Hannah and the Highlander

by Sabrina York

  He huffed a laugh. “They’re nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “It was … long ago.” He bent and kissed her again, with a wild passion, possibly to silence her questions. Possibly because he felt the need as strongly as she did. His mouth burned a path over her cheek and down to the crook of her neck, where he nested. His reaction made it clear he didn’t want to talk about the scars. Which was fine. Because this new barrage was such a tantalizing sensation, it filled her consciousness. She gripped his head to hold him there, just so.

  Apparently, he was as needy as she, for he sank back into her, resumed his delightful forays beneath her skirts and his assault on her aching breasts. When he dipped his head to suck one of her nipples into his mouth—and even through the fabric of her gown it was nearly more than she could take—she arched into him, pressing her groin against his.

  His hardness shocked her. Delighted her.

  She rubbed against him and he shuddered. “Lord, have mercy,” he murmured. Or something like it. It was difficult to tell, with the pulse rushing in her ears. She couldn’t help undulating against him again. This time he reared back, his eyes red, his nostrils flared, his lips tight.

  He closed his hands on her thighs and yanked her forward.

  His ferocity thrilled her. She tendered a smile; it was probably a wicked smile, judging from his reaction. A snarl, a curse. He lifted his kilt and fisted his cock. Hannah’s attention was snared by the sight and her heart lurched.

  Oh, not in fear. In an agony of want.

  She spread her legs farther—surely she must, to accommodate him. As large as he’d seemed before, he was larger still and stiff as a pike. The tip gleamed; a droplet clung to it. The sudden urge to lap him there possessed her. Perhaps, later, she would.

  He waited until she met his gaze and then he nudged forward, guiding himself to her entrance.

  She sucked in a breath as he touched her, dragging the fat head up and down her slick center. And then—heaven help her—he eased in. There was a slight burn as he pushed past her barrier and then nothing but the most agonizing delight as he sank deep.

  He moved slowly, though she could tell it cost him.

  Hell, it cost her. She wanted more. More.

  “Ah, God!” she cried as he filled her, impaled her. All her senses danced and sang at the fullness, the heaven, of this intimate touch.

  He made a noise too, something feral and wild and twined with bestial satisfaction. And then another, a grunt, as he pulled out.

  Hannah nearly smacked him. She didn’t want him to pull out. She wanted—

  Ah! But then he plunged in again and the excitement curling in her belly tightened like a fist. The whirlwind that had besieged her before began to spin again and, as he took her, faster, harder, deeper, as his own frenzy grew, she feared it might snatch her away.

  She clung to him for purchase, wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, and held on as tight as she could, sinking her nails into the muscles of his back, running her restless fingers over the fabric of his shirt. Relentlessly he worked in and out of her, even as a new delirium descended, taking her, sending her flying and skittering like a leaf on the wind.

  Her entire body seized, a series of delightful quivers over which she was helpless, and pleased to be so.

  As she closed around him, he thrust harder. His strokes became more frenzied Shorter. Harder. His breath came out in harsh huffs. His features tightened. The scar on his cheek went white. Hannah stared at his face, fascinated, deluded, bemused by the tick of his pulse in his neck.

  She couldn’t resist a lick. A suck. A nibble.

  And her husband, her silent, whispering wolf, bellowed so loudly the walls shook.

  His cock surged inside her. A warm wetness flooded her. He thrust again, and again and again.

  Then, with a groan, he collapsed on her, nesting his face in the crook of her neck.

  Boneless, replete, and exceedingly pleased with how much she had enjoyed this, Hannah held him close and stroked his hair as he recovered.

  He didn’t speak much and he had an aggravating penchant for writing letters when a conversation would do quite nicely. But heavens. Could he make love to a woman.

  She might be very pleased with her marriage after all

  * * *

  Bluidy fucking hell.

  He had bollixed that up but good.

  He’d intended to worship her. To make slow, sweet, passionate love to her for hours until she was on the knife’s edge of desire, panting and begging for him. Not fall on her like a lust-flown fool.

  He’d only gotten as far as her thighs before he lost all reason.

  It was probably her scent. Or her mewls. Or her presence. But he’d lost all reason and completely forgotten the worshiping part.

  He’d taken her. In a chair. Like an animal.

  That animals didn’t make love in chairs hardly signified.

  No doubt she hated him. Thought him a savage at best.

  However, this wasn’t the time to castigate himself. No. This was just the beginning of their marriage. The beginning of their wedding night. He would be gentler next time.

  Next time being now.

  With that resolution, he lifted her gently and carried her to the bed.

  She was boneless in his arms, which he took as a good sign. She sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in his hair, but in a dreamy way, as though she wasn’t quite aware she was doing it.

  Setting her on the mattress, he edged in beside her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her, but it was only to distract her, so he could make his way down the row of buttons along her back. He gave the same teasing strokes he’d lavished on her legs to each swath of skin he revealed. She was warm and soft in his arms, a handful of heaven, and as he explored her shoulders, and the exposed vee of her back, she explored him.

  His heart stuttered when she tugged at his kilt.

  Damn it all to hell. He was wearing too much. Too much for what he intended to do.

  He stood and held her gaze as he unwrapped his plaid, delighting in her avid attention. Without a care, he dropped it to the floor. Then, slowly, he pulled off his shirt. She gasped as his bare chest was revealed. Her eyes flickered over his body in a hungry rake. His knees went a little wobbly when her tongue peeped out.

  Her entire body stiffened when he stroked his belt.

  Again with that damn tempting tongue. His pulse jumped as she dabbed at her lip. As though she wanted to taste him.

  And damn, he wanted her to taste him.

  He unbuckled his belt, undid the snaps, and let his kilt fall, baring everything to her fervent stare. Her focus locked on to his groin, which sent a sharp thrill cutting through him. The beast stirred. Rose.

  Hanna’s nostrils flared. Her body went on point. She rose up on her knees, and with that movement the loosened bodice of the dress fell, pooling at her waist. The dusky circles of her aureoles were visible through the sheer fabric of her chemise, inciting his ardor. Alexander’s mouth watered. He swallowed heavily.

  As his cock lengthened, her eyes widened. Her lips parted.

  Her gaze flicked to his and they connected, touched. Something sizzled between them.

  “Your … dress.” It was all he could manage, but thankfully she understood his command. His need.

  She lifted the frock over her head, tugged it off, and then tossed it behind her. The chemise followed.

  The vision of Hannah, naked, perched on his bed, gutted him.

  Holy God. He’d just had her. He’d just been sated. He’d just sworn to take it slowly this time—to show her how glorious passion could be when a man took his time.

  He was in dire peril of breaking that vow.

  When she opened her arms to him, he knew he was lost.

  He wrenched off his boots and then, without even taking the time to remove his stockings, he joined her on the bed. They faced each other, on their knees, each rapt in
their own examination of the other’s body. She set a hand on his chest, then dragged it slowly up and over his shoulder, murmuring to herself, testing his flesh, and occasionally scraping him with her nails.

  As she explored him, he explored her.

  Her breasts were irresistible. Like a bee to a perfect, fragrant flower, he honed in on them, cupping each in a questing palm. Warm and soft and oh, so sweet. Tantalizing, alluring, a perfect handful. A perfect fit. He thumbed a nipple. Ripples danced over her skin. She moaned. Wriggled in an enticing dance.

  He couldn’t stop himself from lowering his head and tasting her. Her nipples were thick and tight, enticing targets for his attention. Showing the full force of his discipline, he lapped at them and whirled his tongue around the peaks for at least a full minute before he sucked one into his mouth.

  She shuddered and wailed and he drew harder. Her fingers fisted in his hair; brutally she held him in place, barely even allowing him to release one for the other. As he feasted, he skimmed his hand down her bare flank. The silk of her skin registered on his brain with a scorching heat. His senses swam at the smell of her, her taste, her essence.

  Hannah. His Hannah.

  He wanted to taste her everywhere.

  He planned to do so.

  But she had other plans.

  When she pushed him away, his heart plunged. She reared back and stared at him, a fierce expression on her delicate features. She pushed at him once again, this time harder. Denial raged through him. Denial and confusion.

  Ah, but the third time she pushed, her intention became clear.

  His desolation was replaced with a rampant surge of white-hot lust. Because she pushed him onto his back and she surveyed him the way a starving woman surveys a banquet, laid out before her.

  On a bed. Naked. Aroused.

  Wearing nothing but stockings.

  She ignored his stockings.

  He was oblivious to them too. Especially when she leaned closer. Her hair fell onto his chest, a lacy whisper, a silken caress. Then she cradled his face in her hands and kissed him. Not his lips, as he would have liked, but the tip of his nose, his forehead, his cheek. She sent a series of tiny kisses along the length of his scar. When he tried to stop her, when he tried to take charge, she captured his wrists and set them above his head, splaying him out for her delectation. When she shot him a warning look, he understood her perfectly.

  Don’t move.

  Holy fook.

  Had he thought to tease her? To bring her to the knife’s edge of anticipation?

  He was there already, and she’d barely touched him.

  He could not last. He would not last, and he knew it.

  But he would bear it, this innocent, heinous exploration. He would bear it as long as he could. Because she wanted it.

  That above everything else—above the incredible sensation of her fingers riffling through the springy hairs on his chest, the slight tickle of her teeth as she nipped at his beard, the sharp rake of her nails over his belly—moved him.

  She wanted this.

  She wanted him.

  When her journey of discovery led her lower, toward his hips, his cock strained up to greet her. Alexander was aware of the dizzying effect of her touch, her breath, her murmurs. He was also very well aware of the pressure in his balls, the hard, hot thrum of his pulse along the length of his cock. The simmering urge to plant himself in her again. The need to release.

  So when she did it, when she wrapped her fingers around his turgid length, he nearly came out of his skin.

  With a yelp he rolled up and caught her wrists, stopped her. He had to. He was far too close to disaster. She had no idea, this wee bundle of torment and curves. She had no idea what she was doing to him.

  Or perhaps she did.

  A sizzle of excitement whipped through him at the glint in her eye. The tweak of her lips.

  With great resolve, she pushed him back down on the pillows and arranged his arms above his head once more. She waggled a warning finger in his direction, one that made her meaning plain.

  Do. Not. Move.

  He groaned and squeezed his eyes closed but then wrenched them open again when he realized he didn’t want to miss a second of whatever she had planned.

  Because he had a pretty good idea what she had planned. And he didn’t want to miss a second.

  She curled her hand around his cock and gave it a testing pump. He hissed in a breath through his teeth. And then—God help him—she lowered her head. It was nearly overwhelming, watching her mouth close on him and feeling it at the same time. His breath stalled in his lungs. His pulse kicked into a manic rhythm and his head spun.

  Delirium, mindless pleasure, and a clawing need for more raged through him. He threaded his fingers through her hair, reveling in the sleek slide, and then, ultimately, tightened, holding her in place.

  She suckled him, sending skeins of agony through to his gut. Her teeth grazed at his sanity, but then she opened wider and took him deep, enrobing him, encasing him in a grip of torment and pleasure.

  Her tongue lashed his sanity. Her lips worked in a wet frenzy. The suction nearly drew his soul from its earthly anchorage.

  The storm within him raged, edging up, higher and higher, constricting into a torturous grip until he thought he might expire, implode.

  When she added a wicked stroke to her torment, caressing him while she worked him with her velvet kiss, he lost all control.

  Bliss rode over him, like a wild stallion, rampant and free and uncaring of the desolation it incited. Shivers and shudders, quivers and quakes racked him as his being narrowed down to that single point. That point where their bodies merged.

  With a feral howl he came, sinking into her, taking her mouth, filling her with all he had. She took it all. Every drop.

  She left him with nothing.

  Weak, drained, and still beset with shimmers of delight, he collapsed.

  Hannah crawled up his body and lay on top of him, a heady weight. Despite the pleasure she’d just drawn on him, he didn’t think he’d ever known such contentment as this. Skin to skin, from chest to groin, they were sealed. He wrapped his arms around her and held her.

  She murmured a sigh and nestled closer, tucking her face into his neck. He stroked her back as he fought for purchase.

  Bone-deep gratification, bone-deep gratitude, coursed through him and he sent up a prayer of thanks that he’d found her. That she’d wanted him. That they were wed. That she was his.

  Every night could be like this, he told himself. Every night.

  He was almost asleep when it hit him. When he remembered.

  Damn it. He’d forgotten, once again, that he was supposed to be worshiping her.

  Not the other way around.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hannah awoke from a pleasing dream and stretched, enjoying the ripple of soft sheets on her skin and the embrace of a warm nest. The memory of last night drifted through her, along with a pleasant pinging ache between her legs.

  Ah. Her wedding night.

  She’d loved every moment of it.

  She snuggled deeper into her pillow.

  She’d heard tales from the married women of Ciaran Reay, tales intimating that the first time was painful, but Hannah had not experienced that. There’d been nothing but heaven. Nothing but the desire for more.

  Most specifically she’d been possessed of the urge to taste him, as he’d tasted her.

  And he’d allowed it.

  She didn’t know if this was something married women did; the matrons of Ciaran Reay had certainly not mentioned that, but she had enjoyed it. Loved the feel of his smooth skin between her lips, the taste of him, the scent of him. His shivers and groans.

  The best part, of course, had been tormenting him to the point where he lost all control and bellowed her name. Bellowed it.

  She bit back a smile and rolled over, hoping to wake him and, maybe, try that again.

  But her hand landed on cool sheets, lo
ng deserted. He was gone.

  She pouted down at his pillow, next to hers, dented with the shape of his head but empty.

  Well, not empty. There was an envelope on it.

  Hannah recognized the parchment and something in her belly curled.

  A letter?

  Another letter?

  With a frown, she picked up the note and opened it. His script was crisp and precise and, if she was being realistic, not romantic in the slightest. Certainly not as loverly as a night like the one they had shared should command. It said, simply:

  Hannah, Wife,

  I dinna want to wake you. Please enjoy your first day as the Lady of Dunnet. Fergus will be available to give you a tour and introduce you to your people.

  Yours,

  Alexander

  No prose or poems about the beauty of their joining—although she certainly had not expected that. But she’d expected something. Something more.

  And he’d signed it Alexander. Not Dunnet. Was this an invitation to call him by his given name?

  Short of asking him, there was no way to know.

  She sighed and collected her wedding dress and the plaid he had given her and padded through the parlor to her hideously hued room. She saw a covered tray set on the table in the parlor and paused to investigate. A pot of tea—still warm—and a plate of oatcakes.

  Hannah wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t a fan of oatcakes, but she was hungry. She took one and nibbled on it as she continued on to her room and dressed for the day.

  Thusly fortified, she crossed the hall and scratched on Lana’s door.

  Hannah’s sister greeted her with wide eyes. Lana caught Hannah’s arm and tugged her into the room. “How was it?” her sister asked in a whisper, as though someone else might overhear.

  Hannah’s response was naught but a blush. It had been marvelous—until she awoke to find him gone—but she didn’t want to share the details with her sister, who was a maiden, no matter how curious she was.

  Hannah shot a glance at the bed, where Nerid lounged in a truly undignified arrangement, his back leg lifted high. He shot her an offended glare and then proceeded to resume grooming his fur with furious licks. It was nice to see he had weathered his kerfuffle with Brùid with his usual aplomb.