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As if she could!
Her eagerness for him came from everywhere. From the days she spent here so close and yet so far from him. From the forced separation of four interminable years. The sorrow, the pain, the sacrifice. The excruciating desire he was with her when she nurtured their child in her womb. When she gave birth, and saw the bundle grow into a mirror of the husband she missed every minute. The wish to stay close to him despite the danger. Because of the danger. In danger. The love for a man that would never subside, never fade, never weaken. Everything coalesced in her craving for him, in this ebullition without control. In this greed to absorb every single second they were together. Because it felt like the last second, the last kiss, the last whisper. The last happy moment.
So she held nothing back. Everything he wanted. Everything she wanted. This. Here. She would yield. Forfeit. Surrender. In complete abandon.
They lay on the bed, his stubble grazing down her neck, to the junction with her shoulder. Impatient hands tore at her nightgown to find her breast, followed by thirsty lips. Smart fingers reached her core, ready for him.
“Freya.” He rasped. “I cannot wait.” Desperation in his tone.
Her spine arched into him. “Then do not.”
He required no other incentive. Not even having to use his hand to guide himself, they joined. Deep. Hungry. Urgent.
She was so ready, her skin so sensitive, she registered every single inch of him diving in her which drove her to insane moans. She held him like a vice and they became so glued, so intimate, so…welded there was no way of telling one from the other.
They moved in the moonlight seeping through the curtains, in between moans, gasps, broken words.
“Drostan.” She pleaded. And she did not know if she pleaded to go slower or faster. Or whatever. His heated texture. His scent of horse, night and man. His sounds, grunts, need, passion. It all pushed her farther.
And she pushed him. Urged him. Taunted him. Breathless, on the edge.
She moved her hips to get more of him. Contorted to feel all of him. Tightened her limbs to keep all of him. And fell into a dark precipice of sensation so wrenchingly intense she dissolved in the fragments of her own pleasure.
He thrust blind, erratic, coarse; only to follow her to the abysm, giv
ing her everything he had. His taut frame collapsed, panting. He stayed there for long moments, his see-sawing breath the only sound in the night. Rolling them, he lay under her, pulling one end of the tartan over their sated bodies. A long time passed before they could even move. They lay on the bed just listening to their own breath, revelling in the warmth they produced.
Her hair fell on his shoulder; his fingers combed through it. “I summoned your father to the manor.” His hoarse tone started at last.
In a swift jerk, she lifted her head. “With what purpose?” She had not seen him and her mother in years and missed them. She would have preferred to be present at the conversation.
“To inform him of the situation and demand he take action.” His other hand grazed her arm leisurely.
“What is he going to do?” She fell to his side to look at him more clearly.
“We suggested he appoint an heir, and he agreed.” He picked a strand of her hair and brought to his nose, inhaling deep in the perfume.
She nodded as her fingers revelled in his peppered chest through his shirt. “Let us hope it puts an end in the whole affair.”
“It should.” The promise of return to a semblance of normalcy cheered her.
“I have left letters with my solicitor when this started.” Her turn to volunteer information.
His head rolled to her. “You did?”
“Yes, informing everyone of Ross’s machinations.” She inhaled deeply. “To you, my father and the magistrate. He had instructions to send them in case something happened to me or Ewan.”
“Does Ross know of them?” His hand skimmed her narrow waist.
“I told him when he came to threaten me here.”
“Smart lass.” He approved.
“He is aware he cannot force his ambitions too far.” Her head rested on his taut shoulder.
“Your father and I got knowledge of it now.”
“Better if Ross thinks not.” He might thwart Laird McPherson’s actions to secure the succession.
