Wishing For a Highlander (31 page)

“I want you,” she said. “So badly. But you must be hungry. You should have something to eat first.”

“Aye. I’m famished,” he said, pulling her shift over her head. He laid her down and pressed their naked bodies together. His lips claimed hers in a kiss that would leave no doubt in her mind that she was the only nourishment he needed.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” she said.

He kissed her harder, smiling when she arched against him and gave up speaking in favor of those wee moans that pricked him deep in his belly and sent jolts of yearning straight to his cock.

His fingers found her dewy petals. She was so hot there, so slick with wanting him. So irresistible. The need to be inside her consumed him. It could never be his cock. But he’d be more than content to bring her pleasure with his hands and his mouth. ’Twas all he could think about. ’Twas his entire purpose.

He plunged his tongue into her mouth as he slipped a finger inside his wife’s tight heat. Her body welcomed him with silky openness before       it clamped around that one lucky finger. Christ, feeling her like this, wet tongue to wet tongue, softness between her legs to his hard digit. Heaven.

His heart burst with love. A sense of belonging flooded him as she clung to his shoulders and pushed her hips forward, asking for more. He gave her more. He stroked her, slow and sure. He kissed her, deep and hard.

She broke away, panting. “Sit up against the headboard.”

He didn’t argue. The one glorious night they’d shared in this bed, he’d learned obeying his wife when her voice was breathy and demanding like that led to grand things for them both. What miracles of pleasure would she show him tonight? Would they come together all the ways they had that night? His cock jerked with hope, but he tried only to think of her, of how he could serve her and prove to her she would never regret staying with him.

She crawled off the bed, eliciting a growl of impatience from him. Only the delight of watching her move about their room completely bare kept him from demanding she return to him so he could finish what he’d started with his finger. When she lit a lantern and returned to the bed with bandages and poultice, he realized she was putting off her own desire to care for him.

“I need naught but your cries of pleasure,” he said, gripping her arm and trying to tug her up onto the bed. “Ye can fix me later.”

“Maybe I want to be rough with you. You’ve whet my appetite. I want to be wild. I don’t want to have to worry about your stitches. So hush. Let me do this, and then you’ll get your boon.”

He’d forgotten about his boon. Judging by the glow of desire in her eyes, ’twould be a boon for her, too. Good. Her pleasure was his sole focus tonight.

He reluctantly acquiesced, relishing the visual bounty of her pale, lush form as she tended his wounds. She hid no part of herself from him. Pride filled him to ken this caring, lovely creature was his and she trusted him fully with her body and her heart. The saints had truly smiled on him when they’d permitted magic to touch Malina and bring her to him.

Past the nose-tingling scent of the poultice, he scented her desire, that barely-there, sweet musk that would drown him with lust when he once again buried his face between her thighs. With his gaze caressing her breasts, he inhaled deeply, dreaming of her taste, of her soft cries, of pinning her writhing hips with his hands as he lapped and loved her. His eyes closed with the decadent fantasy.

Her touch lifted from him after she fastened the bandage on his thigh.

He reached for her. His hand found only air. The sound of the door latch made him open his eyes. Every muscle in his body tensed as he prepared to defend his woman. But ’twas only Malina bringing in a tray with cold meats and cheeses and a loaf of bread.

“I dinna need food,” he said. His stomach promptly betrayed him as she set the tray on the bed and the savory scents of their dinner made their way to his nose.

“Maybe I do,” she said, politely ignoring the grumbling sounds of his gastronomy. Kneeling beside him, she spread a slice of bread with brie and folded a thinly-cut bit of peppered mutton on top. Her teeth sank into the small feast. He had never witnessed anything so sensual as his naked wife closing her eyes in bliss while she indulged her palate.

“Christ,” he breathed. “Give me some of that.” He guided her hand to his mouth and ripped off his own bite. The bursting flavors of seasoned mutton and tangy cheese had him moaning around his mouthful.

Laughing together like children around a stolen pie, they fed each other and sipped lukewarm tea and milk. When he voiced his desire for wine, his wife refused him.

“Only one glass tonight, and only after I’ve had my wicked way with you.”

Her lips on his cheek helped him be content with the tea and milk. And when she moved her lips to his neck and then his nipple, he forgot all about food and drink. He forgot he’d intended to focus his attentions on her. Within moments of finishing their supper, she had him hard and straining for more than the gentle hand play she teased him with.

But he refused to ask for more. He would serve her tonight. He would serve her every night, for she was his.

Malina sat herself astride his thighs so his cock was trapped between their bellies. Smoothing his hands down the cool, satiny skin of her back, he cupped her bottom with one hand and traced the other around to stroke her sensitive nub. She was drenched with desire for him. He felt proud. Her want of him satisfied him like nothing else ever would.

“Yes, Darcy,” she whispered as she moved with him, reveling in his touch. One of her hands splayed into his damp hair. The other rubbed his cock against her rounded belly with firm strokes that pulled threads of pleasure through him. Her mouth nibbled at his chest. He was on fire for her and she for him.

Christ, to have a wife on his lap and a growing bairn between them was more erotic than anything he’d ever dreamt of. He closed his eyes in rapture and gave himself over to the feel of her, to the feel of the three of them together. His family.

“Look at me,” she said

His lids lifted lazily. Malina had risen up on her knees. Her grip on his cock shifted and she sank down over his crown in a slow rush of liquid pleasure. She held him in her gaze as she drew her lower lip between her teeth. She hissed in a breath, and it wasn’t an expression of pain.

He was inside of her.

Panic tensed his muscles.

But Malina didn’t look distressed. Her lips parted around a soft sigh as she took even more of him. Inch by slow inch, he filled her, and when her bottom met his thighs, sealing them fully together, her eyes gleamed with wicked delight.

He breathed a curse and stared at his bride, stunned.

He was afraid to trust the incredible pleasure racing in his blood. He was afraid to move and cause her pain. He was frozen in wonder.

But Malina wasn’t frozen. She slid up his length as slowly as she had come down on him and the feel of her hot, tight sheath caressing him in the most intimate way made his body jerk with jolts of passion.

Her head fell back, and he caught it in a trembling hand. “Are ye all right, lass?” He could barely think for the shock and pleasure colliding inside of him, but he maintained the presence of mind to be concerned for her. Lifting her head, she laid his concerns to rest with a glorious, peaceful smile. She glided back down until he felt buried so deep within her that they were truly one.

“I’m better than all right,” she said. “I’m euphoric.” She rose up again and seated herself back down, quicker and harder this time. And she moaned with pleasure.

Paralyzing ecstasy took the place of concern and thrust him to heights of joy he’d never dared to imagine. His wee bride was taking him, all of him, and liking it. They were joined as husband and wife.

“How?” he asked, fighting the urge to release himself within her. ’Twas too soon. He kent as much, even though he’d never been inside a woman before.

She wound both her arms under his and clutched his shoulders as she continued her movements. Her breasts pillowed against him, and he set his hand to eagerly exploring one glorious mound.

“You’re large. But you won’t hurt me as long as I’m ready for you. You’re not abnormal, baby. You’re perfect.” Her eyelids fluttered closed as a little cry parted her lips. “Oh, God, you feel so good. You’re perfect, and you’re–oh, God!” Her movements quickened. She slammed herself down on him. Her fingers dug into the skin of one shoulder and the bandages on the other. ’Twas a good thing she’d bound his wounds, after all. “You’re mine!” she cried as her silky sheath clamped down on him. Sharp moans came from her then, one on top of the other as she writhed in his arms with her release.

He couldn’t stop himself. Lightning struck his spine. His stones drew up. He shouted as he spilled his seed inside his wife.

They trembled together, gripping each other as tremors of love ripped through them. He had never felt anything so all-consuming. He could have sworn he had risen above his body for a moment, above the Earth, and glimpsed stars and angels and mayhap the Lord, himself.

“I love you, Darcy,” Malina whispered against his chest. “I’m sorry that was so fast. We’ll get better at it the more we practice.”

“Christ almighty,” was all he could make himself say.

Chapter 21

Melanie woke to the familiar pressure of Darcy’s fingers pressing gently over her belly. Using the width of his fingers as a ruler, he stacked hand over hand until two fingers came to rest at the place where her baby bulge met her sternum. It had become part of their Sunday morning routine in the month they’d lived at Skibo.

“Ye’ve added three fingers since we came to Dornoch,” he said. “Your bairn is growing fair well, I’d say.” His soft gaze caressed her face as he leaned over her.

She reached up to smooth his sleep-mussed hair behind his ear. The soft skin at his temple heated her fingers, and she was tempted to trail them all over his body in initiation of the more blush-inducing part of their Sunday morning routine.

“You chose the wrong occupation,” she told him, pushing herself up to kiss his nose. “You should have been a midwife.”

“Och, ’tis only
your
legs I care to look between.” He moved onto all fours, placing himself over her like a dog with a prized bone. He worked his way down her body with kisses until he was there, doing much more than looking.

A long while later, she ran a washrag over him as he reclined on the bed pillows, utterly relaxed, utterly hers. “I love Sundays,” she said, stretching the post-coital tinglies from her limbs as she climbed from the bed to dress for the day. In fact, she loved almost everything about her life with Darcy. If she could change one thing, it would be his homesickness. He never complained, but she’d caught him up on the roof more than once gazing to the north and sipping scotch. If it weren’t for his obvious but unspoken longing, everything would be perfect.

“Aye. ’Tis a day of worship,” he agreed sagely. “A day to dwell on the Lord and all he has done for those who honor him.”

She caught the twinkle in his eye as she pulled on her shift and dress–Darcy never acknowledged the divine except when he was loving her and cursing under his breath.

“I was thinking about the morning sex,” she said, earning a grin from her Highlander.

“There is that.”

She wadded up the washrag and tossed it at his face, but his quick reflexes had him catching it and tossing it back as he lunged from the bed to spin her around. The playful embrace turned sensual as he hardened against her belly and they lost themselves in kisses.

“I suddenly find myself not minding so much if we miss breakfast this morn’,” he said, his fingers undoing the clasps she had just fastened on her dress.

It was another hour before they ventured down to the breakfast room.

She wasn’t surprised to hear voices inside as they approached, even though it was almost noon. The briskly-turning cogs of the castle’s goings on always slowed to a near stand-still on Sunday mornings. It was the one day of the week Darcy didn’t rise before her and stay gone until dinner time, building a watermill with Wilhelm at a site up-river from Dornoch. It was also the one day of the week Constance was likely to be late to breakfast, often looking rather tumbled and acting even more cheerful than usual.

But this morning, Constance’s voice floated from the breakfast room with the put-on British accent she slipped into when dealing with esteemed guests, whom she’d once told her wouldn’t know what to make of her casual American speech.

Having grown used to her hostess’s frequent entertaining, she released Darcy’s hand and smoothed her dress as they entered the sunny, glass-enclosed room. She expected an introduction to another merchant from Inverness or a notable tenant from Murray lands.

Instead, she met a pair of ice-blue eyes that flew wide when they spied her and Darcy. Darcy’s hand clamped on her shoulder, and he shifted in front of her.

“Aodhan,” he said.

Aodhan shot from his overstuffed chair and opened his mouth to say something, but Constance clapped her hands once and chirped, “Good morning, you two. I trust you slept well.” She surreptitiously put herself between the two battle-hardened bodies that had just gone on high alert. To Aodhan and her other guest, whom Melanie had barely glimpsed before the solid wall of her husband blocked the room from her sight, Constance said, “You both know Darcy, of course, but have you had a chance to meet his wife, yet? This is Melanie Keith.” Constance gripped her hand and attempted to pull her out from behind Darcy.