My True Love (20 page)

When he would have moved his hand, she held her own over it. She pressed his hand upon her breast and held it there.

He smiled and slowly reached out and pulled her laces open. He undid the knot with practiced ease. Delicately. Slowly.

Her own breaths measured the movements of his hands. And silently implored him to hurry. With each ticking moment, he spun out the act, treating the baring of this inch of skin as an almost sacred ritual.

Finally, her bodice gaped open, the shift bared.

He bent and kissed her between her breasts, a soft kiss on the thin linen that covered her body. A brand of heat and lips and intent.

She trembled. Slowly, so exquisitely slow that she could count the heartbeats until he did so, he pulled down the shift and touched her bared skin with his fingers. Just that. A touch of one fingertip against her skin.

A slight smile was his reaction to her gasp.

Her head fell back, her hands clutched at him. But he gently brushed her hands aside, reached down and pulled her dress over her head. Just as quickly the remainder of her garments followed. In seconds, a fraction of the time it took her to get dressed in the morning, she was naked.

Her hands reached to cover herself, then fell to her sides.

It was not fear she felt at this moment but a melting warmth. As if Stephen had kissed her for hours and her heart still raced with the feeling of it.

“I’ve dreamed of you this way,” he said, a confession that stoked a fire deep within her. “I wondered if your breasts were full, the tips brown or pink.” A stroke of fingertip upon a nipple accompanied his words. “They are neither,” he said, “but a soft shade of coral.” His fingers measured the curve of her breasts, his thumbs brushed against the nipples slowly.

Her eyes closed, her fingers fluttered against his shirt like tiny butterflies adrift in the wind.

Remember this
. A command that pierced the languorous haze that enveloped her. Remember how his voice sounded. Low and almost rasping. Breath less. The stroke of his finger upon her skin, the callused palm brushing against her breast, the fingertip so gentle upon her nipple.

And this. He kissed her between her breasts, his breath hot, his lips tender. And then upon her breast. Not shocking as much as delicious. He traced a path too slowly to her nipple. Her fingers pressed upon his cheek as if to hurry him. She felt his smile against her skin. Then only the touch of lips and tongue.

Both hands cupped her breast, framed it for his kiss. He glanced up, saw her watching him. The tip of her tongue brushed against her bottom lip. His mimicked the gesture upon the tip of her breast.

Her eyes fluttered shut when his lips encompassed her nipple, sucked gently. A ribbon of dark feeling ran through her.

“Sweet,” he said, and another sensation drifted over her, a heat unlike anything she’d ever known. It was as if she had been opened up inside and had been left vacant and black and receptive. Into this void he came and filled all the various parts of it with himself.

He straightened, kissed her closed lids one by one. Gentle insistence. She blinked open her eyes. Innocent or wanton, it no longer mattered. He held out his hand, and she put hers atop it. He led her through the doorway to his bedchamber. Then to his bed. Naked, she accompanied him, the journey one of blurred desire.

It was a word she’d heard. One to measure emotion. Fear and hate and anger and joy. They were all emotions, too. But she’d never known the meaning of this word. Desire. Or that it was this pow erful. She would have defied any custom or any country for him. For the touch of his hands and the seduction of his kisses she would have done nearly anything.

How could she bear more?

She put her knee atop the mattress, turned and watched him. He returned to the other room, retrieved the branch of candles. Placing them on the candlestand, he undressed quickly. Each garment being removed revealed more of him to her greedy eyes.

There were men of all sizes and shapes at Dunniwerth, and she had seen her share of bared legs and chests. They were burly men, her Scots clansmen. Tall and strong with arms like tree trunks.

Stephen’s muscles were finely honed, not from tossing cabers but from wielding a sword, riding a stallion. She studied him with none of the maidenly reserve he might well have expected from her, but with an utter and frank delight.

The candlelight cast shadows over him, illuminated him as he turned and tossed his shirt to a chair. His buttocks were round, with flat planes over his hips. A place for her palms. A thought she ached to test.

When he turned, her scrutiny revealed an even more amazing sight. He was aroused, full and heavy and thickly. A man in his prime. When he walked closer to the bed, she raised herself up on her knees and reached out her hand.

Did she startle him with her action? She didn’t know. Fascinated, she touched him. He was so hard he felt like iron and so heated he felt like fire. The tip of him was flanged. She traced her finger around the head delicately and watched him jerk beneath her hand.

He pushed her gently to her back, joined her on the bed, and raised himself up over her on one elbow. “Are you sure you’re not a sorceress?” he asked, his smile lending wickedness to the words.

I am a witch, aren’t I?
Words she’d uttered as a child. A great fear then. She smiled at him. “No,” she said. “I am not sure.”

He bent and kissed her, an enchanted enough journey through the spiral of desire. The night was cool, but she did not feel it. His fingers acted as fire, his palms braziers.

Her breasts were measured with fingers and hands and lips. “
Mamillae
,” he said softly, as he trailed his fingers over the curve of them. “
Papilla
” was mouthed against a nipple.

“Latin?” she asked, the passion she felt augmented by a fierce tenderness.

He nodded, smiling. “
Bracchium
,” he said, trailing a line from elbow to wrist.

Her fingers traced the edge of his smile. He reached up and removed her hand. “
Digitus
,” he said, kissing the tips of her fingers. “
Digitus pollex
,” he murmured against her thumb.

She began to smile, charmed by his seduction. Latin and lust, it was a powerful combination.

Remember this
. An admonition to herself to keep this moment in her mind. How could she not?

“
Armus
.” An annointing kiss to her shoulder. “
Umerus
.” A word spoken against her upper arm. A tingle followed his kisses, a shiver of awareness as he trailed his fingers over her body.

He bestowed a necklace of kisses around her neck. “
Collum
,” he murmured as he did so.

“
Basiatio
,” he said against her lips. “A kiss.”

Her foot, ankle, calf, knee were all named in order.
Pes, talus, sura, genu
.

He made her repeat them softly, and she did so, the Latin words taking on a carnal lure when spoken in candlelight and whispers.

His fingers brushed over the apex of her thighs. “
Cirrus
,” he murmured against her lips. “Softly curling hair.” Her legs widened, an effortless invitation. Or plea.

“
Osculum
. A little mouth,” he said, his fingers softly discovering her. He stroked languidly, seeming not to notice that her breath had stilled or her fingers clutched his shoulders. It was an intimacy of touch that startled her.

Desire. The hunger of it surprised her.

“
Flosculus
. A little flower.” His fingers opened her, stroked softly, tenderly. “
Delicatus
,” he said, his lips at her temple, his breath on her closed lids. “Delicate. Sweet.”

His finger slid inside her with infinite tenderness. Her fingers clutched his shoulder, her breath halting and then starting again.

“
Caelum
,” he whispered. “The vault of heaven.” He withdrew his finger slowly, inserted it again. The slick friction of it made her tremble.

She turned her head, burrowed against him. An instinctive wish for protection in the most vulnerable of poses.

He kissed her, his tongue as gentle as his fingers, exploring her mouth with intent and languid strokes even as his fingers urged her to a place she’d never been before. Thoughts of him had made her feel achy, and dreams had sometimes awakened her with her breasts sensitive and her body restless. Now she knew why. Her mind had proposed their joining, and her body now urged completion. It was no longer something to be desired. It was an act of necessity. If that was passion, then she was adrift in it.

The sound she made was almost a moan, but it had a note of demand in it. The kiss she returned was no longer passive or exploratory. It nipped at his lips and dueled with intrusive tongue.

Her hand reached down and touched him. Her eyes opened as she fisted him gently.

“What do you call this?”

There was a soft smile on his face as he reached down and moved her hand. Not away but over the length of him. She followed his lead, fascinated by the half-lidded expression in his eyes. As if the rapture she felt was mirrored in him.

“
Penis
.”

“And here?” She stroked the curve of his buttocks, flattened her hand over his hip, trailing her nails over his skin.

“
Clunis, nates, puga
.”

He bent and sucked a nipple, then used the barest edge of his teeth to scrape against it.

Her eyes closed as she fisted him. His finger slid inside her and her hips rose. They played at this and tormented each other. It was an exquisite, trembling delight.

Desire was no longer a black ribbon. It was a fiery red string that tensed her muscles and spread along her skin. Her teeth bit at his lip and he laughed into their kiss.

She wanted to be taken. To be finished with this. And never to have it end. She was wild with it. She pulled at him, slapped at his chest. Heard him speak but was done with Latin.

He entered her slowly, an ancient act of possession. She widened for him, welcomed him in silence and eagerness. In his eyes was passion, not calm, not restrained.

She closed her eyes, suddenly wanted to change her mind. Her hands clutched at his back even as her hips jerked upward.

Her mind centered on the sensation of being stretched and invaded inch by inch. She wanted to cry out for help. To be severed from this terrible bond. It was too much. Not pain but almost so. He was so large within her that her body gripped him tightly. An act of possession at least as demanding as his.

He stilled, his weight balanced on his right forearm. His left hand brushed the tendrils of hair back from her face. He placed a tender kiss upon her lips, breathed against her cheek. A fine tremor marked his breath and the touch of his fingers upon her ear.

She opened her eyes, placed her palm upon his cheek. He turned his head, kissed the center of her palm. Silence, stillness, restraint while he waited for her to welcome him.

Remember this
. How could she ever forget?

It was at that moment she felt her most defenseless. She had wanted this and in doing so had counted the cost of it. But she had not known how completely she would be required to surrender herself. Not simply body but will. And dominion, per haps, over what she’d always known as hers. The pounding of her heart, the measure of her breaths. Even the emotions her body might own and know. At this moment, she understood what he had warned her against with his cautions.

Sharing this would change her forever. She would no longer be only herself, but a part of a greater whole. Her memories of herself would be entwined with those of him. She would never be as naive in body and never as innocent in mind.

He rolled over, slowly, carrying her with him. She understood when he winced at the movement. His arm.

He reached up and gripped her hands, pulled her down to him. She sank like a stone onto his chest, a tiny cry her only protest. His hands plotted her skin from the curve of her hips to her shoulder, encouraging strokes of soft fingers, even as his breath rasped in her ear.

She inhaled the scent of him, her lips pressed against the skin of his shoulder, tasted him. He turned her face up to meet his kiss, and she welcomed it. A mindless darkness. A swift return to desire.

His hands gripped her upper arms, pushed her up so that he could kiss her breasts, tease her nipples. His hips thrust up again, a final, insistent act of dominion. Her head arched back, her lips pressed tight to hold the cry within.

His fingers brushed her lips as if in praise, then traced a line from chin to throat to breasts. Learning her with his fingers. Starting little fires where he stroked.

She closed her eyes, adrift in the feelings he evoked. Between her thighs not simple pain but an ache. A feeling of being conquered, invaded. Possessed.

He placed his palms gently against her stomach, his thumbs pressing into her softly, intrusively, until they met where they joined. A surge upward sent him deeper. One of her hands covered her mouth, the other splayed on her stomach, the tips of her fingers brushing his. A provocative touch, one that hinted at delicacy and restraint even as he surged within her.

His thumbs slid over her flesh into heated parts that were swollen and tender. Sensitive to the circling touch.

She was enveloped in the feeling that so separated them and joined them at the same time. His thumbs rotated against her, in her, pressed against where he entered her. The ache became greater, changed in nature. Slowly subsided and faded beneath the hunger.

She blinked her eyes open, stared down at him. His hair was strewn against the mattress, his face flushed with passion. His eyes blazed at her even as his fingers stroked her flesh. He smiled then, such a soft and tender smile.

She was startled to feel so many emotions in that moment. Not regret. Wonder and tenderness, delight and desire. But the most powerful of all the emotions she felt was joy.

At Dunniwerth, she’d been protected, carefully cordoned off from single men. She’d been an object of affection and respect. The laird’s daughter who walked among them in safety as if she had been somehow elevated not only by her rank but by her maidenhood. Yet on this night she was a woman who was capable of passion. Not daughter, not visionary, not friend or survivor. Only a woman. His.