A Perfect Knight For Love (24 page)

Making her absorb and take whatever he gave. As if branding her.

Tears slid from her open and unseeing eyes and more took their place, despite how often she blinked. And then he moved his mouth to her ear, nuzzled the spot just below it and whispered.

“Ah . . . love. That’s it. Right there. Ah, love. Right . . . there.”

Thayne didn’t know what he called her, he couldn’t. But Amalie heard it. Her heart heard it, too, sending pulse beats of emotion throughout her frame that chased away pain and replaced it with sensation and feeling and visceral amazement. And Thayne was orchestrating it with every continual move; filling her over again and again with massive thickness, heat, and strength. He’d arched his back and lifted her loins to gain perfect collusion. Fitting exactly where he wanted. Holding her and making her take every bit of him. Again. And again. And more. Moving to a rhythm only he heard.

And then something changed.

Amalie felt a vague stirring at the edge of her consciousness. The feeling ran from where he was alternately filling and then releasing her, to flit outward with lightning bursts. It ran her limbs. Sparked off her heart. Hammered into her senses. Tracked along her belly. Filled her throat. Imbued her center. Again. And again. His motions got harsher, blending with the cacophony of sound in her ears, making a clash of noise that had nothing melodic about it. It was solid pleasure and it was toying with her.

Thayne instinctively knew, too.

Both his hands slammed into the mattress beside her ribs, gaining him a fulcrum to lift above her in order to arch more fully into her, gaining better access and motion. Amalie didn’t need instruction. Her legs latched onto the material bunched about his hips, the new position allowing her free range to meet each of his thrusts with one of her own. His eyes opened and bored into hers, claiming her with aqua-shaded beauty no man should wield so easily and with such effect. If this was love, she was fully owned by it. Thunderstruck. Completely.

The emotion shifted with Thayne’s increased thrusts. A sheen covered him, imbuing his skin with moisture that had his broadcloth shirt plastered to him, making it difficult to gain and keep a handhold anywhere on him. Amalie settled with running her hands all about him . . . his arms, back, shoulders, learning the musculature, defining the sinew and striation of muscle, moving to his chest and holding her palms flat against him for a time. But it wasn’t enough. She shoved against him, before moving her hands all over, up and down and crosswise, earning a snap of friction through both palms and her finger pads, while staying enthralled by the feel of cloth-covered strength.

“Lass. That’s it. That’s . . .”

He lowered his head as his motions got fiercer. Stronger. All-encompassing and brutal. Heavy and large, with alternating inward and then outward lunges, each breath accompanied by a groan. Stronger. Harder. Faster. Leveraging and giving and sending her soaring, until the world whirled all about her, turning into a kaleidoscope of candlelight-glistened view that had Thayne at its core. Amalie felt it. Ground her hips against his and welcomed the flare of fire followed by the spark of liquid pleasure. Again. Over and over until her entire sphere felt suspended in the agony of effort. And then she felt absolute crushing wonder overtaking her. It gushed over her, seeming to obliterate her very bones before it captured her, filling her experience with such perfect, complete bliss she thought she’d died.

Amalie’s mouth opened for a long, silent scream as she came fully off the mattress and into his arms in an arc of supreme ecstasy, experiencing wave after wave of bliss as it tore through her. Filled her. Flooded her. Owned her and forced her to accept it. Forever.

Her antics seemed to unleash something in Thayne. His body turned into a beast of wildness, pummeling at her again and again, gaining her another taste of the sensation, before he altered it, going insanely stiff and immobile. Amalie held to him as he lifted his entire torso into a slant of seemingly agonized, nonrhythmic twinges that emanated from where they were joined. She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to. She watched as everything about him pulsed and shimmied and trembled over and over, matching the sobbed breaths he sent all over her.

And then he stopped, poised for several heartbeats of time, where he didn’t breathe, he didn’t do more than tremble, his eyes scrunched shut and looking the perfect image of agony-tainted ecstasy. And then he fell, denting the mattress beside her with his weight, and tossing her slightly before she rolled onto her side right next to him.

“Oh . . . lass. Oh . . . my.”

His whisper held something more than amazement. There was an awestruck tone. Amalie turned her head toward him. He cocked open an eye and then the other. She couldn’t prevent the tremor that flew her. Nor could she hide it. She didn’t even try.

“Lass?”

He licked at lips that looked swollen. Blinked with lashes any woman would envy. Pushed air in and out with heavy breaths from a supremely muscled chest. The man was perfect. If she’d thought him handsome before it was a mistake. Right now, blessed by flickering candlelight, he was pure male beauty. He resonated it.

“Yes?”

Her voice was missing. Amalie swallowed around soreness brought on by screaming. Or perhaps it had been sucking for breath her body craved and couldn’t gain fast enough.

“Just . . . lass.”

“Oh.”

Where they’d been joined was still jumping and pinging with sensation, although he seemed oblivious to it. He was on his uninjured right side and running his free hand over her hip . . . to the back of her thigh and then back up, following the dip of her waist and to the side of her breast, issuing shockwaves of sensation from the slightly scratchy feel of his palm and fingers the entire way.

“That was—well. It was—”

His voice ended again, but his brows drew into a frown. It matched the narrowing of his eyes as he looked across and down at her. Her body thudded with the exact plunge of her heart. She swore she felt it drop and swallowed hard against it.

“Y-yes?”

“’Twas enough to break open my wound. That’s what.”

Chapter 17

“If you’d fetch my sporran . . . I’d be obliged.”

Amalie didn’t know if her body would work at first. Her belly had tremors running it, while everywhere else seemed to be jumping with sensation. Worse was the sticky and raw and moist feeling at her apex. She sat, leaning on both arms and looked out into semi-darkness. Thayne rolled onto his front away from her. He was groaning as he did it.

“Sporran?”

“Whiskey. I need . . . whiskey.”

“You do?” Amalie slanted a glance at him before shying away. It was much too soon for intimate words; too embarrassing. Especially after what they’d just done and the warm glow that still suffused her body.

“’Tis a balm.”

“For what?”

“Pain.” He was still talking to the covers on the opposite side of him.

“You’re in pain?” Amalie asked.

He nodded.

“Good.”

He rolled his head and looked at her. “Good?”

“That makes us even.”

A smile tipped his lips. Her heart pinged in reply. She’d barely begun to silently berate the unfairness of that before he spoke again.

“It could na’ be helped. You had a maiden wall . . . and I’m na’ a small man. It will na’ hurt again. Promise.”

“Again?”

“Next time there’ll be nae pain. You’ll feel satisfaction.”

“Next . . . time?”

“You’ve my word. Satisfaction.”

“But—you got what you wanted.” She tried to make the words defiant, but failed.

“Did I leave you wanting? Is that it?”

“I. . . . Uh. . . .”
Wanting?

“I’ve na’ had this complaint afore. I may have gone too fast, although I thought different. Listen, lass. Listen well. If you’re unsatisfied you’re to speak up. Na’ hold it against me. I’m na’ selfish and I’m nae brute.”

“Un . . . satisfied?” Her voice dropped on the last syllable.

“Did you achieve pleasure? That’s what I’m asking.”

Amalie gulped, moved her glance away before returning it; sweated with the blush, and then decided to just ignore his question.

“Didn’t you . . . ask for whiskey?”

“Aye.”

His smile broadened. Her heart skipped. He was so handsome. It was especially noticeable with the candlelit gesture containing warmth she didn’t dare test. It was so inequitable and unfair. Everything was.

“Where is it?”

“Dresser.”

He pointed with his far arm out into the room, toward the area about the fireplace where she’d had her bath. Amalie looked. There were several dressers and armoires in the vicinity.

“Nae. Wait. Window.”

He moved his arm toward the window seat, where a bundle of plaid and glint of weapon rested. Amalie scooted from the dented area of mattress beside him and over to the side of the bed, pulling on the robe as she went.

“I’ll need . . . my robe.”

She was at the edge, looking at the drop. She only wore the robe sleeve while the drape shadowed the rest of her. She had an arm before her breasts as he regarded her. Then he grimaced. She watched him do a push-up into the mattress, lifting him while she yanked at cloth. It didn’t work. His arms trembled and he dropped back onto his face in the mattress.

“I’ll na’ look,” he offered.

“I can’t cross this chamber . . . naked.” Her voice held shock. Mortification.

“’Tis but a span of floor.”

“Then you cross it.”

“Don a shirt. In the drawer.”

“Which one?”

“Any.”

The word was whispered to the mattress, not her. It was more devastating that way. Amalie took a deep breath, jumped down, and lost the robe for covering. She did gain chill all over her body, not just from the exposure, but from how it seeped up from the soles of her feet. This wasn’t fair, either. Her legs even trembled. The dresser beside his bed held more than shirts, but the third drawer gave them up. Amalie had one tossed over her head before starting across his floor. She buttoned the placket as she walked. This shirt was fashioned of thinly woven linen and reached past her knees, making it fairly modest. She had it fastened before she reached the windows, grabbed up the sporran thing and turned back. She wasn’t bringing his knives or his claymore or whatever else he had. If he wanted weaponry, he could fetch it. She raced back.

He’d lied. He’d looked.

His expression told her of it as he turned his head, following her progress. He forestalled her with a wink.

“Hand me the sporran.”

He held one arm out, reached for his flask, pulled the plug, and twisted further to take a healthy gulp, before holding it back out to her.

“I don’t drink whiskey,” she informed him.

He smiled, but lost it with another grimace as he shoved the plug back in and dropped the flask on the covers between them.

“’Tis na’ for drinking.”

“What?”

“I’ve opened my wound. I need you to pour whiskey on it. I may need it burned again, as well.”

“No. Oh no. And another no. I . . . can’t.”

“You any good at sewing?”

She was very good at gagging. And shivering with reaction. She demonstrated both as he watched.

“Have you na’ treated a man afore?” He asked it with an impatient tone.

“I’ve never even seen a man . . . before.”

“You still have na’. You had your eyes shut. And I’m full clothed. Still.”

“Thayne—I . . .” Her voice stopped.

“Come back up. I need your help.”

“Please no.”

“Direct me then. I’ll do it. You bring any linens?”

“N-no.”

“Fetch some.”

He put his face into the pillows and reached back to peel the material away, revealing the side view of a thickly muscled rump; much larger than hers. Firmer. And tanned-looking, which was shocking. Amalie nearly sighed in feminine appreciation. That was even more shocking, as well as being ridiculous. She shoved the impulse aside, and then she was rifling drawers again, grabbing up items before he moved again. It was simple to step up onto the plateau but everything got complicated as she eyed a wicked looking wound. The flesh was blackish all about the edges and swollen with purple-red. It was coated with blood, too. He’d
ridden
a horse with that? Amalie’s eyes went wide.

“How does it look?”

Amalie licked her bottom lip before sucking it into her mouth. She moved her eyes to his. “Painful.”

“I never even felt it, lass.”

Amalie darted her eyes to the wall behind him, where several more candles flickered in their holders. She moved her gaze to include the windows to the right, where the bed reflected back at her due to the curve of it. It was better to face the coverlet at her hip.

“Where did my sporran go?”

His voice was as grim as his expression. Amalie pushed his flask to where his hand was searching. “Don’t you have . . . men for this?”

“Na’ tonight. I gave orders.”

He was fumbling with the stopper, revealing his shake. Amalie climbed up onto the mattress before he got it opened.

“What kind of orders?”

“Leave us undisturbed. All night.”

“Oh.”

He dribbled liquid as he moved the flask. Amalie automatically grabbed up linens to follow. Then he was pouring whiskey onto his wound, going taut with what had to be agony, and filling the enclosure with groans and curses. Amalie touched minutely to his wound before shoving a bundle of material fully onto him and holding it there. He wasn’t paying attention. He was drinking again. As soon as a pinprick of blood showed through, she put a fresh one on, and a third one, and then a fourth atop it.

“How . . . bad is it?” His voice was raw and angered sounding.

“Don’t look to me. I’m not checking,” she replied, trying for a flippant tone but failing.

He snorted and started a coughing fit, and that made a ripple of movement go through the flesh she was perched atop. Amalie pressed harder, going to her knees to keep the linen in place while she watched for blood seepage.

“If it’s bad, they’ll na’ believe our story.”

“Story?”