Page 62 of Sweet Home Highlander
Niall groaned, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs as he fell back onto the carpet. “God, Aisla, that tongue of yers.”
Her lips curved into a smile as she leaned over him, a jolt of lust shooting through her as her nipples brushed the coarse hair sprinkled over his chest. The rough-napped friction made her tighten her legs together against the pulse of want.
“Do ye remember what I can do with this tongue?” she teased, one purposeful hand slipping down his stomach, toward his hips. Niall’s fevered eyes sharpened for a moment as her brogue made its appearance, and he huffed a restrained laugh.
“The memories are what I’ve been living on, lass,” he said, though he sucked in another breath and gripped Aisla’s wrist before she could grasp him through the tented fabric. “Easy. I dunnae ken that I can withstand yer touch. It’s been some time.”
She frowned, a spike of rejection warring with confusion. Until delayed understanding of his confession dawned on her. He hadn’t been with a woman in a while, then. How longhadit been? Days? Weeks?Months? Hardly. Niall was much too virile of a man to curb his body’s needs. Still, satisfaction burned just under her skin at the knowledge.
She nipped his lips with her teeth and wrested her wrist, attempting to free herself and reach for him again. God, she wanted to feel his shaft in her hand. Wanted to hear him breathing, hot and rapid, with the pleasure from her touch.
“Nae, my sweet lass,” he ground out again. “I want to make this last as long as it can. And after six years…”
Aisla stopped fighting his grip and instead, slid her bare foot up his shin, reveling in the crisp hair on his legs. She wanted to explore every inch of him all over again. Learn his magnificent body anew.
“I know what you mean,” she whispered. “We’ve been apart for so long.”
“Aye, but that’s no’ entirely what I meant.”
Aisla’s foot stilled, and she lifted her lips from where she’d been nuzzling his broad shoulder. His eyes met hers, and though they were still hot with desire, she saw something else within them. Something more vulnerable and unguarded.
“What did you mean then?” she asked.
“That it’s been six years.”
She laughed. “I know how long it’s been, Niall.”
He didn’t return her grin, and Aisla understood what he meant. He wasn’t talking about the length of time they’d been apart. He meant…oh, God.
“In all this time, you haven’t been…” she started to say, but her throat grew thick.
“Nae, I havenae,” he whispered, his hand releasing her wrist and coming up to her face. He cupped her cheek and brushed his thumb against her skin. “There wasnae any woman I wanted. None that could take yer place, no’ by my side, no’ in my bed, no’ anywhere. I tried, mind ye, but ’twas an impossible task.”
Her whole body felt frozen with shock. No one? Not one woman? Her eyes narrowed. He could be lying, but what reason did he have to do so? She was already giving herself to him. Aisla could barely breathe let alone form words, so she continued to stare at him, an indescribable warmth beginning to saturate her from the inside out.
“I ken it’s no’ the same for ye, and as much as it turns me mad with jealousy, I—”
“You don’t know,” she interrupted. She closed her eyes and tried again. “I mean, I haven’t, either.”
His brows pinched together. “What about Leclerc?”
Aisla shook her head, a spring of impetuous tears threatening her vision. “He’s only my friend, as I told you. Niall…there’s been no one but you.”
He was a stone beneath her, his fingers still kneading into the back of one thigh, his other hand caressing her cheek and the tear that managed to slip down. “All this time, I thought…”
Aisla kissed him, so he wouldn’t have to finish his sentence. He’d thought she was taking lovers in Paris. Welcoming men to her bed. Julien, especially. And all this time, she’d thought the same thing about her husband, when the truth was, both of them had been alone in their beds for years. Yearning for what they’d lost. For comfort and warmth and another body. And not just another body. They’d yearned for each other.
It was as if an invisible barrier shattered at that moment. Niall surged up, his mouth claiming Aisla’s with renewed vigor, the kiss even more fraught and unhindered than before. His tongue wound around hers, stroking and gliding and pulling until Aisla had to cling to him to keep herself from collapsing backward onto the carpet. He held her against him, his big hand stretching wide over her back, before rounding forward and palming one of her breasts. She moaned in helpless surrender.
This would not be a long and languorous joining, a homecoming between them to savor and string out. Niall had said he wanted to last, but as he took her to the carpet and urged one of her legs to the side, opening her to him, Aisla knew there was nothing but primitive need coursing through her husband’s veins. There was no pretense left between them. Onlyfeeling. She arched her back when his hand slipped between her legs and touched the heat of her.
“Ye’re as I remember,” he whispered against her lips, his mouth nibbling down the column of her throat. His hot breath rushed against her. “Hot, sweet, and ready for me.”
A gentle, but insistent, finger glided into her, and Aisla tilted her hips, the only desire rampaging through her mind to get closer to him. For more of him to fill her. He soothed her with a few hushed sounds against the base of her throat as he nipped and licked his way to her breast, his teeth scraping over the peak of one nipple before sucking deep. The hint of pleasure-pain made the pressure inside her, his fingers stroking slow and deep, even more exquisite. And torturous.
“Niall, please,” she whimpered, clamping her trembling thighs around his hand as a second finger joined the first. They pushed and retracted, the wet glide of his work-roughened skin making her moan with frustration. She wanted more. She wantedhim. Aisla felt the hard, hot length of his erection against her hip and reached for it again. He didn’t stop her this time, and Aisla’s fingers closed around the thick jutting length, the iron underneath the fabric of his breeches throbbing against her palm.
“God in heaven, Aisla,” he groaned, and though he pulled his stroking hand from between her legs, she didn’t lament the loss, because she knew that in the next few moments, something more satisfying would take its place. He unfastened and kicked off his breeches, just as impatient as she.
