She untied the laces for him. Her fingers still trembled, and it was with eagerness. She wanted his hands on her. His mouth.
When the front of the lovely night rail came undone, he reached for her. Hesitated. Gazed into her eyes.
“Are ye certain o’ this, Annista? Certain it is what ye want?”
For answer, she drew him to her. Buried her fingers in his thick, black hair and guided him to her breast.
She needed—
She needed to know if it felt as wondrous, as powerful as she remembered from the lodge, having him there, his mouth tugging on one aching bud, starting a fire burning low in her belly. Drawing upon something in her as if—as if he would claim her very soul for his own. She needed to know if the impulse she’d felt then—a sweeping desire to give and give to him, to surrender to his touch and give him whatever he might ask—at once powerful and yielding, or perhaps powerful in its yielding, would find her again.
It did.It did.
With a sigh, more than half groan, she arched her back and offered more of herself to him. For the first time in days uncounted, her fears receded—did not leave her, nay, but fell away. There was only this. The quiet room, the fire flickering, casting half-light. Her, and him. His hand palming her other breast even as his lips and tongue, hot and wet, called up that marvelous response inside her.
“Annista,” he said at last, releasing her so his hot, damp breath fanned across her wet flesh. “Kiss me.”
She tumbled across his knees and into his arms. She could feel he was hard, like iron, beneath her bottom. They kissed, if it could go by so insipid a name. Surely it was far more. Deep and sustaining. An exchange of being.
“Touch me,” she begged into his mouth and he abraded her naked breast with his palm, sending the ache deeper.
“More,” she begged, and he stopped kissing her to gaze into her eyes. For a long moment, they connected, gaze to gaze, as they had tongue to tongue.
Annista, who usually—if only out of self-defense—disguised most of what she felt, hid nothing from him. Not the desire. Not even the far more fundamental need, that to give and receive, to meld with someone who saw her as she was.
Then he slid one hand down her leg, dragged the night rail upward, baring her as it went.
She should be embarrassed, perhaps, or at least shocked. The taking of such a liberty and the intimacy it implied—but he was her husband, was he not? She’d been bartered away to him, and this was the consequence.
Or possibly, her reward.
So rather than retreating in modesty, she held his smoky gaze and opened herself to him. Began to pray.Do not stop touching me, do not stop, oh, please do not.
He didn’t. His fingers, gentle yet insistent, reached between her thighs, availing himself of the space she’d offered. Brushed the curls there, warm and damp. Sought entry.
“Aye,” she told him. Another plea.
When his fingers entered her—a place no one had ever touched—she saw stars, real stars against a field of velvety black, bursting with flame. His touch answered the need that overmastered her. Could she care for aught else, even modesty or consequences?
One finger inside her and then two. The intimacy of the act suffused her, though she knew a rarer intimacy had yet to come.
She’d seen horses mate. She thought she knew—in part—what to expect.
“Please,” she said and wound her arms around his neck. Drew his mouth to hers. Something built inside her. She could only beg.
When he rose and carried her to the bed, she scarcely noticed. The counterpane came up to meet her back.
He did not speak as he backed off from her. She gave a moan of protest and then watched with wide eyes as he struggled from the rest of his damp clothing.
Aroused for her, aye—so he was. And her throat went dry at the very sight.
He climbed onto the bed and she began to turn over. She’d seen horses mate, aye, and had a vague idea how this must go. But he caught her with careful hands.
“Nay.”
“Is that no’ how—?”
“Sometimes, aye. No’ now. I want to see ye.”
