky points of her nipples.
His lips twitched in a half grin. “Need I remind you about the river?”
Her chin hitched as a playful scowl pinched her features. Sorcha dropped the blankets and swung her legs over the side of the massive bed. She strode to the bench, collected one of her dresses, and then, with a sly glance over one shoulder, replied, “I don’t think we would arrive in time for breakfast ifIremindedyouof the river.”
Brandt held his breath as she disappeared behind the privacy screen to dress. Sweet hell, she was going to drive him to madness. He needed no reminder to envision her, emerging drenched from the chilled water, her nipples taut, her hips swaying freely, every stunning inch of her figure outlined. While the sight of her in wet linen had been downright erotic, he’d still had no idea what she looked like fully naked. Brandt frowned, remembering her plea not to remove her shift. He’d forgotten, too caught up in the feel and taste of her to put much thought to it. Now, he wondered.
He got up, his erection barely constrained by the cut of his trousers, and quickly washed at the basin before throwing on his shirt and boots. By the time Sorcha emerged, dressed, his erection had ebbed, if only because of the frigid water in the ewer. He did not know if he could withstand another chaste night in that bed with her.
Hell, he’d never imagined avoiding his husbandly duties would be so excruciating.
The annulment was nonnegotiable. He needed to give his word, for her sake, to the Brodie laird, that she remained a virgin for her next husband.
His stomach clenched with a rush of something unpleasant.Next husband.It wasn’t the first time he’d considered the true reason for leaving her a virgin, but it was the first time he felt like punching something hard because of it.
“Are you ready?” Sorcha said from behind him.
Brandt nodded and palmed the ring he’d given her on their wedding day, feeling oddly tight in the chest as he slipped it onto her third finger. “You should wear this. It’s yours.”
They both stared at their joined hands, though her expression was unreadable. The ring meant little…a hollow symbol of their agreement, but Brandt couldn’t help the jolt he felt at seeing it there once more. Releasing her, they left their room, moving toward the great hall.
“You’ve gone quiet again,” she whispered as they walked. “Are you reluctant to see Lady Glenross?”
