He smelled delightful.
“I love ye,” she whispered against his neck, her lips skimming his skin. “And I dinnae want to sleep yet. I want ye inside of me, husband.”
Perhaps he wasn’t as unaffected as he was trying to be, because his hips gave a sort of involuntary jerk at her words—or mayhap the touch of her lips—and his hardness pressed against her belly.
“Robena,” he groaned, “ye ought to have a fine bed for yer wedding night. No’ a simple tent and a few blankets.”
“Nonsense.” She kissed his collarbone, then lower. “I will have ye to keep me warm. And I plan on sleeping atop ye tonight, husband, and that cannae be any softer than the ground.”
In case he misunderstood her meaning, she reached between them and cupped his hardness. The noise he made was a sort of strangled, hopeless laugh.
“I’m beginning to suspect ye just like calling me husband, lass.”
“Och, well, husband, I’ve waited long enough, have I no’? I’m entitled to it, husband. For certes, husband, the novelty of ‘twill wear off, husband, in a year or two. Husband.”
Chuckling now, he captured her lips in his.
Likely, just to shut her up.
With a moan of her own, she wrapped her arm around his neck and held on, while her other hand caressed him through the MacBain kilt.
“Do ye ken how much I love this gown?” he murmured, while his lips trailed hot kisses along her jaw and down her throat. “This yellow silk? It makes ye look… God’s Wounds, Robena!”
Since she’d squeezed him involuntarily in response to the way he’d cupped her breast through the fabric, she thought she could be forgiven.
“How?” she gasped. “How does it make me look?”
“Like a lady,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Like a gift. Like a fine piece of pottery. God Almighty, I want to unwrap ye with my teeth.”
His metaphors needed a little help, but since he was currently attempting to unlace her gown while his lips were still on her, she decided he could be forgiven as well.
So, all she said was, “Let me help.” This was, after all, the only gown she’d packed.
‘Twas a slow process, one frequently interrupted by kisses and touches and a growing desperation.
But soon enough, she was naked, spread out atop the blankets stacked in the tent, and he was crawling in as well. Mayhap ‘twas the position she was lying in—leaning back, supported by her elbows, her heels on the ground and her knees spread—which gave him the idea, but a speculative look came to his eyes.
“Kest—?” was all she managed before, with no warning, he lowered his mouth to the junction of her thighs.
Oh.
This was…
Thiswas…
Well, Robena’s mind was curiously, deliciously blank, so if asked, she’d have to say This was bleeeeerrrrgggghahblaff. That was more or less how she felt.
With a sigh, she allowed her legs to fall open as Kester’s tongue swept along her core.
St. Kelsi protect her, but the man was amazing!
She’d spent her life learning the art of music; she knew a person’s tongue could be capable of trilling, of whistling, of forming high and low notes, of controlling the melody played on a flute or pipe.
But she’d never realized a tongue could do this.
Unbidden, her hands fell to his head, her fingers curling through his locks, holding him in place. He hummed against her, a little laugh which she felt throughout her entire body. Her hips bucked in response, which caused him to chuckle again, and then his finger slid into her.
“That’s it, lass,” he murmured against her slickness. “That’s a good girl. Ye like that?”