Page 77 of Fallen
His mouth was hot, seeking, and when he reached her breasts, she let out a shuddering groan. Her hands fastened upon his shoulders, holding him fast as he stroked and suckled.
And then when he slipped farther down her body—and lifted one of her legs over his shoulder as he went down on his knees before her—Coira let out a soft cry.
Never had a man touched her like this.
During her time atThe Goat and Goose, the men never took time to pleasure her—they risked catching the pox from a whore after all. As such, the intimacy of what Craeg was doing to her now made tears sting Coira’s eyelids, made her chest tighten in a strange blend of tenderness and abandon.
Pleasure crested swiftly, making her cry out again, yet he didn’t halt his ministrations. Coira’s thighs started to tremble, and if he hadn’t been holding her up, she’d have slid down the wall and ended up in a quaking heap upon the floor.
Coira was aware then that she was moaning his name, her fingers tangling in his hair.
Eventually, Craeg rose to his feet—the movement so swift that Coira’s eyes flew open and she smothered a gasp.
Their gazes met. Craeg’s face was all taut angles, and his eyes had deepened to a dark green. Not shifting his attention from her, he reached down and unlaced his breeches. Then, almost roughly now, he took hold of her hips and raised her up against the wall, kneeing her thighs wide.
An instant later he entered her, in a slow, deep thrust that made Coira buck against him. The sensation of him sliding into her, of how she stretched to accommodate his girth, caused an aching pleasure to ripple through the cradle of her hips.
Last night, she’d reached her peak with a man for the first time—had marveled at how pleasure had set her loins on fire.
But this was even more intense. It was a pleasure that throbbed deep inside, radiating out like ripples in a pool, suffusing her whole body with a languor that made her feel reckless and wild.
Nothing in the world mattered except this. Nothing.
Craeg’s body trembled, while he held himself leashed. He moved slowly, holding her pinned against the wall as he took her.
And all the while, his gaze held hers.
It was almost too much, too intense, too intimate. Coira felt stripped bare, as if all she was—her heart and soul—was displayed before him. But she didn’t look away. Instead, her hands clung to his shoulders, her fingernails biting into his flesh as wave after wave of aching pleasure rippled through her.
And when Craeg finally exploded inside her—his groan shuddering through the cool night air—tears flowed down Coira’s cheeks.
A grey dawn rose over Dunan. Curtains of fine rain swept across the valley, obscuring the surroundings. It made the broch a grim place indeed, yet there was a lightness to Craeg’s stride as he descended the steps into the bailey.
Gunn was there, checking over one of the horses from Duncan MacKinnon’s stable. It was a fine beast, a huge bay stallion.
“His name is Curaidh,” Gunn greeted Craeg. “Apparently, he belonged to yer brother.”
Craeg smiled.Curaidh—Warrior—a mighty name indeed.
“He’s recovering from a foot abscess,” Gunn continued. “The old man who looks after the stables—one of the few folk left in this place—tells me that’s why MacKinnon left him behind.”
MacKinnon.
Soon folk would start referring tohimby that name. For years now, the clan-chief’s name had brought sneers and grimaces to the faces of the people of this land.
“He’s a beauty,” Craeg murmured. He stepped close and stroked the stallion’s neck.
“Well, he’s yers now,” Gunn replied with a grin. He leaned down then and ran practiced hands over the stallion’s hind-quarters, checking for any lameness.
Craeg was observing him when suddenly, something cold and wet pushed against his hand.
Startling, Craeg glanced down to see a large charcoal grey wolfhound sitting at his feet. The hound stared up at him with soft, dark eyes, its tail beating out a tempo on the flagstones.
“What’s this?” Craeg said, addressing the dog. “No use looking at me like that … I’m not yer master.”
“The hound’s been pestering me all morning too,” Gunn replied, glancing up. “The old stable hand tells me that the dog’s name is Bran. He too belonged to MacKinnon … so that means he’s yers as well.”
Craeg sighed, before he reached out and ruffled the dog’s soft ears. The hound looked a bit lost. A pang went through him then. Duncan MacKinnon had been such a vile individual—the only one who’d truly mourn him was his dog.
