He was aware. Blissfully, wretchedly aware.
Her nightgown had bunched up so that the silken length of her leg wrapped around his hip. He hissed out a slow breath, his body achingly alert to the proximity of sweet feminine flesh against him.
He fought to swallow. Her closeness was too much for any man to bear. He lowered a hand to the limb to push it off him, but then his hand lingered, luxuriating in the soft skin of her knee, the delicate bend.
She sighed and snuggled her face closer up his chest, right beside his face.
He reminded himself that she was sleeping. He told himself to let go of her knee. To remove her from him, peel her off and away.
Easier said than done.
He brought his face down to her neck and breathed her in. She smelled delicious. Like flowers and winter and soap all rolled into one welcoming package. He nuzzled her neck like he was some kind of purring cat desperate to get closer. And then he licked her. Tasted her warm skin with a small, satisfied growl. He followed the taste with a moist, openmouthed kiss on the side of her throat.
Her breath caught just above his ear, feathering his hair. He felt her swallow, her slender throat working against his lips.
Everything in him felt liquid-hot and melting . . . like his muscles had dissolved into heated butter. He wanted to crawl inside her. Roll her onto her back and drive his body into hers until he experienced every part of her.
Every curve and dip and hollow. All her softness. His cock swelled, aching and eager to slide inside her snug heat. The core of her was so close, radiating heat, not far from his hip. So close. Her nightgown was already gathered high, her thigh flung around his hip. It wouldn’t take much. A slight shifting and push and he could be inside her.
The sudden surge of need shook him to the core. It wasn’t like anything he felt before. He’d always been strong and in control.
Right now he did not feel that way at all.
It dragged him back to reality, kept him from going further. It was enough. Enough to bring him back. He lifted his face from her throat and released her thigh . . . only to find a pair of unblinking brown eyes fastened to his face.
She was awake.
“Clara,” he breathed her name like a benediction. That’s how it felt on his lips. She was an answer to prayers. Prayers he had refused to think or utter. Somehow they had been answered anyway.
She didn’t move. Not even a fraction of an inch.
Hunt waited for her to scramble away. Maybe even slap his face.
He watched her, waiting. “Good morning,” he husked.
“Good morning,” she whispered back.
He watched her lovely throat work as she swallowed. Then she shocked him by taking his hand and moving it back to where it had been on her knee.
He exhaled sharply as she settled his palm over the bend in her leg, pressing down so that he gripped her, so that his fingers splayed wide.
He read the hesitation in her face. She might be inviting him to resume touching her, but she was still frightened.
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Why did you stop?”
Chapter 13
Clara could not have made the invitation any clearer.
She didn’t know where such boldness came from within her. She had never forayed into intimacy like this. She didn’t know she had it in her. She supposed it had something to do with the way he made her feel . . . something to do with the fire in her blood. Something to do with the fact that this handsome man was her husband. He was hers now as much as she was his, and she could do this. There was no reason not to.
He said her name again. “Clara.” In that husky brogue of his. She felt herself melting, sliding deeper into a puddle of desire.
They hadn’t even kissed. Not a true romantic kiss. She did not count the chaste peck the morning of her wedding.
And heavens, she had wanted him to kiss her even then, in front of all those people.
She wanted his mouth on hers. She wanted to taste him with an ache that went bone-deep. Despite his gruffness, his mouth looked beautiful. There was a tenderness in the well-carved shape that she wanted to explore.
She inhaled a ragged breath, trying to calm her racing nerves. Desire rushed through her. Waking up to find him so close, touching her, licking her . . . She inhaled a shuddering breath. She should have been shocked or frightened, but he felt so good against her.
“Hunt,” she whispered as she flattened a trembling hand against his chest. His heart beat hard against her palm, but hers beat harder.
She felt so awkward. She didn’t know what to do next.
Instinct guided her and inched her forward. She pressed her mouth to his throat. He tensed as she feathered tiny kisses along the edge of his jaw until she reached the corner of his mouth. She paused there, suddenly seized with uncertainty.
His head dipped then, swiftly catching her mouth, claiming her for a kiss as though she might vanish from him.
Both his hands stole around her waist, pulling her flush against him, keeping her close so that their mouths remained fused.
She gasped and his tongue entered her mouth, slicked over hers expertly. She leaned in, moaning, tangling her tongue with his, faintly tasting the whisky on him.
She curled her fingers into his bare shoulders, clinging to him as though she couldn’t get close enough, which was absurd. They were in a bed. Side to side and wrapped in each other’s arms. How much closer could she get?
He made a deep sound in his throat and kissed her deeper, his fingers clenching her tighter. She touched his face, the scratchy growth of hair on his cheek a delicious scrape that vibrated through her.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Mouths slanting in one direction and then another and another. She didn’t know kissing could be this way. So intoxicating. So addictive. Endless and not enough.
She wanted more.
As though he read her mind, one of his hands moved up and palmed her breast through her nightgown. Sensation shot through her. Instantly she felt her nipple bead into a hard point. She moaned into his mouth, pushing her breast into his palm.
He released an epithet against her lips, pulling back.
She whimpered at the loss of him, but it was only temporary. He reached down between them and grabbed the hem of her nightgown. Seizing it, he tugged it up her body and over her head, leaving her naked as the day she was born.
His eyes traveled over her beside him in the bed, his blue eyes dark and intent on her. Her nipples tightened under his stare. Heat devoured her face. Her hands flew to her breasts, but his fingers circled her wrists, tugging them down.
“Don’t,” he commanded. “You’re perfect.”
Trembling, she didn’t know if it was from his gaze or his words. The deep sound of his voice pushed her desire higher, the twisting throb becoming almost painful between her legs.
Still watching her, his fingers trailed down her belly to her thighs. He stroked and petted her until she was in a frenzy.
“Hunt,” she sobbed.
In response, he shocked her by delving between her thighs and easing one finger inside her moist heat. “What . . . are . . .” She couldn’t finish the question.
She flew out of her skin.
She had never felt anything like it. Sensations bombarded her as he stroked in and out of her, lightly circling a sensitive pleasure point above her folds. She writhed, small incoherent sounds bubbling up in her throat.
“Please,” she begged, without modesty or any sense of dignity.
He finally took mercy on her and gave her body what it craved. His thumb pushed down on that spot and rolled it in a swift circle.
She arched against him, clawing his shoulders.
He added a second finger and thrust both of them inside her with deep, slow drags.
He caught her lips in another blistering kiss, drinking the sounds from her mouth as he worked her into a frenzy, his thumb pushing and circling.
“You feel so ve
rra perfect, Clara.” His guttural brogue only added to the delicious torment. She felt his voice as tangibly as his touch.
The deep, twisting pressure in her core built . . . and built.
“Come, lass,” he growled against her mouth. “Let go.”
Writhing, she shook her head, not certain what he was asking, what she needed to do.
Then his mouth was gone. He was gone.
Blinking, her head lifted, searching, bewildered.
“Hunt? What are you—”
All speech fled on a strangled shriek as his mouth landed . . . down there, where his hand had been.
She froze and tensed.
His lips closed around that nub and sucked, his tongue laving the little pearl buried in her femininity.
Pleasure exploded inside her, centered directly where his mouth fused so intimately on her. She fell back on the bed with a moan. Hot waves of sensation that seemed to go on forever rolled over her as he loved her so thoroughly.
She buried her hands in his hair and tugged hard on the ends, urging him on. His hands slid beneath her, gripping her bottom and hauling her closer to his mouth. He continued working his magic with his lips and tongue until she fell back on the bed, her chest heaving like she had just run a race.
He came up, crawling over her like a predator, looking very intent, his blue eyes gleaming darkly.
He looked tempting and masculine with his arms braced on either side of her, his biceps flexing taut to support his weight.
He traced a finger over her mouth. She snatched hold of it with her teeth. She didn’t know where the impulse came from, but she bit down on the tip, enjoying the way his entire body tensed, muscles locking. She touched the tip of her tongue to his finger. If possible, his eyes grew darker. Unbelievably, the intense ache returned between her legs. She clamped her thighs together as if that could somehow assuage the throbbing there.
His hands moved to her face, cupping her cheeks, fingers burrowing into her hair as he kissed her again.
There was no such thing as too close. Her breasts mashed against his chest. She reveled in the hard strength of him surrounding her.
He dragged his open mouth down her throat, biting down where her shoulder and neck met. Not hard but enough for a moan to shudder out of her.
He closed both hands over her aching breasts and she arched into his palms. His head descended and his mouth closed over one nipple, drawing it deep into the warm cave of his mouth.
“Oh!” Clara cried, burying her hands in his hair and holding him to her. “Don’t . . . stop.”
He moved his mouth to her other breast, speaking around her turgid nipple. “No fear there, lass. I have no’ even begun with you yet.”
He settled between her thighs. She would have been scandalized, but his bigger body felt wonderful, hard and insistent against her warmth, and she ached. Her belly tightened with need and she wiggled desperately against him. She felt herself grow wet. It was mortifying and yet she didn’t want to stop any of this.
Her fingers dug into his back.
She felt him then. The hard head of him at her entrance, sinking inside her, inch by inch. She gasped at the sudden invasion, at the sharp pain. It was too much. She felt stretched, full in a way she had never imagined possible.
Her arms wrapped more fully around him, desperate to hold on to him as she was impaled. He felt . . . huge.
Her gaze flitted everywhere, seeing nothing, feeling everything, both thrilled and scared at what was happening.
He groaned, dropping his head in the crook of her shoulder, his mouth moving against her humming flesh and sending delighted shivers throughout her as he added, “You feel . . . perfect. Like you are made for me, lass.” His voice twisted into a gasp as she wiggled under him, acclimating to the size of him lodged inside her. It was a heady and alluring thought—that one person could be made for another. That they were made for each other. She liked that idea perhaps more than she should.
His hands slid to her thighs, anchoring her for his body, and then he resumed moving, thrusting with steady strokes inside her.
Her muscles stretched to accommodate him, burning and throbbing around his hard length. He looked down at her and smoothed the hair from her face. “Is this good?”
Instead of answering, she wiggled some more, testing out the feel of him. Her inner muscles clenched around him and that shot sensation to every nerve in her body.
He groaned and bracketed his arms on either side of her, quickening his pace, his thrusts growing harder, each one driving a sharp cry from her.
She angled her hips, taking in more of him, following her instincts, searching for a way to bring him closer, deeper, to assuage that ache that only seemed to grow. “More,” she pleaded.
She had to move. She lifted her hips to better meet his plunging manhood.
She whimpered at the drag of him against her aching flesh. The friction drove her wild. Pressure built at her center, coiling in her belly. Her body demanded more, needed it harder. Her hands moved to clench the firm flesh of his buttocks.
“Clara,” he choked. “Please. I’m trying no’ tae be rough wi’ you, lass.”
“I won’t break,” she snapped, her fingers digging harder into his backside.
With a strangled oath, his big hands slid under her bottom and lifted her higher. The angle changed everything.
Spots danced in her vision as he ground into her and hit some place deep inside that she never knew existed. She arched under him, her head dropping back on the bed as she cried out, tears leaking from her eyes.
She closed her eyes and felt him lean over her, his breath fanning her lips as he growled. “Open your eyes tae me now, Clara. Look at me. See it’s me doing this tae you. No’ him.”
Her eyes flew open wide. His face was fierce, his eyes dark, devouring, demanding all from her.
Oh. God.
He thought she was maybe thinking of another lover. It was horrible. He thought she’d had another lover. He believed her to be experienced. Certainly not a virgin—and technically, she no longer was a virgin. Because of right now . . . because of Hunt.
She shook her head slightly, opening her mouth to say something, anything that could correct this wretched lie between them . . . but instead she sucked in a breath as his big, callus-roughened hand slid under her thigh, wrapping her leg around him, making more room for him between her thighs. He pumped harder, their bodies smacking together as they came together. Words were impossible. Confessions for another time, later—after this.
His face was so close. Eyes feral as they locked on hers. “You’re mine now, lass.”
She came apart in his arms.
He followed after her, shuddering with a bellow as his seed emptied inside her . . . and then he stilled, his chest lifting high with wild breaths.
She clutched him close, one hand buried in his hair, the other splayed wide on his back.
Their ragged breaths filled the air. She didn’t want to break away and let go. She didn’t want to face the questions that would come. The answers she would have to give that would change everything.
The fierceness faded from his gaze, replaced with something akin to tenderness. It was awkward . . . because she knew it wouldn’t last. He rose up from the bed.
She tugged the bedding over her, modesty suddenly returning as she watched him dress. An ache twisted in her chest as she appreciated the hard lines and hollows of his body. Even looking at him now made her heart race.
She’d gone and done it.
Without first telling him the truth and beginning their marriage honestly.
Her throat thickened with dread. She’d intended to tell him last night, but they’d both been tired. She’d told herself it could wait until the morning . . . but then she woke up to his mouth on her throat, his hand on her knee, and she was lost.
She pasted a smile on her face and hoped it didn’t look too thin. Clutching the bedding to her chest, she sat up and scooted to the edge of the
bed, wincing at the vague soreness between her legs.
Once he was dressed, he stood in front of her. “I’ll go see tae breakfast and the horses and carriage . . . make certain they are ready so that we might soon be on our way.” He smiled seductively as he looked down at her, scanning her, and she felt the pull of that slow grin affecting her, making her tingle all over yet again. “I could grow accustomed tae seeing ye this way,” he whispered in an almost tender voice.
“What way?”
“Naked in bed, your face glowing from a thorough shag.”
Her cheeks caught fire.
Tell him. Tell him now.
She opened her mouth but was silenced by his swift kiss. “As fetching as you are like this, dress yourself. I’ll be back directly.”
Then he was gone.
She got up to dress, marveling at the twinges between her legs as she moved . . . a lasting reminder that she had been claimed, thoroughly, by Laird Hunt MacLarin.
Everything was going to be different now.
Chapter 14
Clara was finishing packing her valise when Hunt returned, smelling of frigid wind and rain. No surprise, it was showering lightly outside the window, water pelting the glass in a steady patter. Surprisingly, she felt a little shy around him. Her cheeks heated and she knew she must be blushing. She avoided looking at him and rotated in place, surveying the room, giving it a final search.
“I think I have everything.” She then spotted her hair ribbon in the mussed bedding. “Oh, my ribbon.” She started to move toward it, but Hunt stood closer.
He moved, reaching the bed first.
“What’s this?” he asked, flipping the covers back to reveal more of the bed. He stilled. “Clara?” The tense sound of his voice made the tiny hairs on her nape prickle in warning.
She followed his gaze and her stomach plummeted. The bottom fell out of her world. There it was. As plain as the morning light streaming through the windows.
Blood. A small splash of crimson on the bed.
Oh, no no no no.
She knew what it was.
She knew what it signified, but she did not quite know how to tell him . . . how to explain. She had not imagined this would be the way in which she revealed the truth to him. No, it had not felt nearly as dramatic as this in her imaginings. Not as terrifying.
This Scot of Mine EPB Page 12