by Pamela Clare
She did not have to wait long, because his slippery palms cupped her, his thumbs flicking the already tight buds of her nipples, sending shards of heat to her belly, liquid fire pooling between her thighs. She sank backward into him, rested her head against his chest, instinctively arching to offer him more of herself. “Oh, Morgan!”
He made a sound like a moan and gave her what she wanted, his fingers teasing and tugging at her nipples, his lips and teeth kissing and nipping the sensitive skin beneath her ear, his sex pressing insistently against her lower back—a burning reminder of what was still to come. It felt so good, her body weak and shaking with the pleasure of it, the heat between her thighs now a demanding ache. She writhed in his arms, unable to hold still, her legs parting in a silent plea, the sound of a woman’s desperate whimpers—her whimpers—mingling with the melody of the waterfall.
Then his right hand slid down her rib cage, over her belly, to touch her where she needed him most, his fingers parting her, stroking circles over her until she ached not only with arousal but with emptiness, longing to be filled. “Morgan! Help me, please!”
He nibbled her earlobe, sucked it, his voice gruff. “What do you need, lass? Tell me.”
“ You . . . I need you . . . inside.”
Never had Morgan been so close to losing control, her innocent sensuality shaking him apart, her whimpered plea leaving his restraint in tatters. He pressed his face against her wet hair, inhaled her sweet, fresh scent, and bit back a groan as he sought and found her slick entrance, sliding a finger up to the taut barrier of her maidenhead to stroke the pulsing heat within. “Like this?”
She cried out, her fingernails digging into his forearms, her hips tilting to take him deeper, her inner muscles clenching around him. She was impossibly tight, hot, ready for him, her nectar slick on his fingers, the thought of what it would feel like to bury his cock inside her making him groan aloud. He could take no more.
He withdrew his finger from her, turned her to face him, stilling her with a kiss, his tongue thrusting into her mouth in imitation of the union to come. Then he sat back on a rock ledge and drew her down onto his lap, forcing her to straddle him, her legs spread wide, her breasts soft against his chest. He’d meant to go slowly her first time, meant to take her on the bearskin, but there was naught to do for it now. He’d wanted her for so long . . .
Barely able to drag his lips from hers, he drew back, lifted her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. Her palms resting on his shoulders, she looked at him through eyes smoky with desire, her breathing fast and shallow.
“There’s no turnin’ back from here, Amalie, so if you’re longin’ for Fort Carillon, you’d best fight your way free of me and run. After this, I willna let you go. You’ll be my mine in every way, and I yours, until our dyin’ day.” Amalie felt a wild singing in her soul, her body longing to make their marriage complete. She reached up to cup his stubble-rough cheek, tears pricking her eyes, his gaze like fire. “Oui, Morgan. Make me yours.”
He said nothing, but watched her with a raw hunger that made her heart skip, his eyes dark as night, his big hands grasping her hips, lifting her, guiding her downward. And then she felt it—the thick tip of his sex nudging between her folds, pressing against her entrance, stretching her—and her insides clenched, either with pleasure or from fear, she wasn’t certain. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, his gaze locked with hers, his sex poised on the brink of her innocence, his body rippling with tension. Then with one quick thrust, he breached her.
The pain was white-hot and sharp—but not nearly as bad as she’d expected. She gasped, felt herself pulse around him, and knew from the way his muscles tensed that he’d felt it, too, the intimacy of the moment shocking her to her soul—to know him like this, to feel what he felt, to be one with him.
“Easy, mo leannan.” He stroked her cheek, the tenderness of his gesture at odds with the strain in his voice. “The pain will soon pass. I willna hurt you again.”
“It is not bad.” She shifted her hips, moaning at the delicious feeling inside. “Oh!”
And then with a groan he began to move, rocking his hips upward, stretching her with slow, silky strokes, forcing more of himself inside her until she felt him against her womb, his sex filling her as she’d never been filled before, the pleasure of it staggering.
“Och, Jesus!” Never had Morgan felt more in control—nor so completely beyond it. Buried deep inside her honeyed heat, her body sheathing him so tightly, he was on the brink and yet he was nowhere near it. Letting her response guide him, he kept his thrusts steady and slow, not wanting to hurt her, certain that she must be raw where her flesh was so newly torn. She was so tight. He’d never felt anything like it, her body resisting his intrusion, then closing around him like a silken fist. Maybe it was just knowing that she’d never been loved by another man, that she was his, body and soul. Or maybe it was that he loved her. Aye, he loved her, loved her so deeply that he thought his heart might shatter from it.
He watched her, watched the effect his loving had upon her. Gone was the lass who might have been a bride of Christ. Instead, he held his bride, a woman ripe with passion, her eyes half closed, her breasts and cheeks flushed, her lips parted, each breath unraveling on a moan that sounded like his name. “Amalie, my angel!” With one arm around her hips and the other wrapped behind her back, he drew her closer, arching her backward, forcing her breasts up out of the water. Then he ducked down to take first one puckered crest into his mouth and then the other, suckling her, teasing the rosepetal softness with his teeth and tongue, gratified at her soft, shuddering gasps, at the way her nails bit deeper into his shoulders, at the way she tightened around him. He quickened his rhythm, drew her hard against him, raining kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, his need for her pounding in his chest like the thunder of a heartbeat, the first hint of a climax dragging at his groin. It had been so long since he’d had a woman. So long! But he couldn’t let go. Not yet.
He thrust deep and held himself inside her, then ground the thick root of his cock against her swollen sex. “Take it, Amalie! Come for me, mo luaidh!” “O, mon Dieu!” She clung to him as if to save herself from drowning. And then her breath broke—and the tension inside her shattered, her body arching against him. “Morgan!” He caught her cry with a kiss, felt her body clench rhythmically around him, milking him—and the last thread of his control snapped.
Amalie couldn’t believe what she was feeling, bliss shivering through her in ripples of molten gold, Morgan still moving within her, his thrusts prolonging her pleasure, her inner muscles tightening around him. And for the first time in her life she knew what it was to be complete, love for him swelling inside her, drawing tears to her eyes.
She heard herself cry out for him and felt his rhythm shift, his thrusts coming faster and harder, his strong arms around her, his body shaking with need. And even as he drove her toward a second stunning peak, it dawned on her just how much he’d been holding back, his own passion at last freed. “Amalie, lass!” He called for her, desperation in his voice.
“Och, sweet Jesus!”
She clung to him, blinding pleasure claiming her again, sensations too good to be true washing through her in bright, shimmering currents, his deep, powerful strokes sending her flying. But this time he went flying with her.
She felt his body shudder, his face pressed against her throat as he groaned out the pleasure of it against her skin, spending himself deep inside her, their mingled cries lost in the music of the waterfall as the last rays of the setting sun turned the curtain of falling silver to blazing gold.
TWENTY-FIVE
Morgan combed Amalie’s wet hair, careful not to pull the tangles. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted to one side, a contented smile on her lips, her skin golden in the firelight. Still naked, she’d tucked the blanket beneath her arms and wrapped it around herself in a gesture of feminine modesty that he found charming and sweet.
Amalie. Sweet Amalie. His
wife.
Making love to her had been beyond anything he’d ever known. Aye, he’d tupped his fair share of lasses, enjoying the carnal pleasures they offered and giving back in full measure. But with Amalie, the bliss of it hadn’t stopped with his body. When he’d at last spent himself, he’d felt an ecstasy that had shaken him to his soul, drawing the very life from him and giving it back again.
Never had he felt so bound to another person. It wasn’t his vows that tied him to her, though they would have been enough. Nor was it the fact that he’d taken her maidenhead, though he would have honored such a claim as well, for he had taken something that he could never give back. Nor was it the fact that she might now carry his child, though certainly he’d have done his duty by her in that regard, too. It was love that held him to her.
Her happiness meant as much to him as his own, her safety and her life far more. He could no more abandon her than he could abandon himself. They were one, he and Amalie, in ways he never could have understood before this night. He’d thought he knew all there was to know about making love to a woman. He’d never understood that there was more, never understood what it truly meant for a man and woman to become one flesh. In that way, he’d been every bit as much a virgin as she.
‘Twas a strange and humbling thought.
“Are you cold, mo luaidh?” He leaned down and kissed the curve of her shoulder, a feeling of tenderness in his chest that he’d never known before.
She gave a slow shake of her head. “No. The night is warm.” The sun had long since set, the sky bright with stars, the forest alive with sound as the day creatures sought their beds and the night creatures began to wake.
“Shall I braid it for you?” He ran the comb through her hair once more, her tresses at last free of tangles. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Do you know how?” “Who do you think does these, lass?” He lifted one of his damp warrior’s plaits, unable to hide his amusement. “Connor perhaps? Killy? My Mahican grannies?”
She laughed, the sound of it sweet to his ears. As he braided her hair for the night, he told her about her new home, about the strong and sturdy walls that would shelter her, about the trees that would be heavy with fruit come the harvest, about the rich earth, the fields and the forest and all that they would yield for her. “You’ll ne’er go cold and hungry, I promise you that. Nor will you want for a man’s protection. Though I willna be able to stay wi’ you at first except when Wentworth gives me leave, Iain will watch over you as if you were his sister.”
Her brows drew together in a worried frown. “Are you certain I will be welcome?”
“Why ever would you no’ be welcome?”
“Your brother’s wife is loyal to Britain and a Protestant, is she not?”
“Aye, but Annie is no’ the sort to judge a person by their kin or their faith. If she were, she’d have no choice but to hate her husband and her own wee son, aye?” But his words did not wipe the worry from her face. “Do not the British frown upon those of us with mixed blood? My skin is dark—“
“Your skin is lighter than mine, lass.” He finished binding the end of her braid with a beaded thong, then stretched out his arm alongside hers, his skin a dark, sun-baked brown, hers creamy with just a hint of coffee. “See? Besides, Iain is blood brother to the Mahican, just as I am. He and Annie harbor no hatred of Indian people, nor would they tolerate any who do. They are your family now, and they will love you. Did my men no’ receive you wi’ open hearts?”
She turned to face him, the blanket still bound round her, a smile on her lips once again. “They were very dear.” Morgan couldn’t help chuckling. ‘Twould make his men turn red with conflummixt delight to hear themselves described thus. Unable to keep himself from touching her, he ducked down and kissed her little nose. “Then you dinnae hate them?”
She glared up at him. “No, of course I do not hate them!”
In the distance, a wolf howled.
Morgan saw her stiffen, her gaze darting toward the darkness of the forest. And it occurred to him that, although Amalie had Abenaki blood, she had never lived among them. She knew no more about the forest or the animals in it than any other convent-raised French lass.
He drew her into his arms, kissed her cheek, wanting to shelter her. “There’s naugh’ to fear. ‘Tis just a wee wolfie.” The wolf howled again, and this time the call was answered by another, this one much closer. And though he could tell she was trying to act as if she weren’t afraid, he could not miss her little intake of breath or the way her body tensed at the sound.
Amalie did not want to appear foolish or cowardly, but the forest seemed to press in on them from all sides, the wild howling proof that more lurked among these trees than she cared to know. “Are you not at all afraid?”
“Nay.” Morgan kissed her hair, his voice deep and without fear. “Joseph’s men encircle us, keepin’ watch. They’ll warn us should any danger come our way. Beside, I dinnae fear the forest beasties. In these woods, death walks on two legs, no’ four.”
“But the wolf—“
It howled again, the plaintive sound sending chills along her spine. The second one, so much nearer, answered. “The wolf is but tryin’ to find his way home.” Morgan nuzzled her throat, nipping the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “His mate hears his call, and she calls back, guidin’ him to her side.”
Amalie shivered, Morgan’s lips tracing fire over her skin, warmth curling through her veins, making it hard to think. “Why . . . why is the wolf lost?”
He reached to where she’d tucked the ends of the blanket between her breasts and tugged, baring her breasts to his caresses. And heat that had so recently been extinguished flared to life in her belly. “He’s been on the hunt, hopin’ to find a fat rabbit for his mate to feed upon, for she’ll soon carry his cubs and has need of meat. But rangin’ far and wide in the dark, he lost his way.”
Unable to help herself, Amalie slid her hands over his chest, savoring the hard feel of his muscles and the rasp of his chest hair against her palms, the knowledge that he was hers heady like wine. “Did he find one—a fat rabbit?”
Morgan caught her nipples, tugged them, plucked them, making her gasp, the sensation shooting straight from her breasts to her belly. “Och, aye, he did, for he is a good hunter, strong and swift.”
Breathless, Amalie slid her hands down his chest to his belly, hungry for the feel of him, touching him as arousing to her as the feel of his hands on her skin. Then her hand bumped against the hardened length of his sex. She took him carefully in her grasp, gratified by his deep groan. “What will he do . . . when he finds her?”
“He’d do this.” Morgan got to his knees, drawing her up with him, pulling her against him, his mouth taking hers in a deep and scorching kiss.
Then he did something she never would have imagined. Tearing the blanket aside, he moved behind her and forced her onto her hands and knees, his hands sliding in smooth circles over the exposed flesh of her bare derriere.
“Morgan, what—? Oh!”
He nipped her bared bottom, nibbling his way up her back till his mouth found her earlobe, his right hand reaching around to stroke between her thighs, his left teasing her breasts. “You’re mine, Amalie. My wife. My mate. Mine!’ She felt the heat in his words, and her heartbeat quickened, some feminine part of her delighting in his male possessiveness. In the distance, the wolf howled, the sound growing nearer. Morgan nibbled her earlobe, sucked it. “Och, Amalie, you’re makin’ me burn!”
But she was the one on fire. She found herself rocking against his hand, unable to hold still, her need for him already sharp. “Morgan, please!”
The wolfs mate answered.
Then Morgan spread her legs apart with his thighs, positioning himself behind her. The thick tip of his sex nudged her, and she realized with a sense of shock that he meant to take her thus.
Like a ram mounts a ewe.
Slowly he pushed inside her, stretching her, filling her, his breath hissing from betwee
n his teeth. “I dinnae wish to hurt you again, but. . . Och, lass!”
A wild howl.
A faithful reply.
But her soreness was quickly overcome by pleasure, the hard feel of him already flowering into bliss. His slow and steady thrusts seemed to strike her inside where she needed it most, his hand still stroking between her thighs, he lips hot against her back, his man’s body seeming to surround hers. “O, mon Dieu! Morgan!” Needing more of him, she began to meet his thrusts with her own, backing against him, tilting her hips so that he drove into her more deeply, the ache inside her growing unbearable.
As if he knew what she needed, he quickened his pace, his breath coming hard and fast. “You feel so good, a leannan, so wet, so tight!”
Another howl. Another answering call.
But, lost in the wonder of this wild coupling, she barely heard them, Morgan’s deep thrusts carrying her closer and closer to her peak. Her breath came in pants, release seeming to stay just beyond her reach. She could not bear it—oh, sweet heaven!—but she did not want it to end. Faster he went, and harder, murmuring to her in his Scottish tongue, his breath hot on her skin, his stones slapping against her with each forceful thrust.
And then the heat drew into a tight ball in her belly—and burst into a thousand shards of light. She cried out, overcome by the piercing sweetness, her fingers digging into the thick fur of the bearskin, Morgan’s deep groan mingling with her cries, as the stars rained down around them, leaving them both breathless and replete in the warm summer’s night.
Amalie awoke to find the sun newly risen, a bouquet of wildflowers lying on the bearskin beside her. She stretched, smiling to herself, her body still languid from Morgan’s loving. He was no doubt off talking with Joseph, as was their wont early in the morning each day. He would be back soon, and hungry for breakfast.