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“Come here, woman.” He issued, his eyes feasting on her appetising curves.
Unhurried, hazel eyes perused his white shirt, his tartan wrapped over his large frame, detaining on the tenting wool in the vicinity of his hips. And darted back to him. The tenting got worse.
Her bare feet paced to the bed, full breasts bouncing, shapely hips swaying killing him with the waiting. Long auburn hair fell around her shoulders almost to her navel. Feminine knees flexed on the bedsheets; his strong hands pulled her to him. She still knelt when he raised his hungry mouth to latch on her inviting nipple. And suckled. Her hand propped on the wall behind the bed; her lips produced a moan. Warm hands skimmed her thighs, hips, grabbing her tiny waist. One palm reached the other breast, making her legs sag as she sat on his knees.
She gave as good as she got. Her dainty hands slid under the plaid, grazing upwards, to find what tented the fabric. No small clothes for a true highlander, no. When her cool fingers closed around him, he dropped her breast and his head fell back with a groan. Her free fingers uncovered his considerable manhood, bunching the wool around his tapered hips. And continued her quest relentless.
“Hell, wife!” Came his desperate rumble. “Do you want to unman me before we have fun?”
With a smiling huff, she abandoned this task and inclined towards his upper body, going onto him to unbutton his shirt. Long hair tumbled on him with silky, soapy scent. Her full lips landed on his warm skin, tongue darting out, opening the way to his manly nipples; he closed his eyes, hoping to make it to the end. His large hands sneaked to her folds, leafing through them to delve in hot, wet core. It did not help his extreme arousal. After eliciting approval from her, smart fingers circled her engorged button. It was too much for him.
Strong biceps banded her waist, and he pinned her to the bed. The head of him at her entrance, he pushed into her dripping channel as she bent her legs to cradle him. In one movement, he sat in her to the hilt, one arm stretched, the other elbow propped beside her head.
Her legs laced him while her teeth sank on her cushioned lower lip in a display of pure pleasure. He could not hold it any longer. He lunged in and out of her as she moved her hips in search of him. She pulled him down and they touched everywhere while they became more famished, more irrational, more passionate. His hips thrust quicker, her moans came louder, he dived deeper at the same time her hot channel gripped him. She opened her mouth in a tortured silent scream. He lost control, plunging twice more before he poured everything he had far into her.
He went on moving, watching closely when her tremors subsidised and envisioned himself filling her with his second child, dreaming of her swelling with his seed. His palm stroked her inviting stomach. Every night would he take her and register her increasing until she gave birth; and he could do it all over again. The thought propelled an instant and fulminating arousal. Her stare widened the moment her channel felt him hardening anew. He held her breasts trying to visualise the infant feeding on them, making them even fuller, riper. This made him fear he would explode without even moving.
His thrusts restarted, the possibility bringing him to breaking point. The possibility of seeing everything he had not been able to when Ewan was born. Everything he missed, lost because of a silly clan squabble. He ploughed fast, single-minded. A masculine big thumb reached between them to tantalize her to a level where she clenched around him and contributed to his renewed downfall. Now he pushed hard. Blind. Mindless. Not caring if he grunted, or made any noise. He was beyond reasoning. As he emptied inside her, he muffled his near hoar on her neck as his whole body shook with his ragged release.
Drostan’s broad frame collapsed on her completely spent. Then, and only then, did he find respite.
Freya rested her head on her husband’s large chest, playing with the silky hair which peppered it. Their tempestuous love-making had left her so sated that laxity dominated her. The first time she climaxed, it came intense and smouldering. But the second had quite simply disintegrated her with such an overwhelming sensation, doubly as scorching as the first. It nearly tore her in two.
It confirmed what she had already realised. Her Laird disclosed unfathomable depths. This had not been barely coupling. Something in him simmered below the surface causing his outburst-like drive.
The masculine big frame turned to her, tangling muscled legs with hers. A large hand moulded her slim waist. “We might have more children coming.” He started as that large hand caressed her side.
Her eyes lifted to him. “It is not like we are doing anything to thwart nature.?
??
“Do you wish for more?” He nibbled her ear, spreading goose-bumps on her skin.
His old-whisky glare locked with hers, and somehow, she sensed this was important for him. “Yes.” She nodded. “For as many as will come.” Of course she did. They would be the result of her love for him.
“Good we can practice, then.” His palm sauntered to her middle, splaying over it.
A shameless giggle escaped her. Short-lived, though, for she sobered. “Even though right now the situation is a tad dire.” To run with one child had been difficult enough. If she saw herself with a second one, she would be effusively happy, but it would become doubly risky.
“It will be over.” He drawled on her shoulder. “We will find a way.” He reassured her.
“I hope so.” Burrowing further into him, she sought his warmth.
When she looked at him again in the candlelight, he had fallen asleep. No wonder, she smiled. He must rebuild his energy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Next morning, Ewan frolicked outside after eating while Drostan and Freya finished their breakfast in the front room.
“Since the rain has stopped I will exercise the horses with Ewan.” He informed her before he drank his coffee.
He still reeled from the wrenching thoughts from last night. And wrenching release. Releases. Damn it! His taking of his wife bared him to the bones. He hoped the ride would clear his mind because it whirled round and round with the situation they faced.
In the front yard, he taught Ewan about saddling horses. “Let us mount Threuna, Ewan.” He coaxed his boy. “We will pull Loch by the reins.” The wee bairn called the mare so enthusiastically by its nickname that Drostan did not insist on Reul, the one Fingal had given her.
They rode along the track downhill, and would find a place where the trot offered challenge for the horses. He had placed Ewan in front of him on the saddle. His son rode happily talking at the mare.
Two issues became crystal clear to him, he listed, as the crisp air mussed his wavy strands. One was about Ewan. Awareness that not having been with the babe since he grew in his wife’s womb created a gap in his life. The knowledge this happened because an imbecile chieftain had more ambition than common sense enraged Drostan. The loss it caused his wife, his son and him mounted to unbearable these days. Bonding with his heir revealed how much he missed on his upbringing. It led him to wish for many more children to bridge such gap.
