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“You are mine.” A flinty rumble on her nape. “Only mine!” His hips whacked on her with his extreme invasion.
He took her hard, fast and unerring. She wanted nothing less than his undivided focus on her, on them. On this.
Those fingers in her middle still perpetrated a tragic capitulation aided by his merciless ramming. “Say you belong to me.” The hoarseness of his utterance, the grazing of his stubble on her delicate tissue incinerated the wispy remnants of her lucidity.
She just wished him never to stop. “I am yours.” She submitted impenitent.
His hair peppered torso grazed her back, its large frame engulfing her at the same time it pressed her against the panel.
What he wanted, she would give. What he demanded, she would yield. What he took, she would not miss. This man, his touch, the way he looked at her, the way his presence spread into her life—like tumbled wine on a table cloth—made her weak. Made her strong. Made her desire him more. And more. So, she denied nothing, for he would reward her with this and everything else. Again and again.
Then his thrusts sped, his fingers sped, his breath sped. And she thrashed against him, incited him, impelled him. Until the catastrophe became too fatal to be deterred.
The combustion burned everything to ashes. Her unrestrained scream, his implacable grunts left nothing standing. He rode her sharp contractions to the last drop of his delivery.
When their bodies resumed a semblance of normalcy, Taran took Aileen in his arms and carried her to their bed, where he enfolded her to him and did not let go the rest of night.
Taran awoke to the incipient light of dawn and looked at the woman circled by his arms. He remembered last night, their fire, her surrender, the absolutely wrenching satisfaction he found in her. With her.
His guts tied in knots.
He did not want to think. He did not want to look for answers. He did not care for them.
This woman here did something to him. And he did not understand what it was. Should she express a wish to go from him one day, he suspected it would destroy him. Too much power for this diminutive lass.
He could not even contemplate the possibility.
And did not.
Stubble mouth started caressing hers, palms grazing her skin, tangling in her hair.
She moaned before she opened her eyes. When she did, they merged in his in silent and long communication before his mouth locked on hers thirsty.
He just craved her, stay with her, join their bodies, feel the smoothness against him.
For that, he stroked every single inch of his wife, from glossy hair, to delicate feet, not leaving any part unattended. He learned her, he memorised her. Worshipped her. With a desperation too alien to give him pause.
As he took her, their arms held fast, their legs entangled, their mouths clutched, steamy. In the faint light of dawn, cloaked in that diffuse luminosity. Cloaked in the warmth they gave and received. Enclosed in their world, their sensations, their emotions.
When their passion finally reached its pinnacle, it was more than their bodies that had found fulfilment.
And Taran did not want to think about that either.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The morning room displayed a truly Scottish fare as Aileen came into it. Taran sat there with a hearty plate in front of him.
Her face acquired every shade of red when her eyes alit on him. The night had been—oh, drat!—it had been scalding. Green beacons clasped knowingly on her, nearly reducing her to ashes. Vapourish, surrendering ashes.
Swiftly, she diverted her treacherous attention, murmuring a good-morning and serving a plate for herself.
At the table, she met his inspection fast on her. Emotions squirmed through her, undefined, contradictory. This time she was incapable of interrupting the contact.
Intense emotions jumbled nameless. Not shame, not embarrassment, not even bashfulness. Nothing of the sort.
She wanted to go back and do it all over again. Twice.
No, three times.
