Page 67 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“That’s better,” he said. “Did I not say, that afternoon on the moors, that I longed to hear ye speak my name?”
Moisture stung her eyes at the memory of the pleasure his hands wrung from her body, and the hope he’d ignited in her heart.
The bed shifted under his weight, and she braced herself for the onslaught. But, instead, he caught her shoulders and pushed her sideways. She resisted at first, but his touch was firm, though gentle, as he coaxed her onto her back.
She drew in a sharp breath. He was as naked as she. His body glowed in the firelight, sharp shadows emphasizing his maleness—the sculpted muscles rippling with barely suppressed power, the deep V near his waist, and…
Oh my!
…the thick part of him that jutted from the nest of wiry chestnut curls.
I’ve never seen anything so—so…
“Sobig?” he said, his eyes flashing with pride.
Sweet heaven—had she spoken aloud?
“It pleases me, lass, that ye appreciate what I give ye,” he said, “that ye’ll know the pleasure of being taken by a real man at last.”
At last?
He crawled over her, his manhood bobbing, and she caught her breath as his body heat seeped into her skin. A rich aroma of wood, spice, and sweat flooded her senses—the primal scent of man. She drew in a deep breath, and he gave a slow smile, his nostrils flaring.
“Aye,” he said, “the most delicious scent known to man. The air is thick with it.”
“With wh-what?”
“With the need to mate.”
He settled on top of her. An unfathomable sensation fizzed through the skin of her breasts, and her nipples ached. He leaned over and kissed her mouth.
“Yer lips taste as sweet as I remember,” he said. “Does the rest of ye taste as fine?”
Before she could ask what he meant, he dipped his head and took her nipple in his mouth. She drew in a deep breath as the ache in her breasts turned into a burning need.
“Oh!”
Her voice came out in a rasp as he suckled her breast, teasing the nipple with his tongue. When he grazed his teeth across the tip, she let out a cry at the exquisite nip of pain. Then he soothed it with his tongue before withdrawing to place a kiss on her other breast.
“I could feast on ye, lass, like a man starved,” he growled, “until I could take no more.”
“Wh-what do you…” she began, then let out a low cry as he dipped his hand between her thighs and ran it along her slick flesh.
“Ye’re ready for yer husband,” he said, triumph in his eyes. “I hardly need touch ye before yer body weeps for me.”
He withdrew his hand, and she bit her lip in frustration. Then he teased her thighs apart.
She closed her eyes, fighting her shame at being utterly exposed to him. What pleasure could he take out of looking at her…there?
Then she felt his lips on her thigh and opened her eyes to see his head nestled between her thighs.
“Murdo, what are you doing?”
His tongue flicked against her flesh, and she tried to close her legs.
“I didn’t think—I mean, I haven’t…”
He paused and lifted his head, astonishment in his eyes. “Och, lass, have ye never had a man tend to ye with his tongue?”
