Page 65 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

He tugged her closer. The distance between them vanished. Her chest brushed against the hard wall of his plaid, the rough wool scratching against her soft linen tunic, a friction that shot sparks through her nerves. She could feel the rigid planes of his chest, the heavy thud of his heart beating a frantic rhythm against her own breast.

Fearchar released her hand only to slide his arm around her waist, hauling her flush against him. The movement was effortless, a display of raw strength that made her head spin. His other hand came up to her neck, his fingers tangling in the loose strands of her hair, tilting her head back until she had no choice but to look up at him.

"Ye tease me, Nandag," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against her collarbone. "Ye see too much."

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and the anticipation was a physical ache, a throbbing need that pulsed between her thighs. She wet her lips, her tongue darting out nervously, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.

He didn't ask. He didn't wait. He lowered his head and captured her mouth.

The kiss was not gentle. His lips were demanding, hot and insistent, prying hers open with an urgency that stole the air from her lungs. Nandag gasped, her hands flying up to grasp his shoulders, her nails digging into the heavy wool of his plaid.

He tasted of whisky. His tongue swept into her mouth, tangling with hers, stroking and exploring with a dominance that made her knees weak. She moaned into the kiss, the sound muffled and swallowed by his devouring mouth. He angled his head, deepening the kiss, his hand tightening in her hair, sending sharp pricks of pleasure-pain along her scalp.

Fearchar broke the kiss only to drag his lips along her jaw, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. He nipped at the sensitive spot just below her ear, his teeth grazing the pulse point that hammered wildly beneath her flesh.

His hand left her waist and moved to her breast, heavy and warm through the layers of fabric. He didn't hesitate. He palmed her, his thumb finding the peak of her nipple and rubbing it roughly through the linen. The sensation was electric, a direct line to the wet heat gathering between her legs. Nandag arched her back, pushing herself into his hand, a silent plea for more.

"Fearchar," she breathed, her head falling back, exposing the long line of her throat to him.

He took the invitation. His mouth latched onto the side of her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, his tongue soothing the sting immediately after. His hand abandoned her breast momentarily, only to dive beneath the heavy weight of her plaid, seeking the warmth of her skin.

His fingers were rough, calloused from sword hilts and reins, but his touch was surprisingly deft. He found the laces of her bodice and tugged, the knots giving way under his impatience. When his hand slipped inside, cupping her bare breast, the shock of skin-on-skin contact made her cry out.

Her nipple pebbled instantly against his palm. He rolled the tight bud between his fingers, pinching and tugging with just enough pressure to walk the line between pleasure and pain. Nandag’s hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking friction against the hard ridge of his thigh.

He felt the movement. A dark, satisfied sound vibrated in his chest. He shifted his stance, spreading his legs slightly, and pulled her harder against him, trapping his thigh between hers.

"Take what ye need, lass," he commanded, his voice rough with lust.

Nandag didn't hesitate. She ground herself against his leg, the friction of her skirts and his trousers creating a maddening, delicious pressure on her clit. She was soaking wet, her folds slick and swollen, aching to be filled. Every roll of her hips sent a jolt of pleasure through her core, building a tight, coiling knot deep in her belly.

Fearchar watched her, his eyes dark and hooded, drinking in the sight of her falling apart in his arms. He claimed her mouth again, swallowing her whimpers, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of her hips.

While she rode his thigh, his hand left her breast and traveled downward, pushing past the barrier of her skirts until he reached the heat between her legs. He didn't tease. He cupped her mound through the thin fabric of her underthings, his middle finger pressing firmly against the damp cloth, right over her aching center.

"Christ," he hissed, feeling how wet she was. "Ye're drenched, Nandag."

He tore the fabric aside. Before she could gasp, his fingers were on her bare flesh.

He slid his fingers through her wet folds, spreading her arousal, coating his digits in her essence. He found the sensitive nub of her clit and circled it, slow, deliberate strokes that made her vision blur.

"Look at me," he ordered.

Nandag forced her eyes open, locking gazes with him. His face was taut with restraint, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he fought for control. But his eyes... his eyes were burning her alive.

He pushed one thick finger inside her. She was tight, clenching around the intrusion, but she was so wet he slid in easily. He curled his finger upward, finding that spot inside her that made her see stars, and began to pump it in and out, in rhythm with the circling of his thumb on her clit.

"Oh God," she cried out, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders. "Fearchar... please."

He added a second finger, stretching her, filling her. His fingers plunged deep and hard, mimicking the act they both craved but couldn't yet have. "Let go fer me, Nandag. Let me feel it."

The pressure was too much. The coil in her belly snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her with the force of a storm, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers, her body shaking violently against his. She cried out his name, her head falling forward onto his chest as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, leaving her gasping and trembling.

Fearchar didn't stop. He worked her through it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last drop until she was slumped against him, her legs barely able to hold her weight.

But he wasn't done.

He pulled his hand from between her legs, glistening with her juices, and brought it to his mouth. His eyes never left hers as he licked her essence from his fingers, savoring the taste with a groan of pure male satisfaction.