She liked it.
A lot.
But she liked the solemn questions clouding his expression much less. He was still thinking about worn cloth, about mended seams, about what they all meant. “You can tell me the truth, Meg.”
“Do you really want to talk right now?” she squeaked indignantly. “About clothing?”
Heat flashed in his blue eyes, like the heart of a candle flame. “No,” he admitted. “No, I don’t.”
And then her clothes were forgotten, and she was dressed in only his hands, his heat, his hardness. He tugged her up against him, dragging his mouth over her neck, stopping to suck at the spot where it met her shoulder and along the curve up to her ear until she was gasping and melting. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he whispered hoarsely. “Too long. Since before the hothouse even.”
“Almost as long as I’ve wanted you too,” she replied, arching her neck slightly to give him better access. He smiled against her throat, rubbing the slight scruff of his beard against her until she squirmed, half-giggling, half-moaning. She pushed at his shirt impatiently until he dragged it up over his head and she could finally touch him, sketching him with her fingertips, until she might sketch him with her mouth.
He backed her towards the bed and when her calves hit the mattress, he lowered her down, one hand at the small of her back, supporting her. Soft blankets billowed around her and then he was there, taking up every centimeter of her view until it was all tousled hair, bright eyes, cheerful wicked mouth. She pulled his head down towards her when he took too long, happy to look at her until she turned desperate. “Dougal!”
He took her mouth with more than a hint of hunger and teeth and something inside her uncurled, practically purring. Desire throbbed through her, pulsing low in her belly, high in her throat, everywhere. His big, strong hands roamed over her ribs, thumbs scraping under her breasts, then along her hip, inside her thigh until they went lax and parted of their own volition. When he grazed the softness between her legs, her mouth opened on a gasp. His tongue invaded her mouth even as his fingers dragged through her wetness to plunge into the heat of her. Her toes curled at the sudden, intimate possession. Her back arched.
He was gentle, stroking her petals and then invading her again, the juxtaposition making her tremble.
She’d been wrong. One night wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
She wanted him in her hands, the silky steel of him, the saltiness. She couldn’t quite manage the placard of his trousers. “I hate clothes,” she said, viciously. He chuckled and pushed away just long enough to divest himself of the hated garments. It was too long. She grasped at him, feeling wanton, wonderful. Wicked.
He groaned, the muscles of his throat working. “You’re killing me.”
She felt a bit smug about it, actually. She’d hate to die alone. Which she might do if he didn’t touch her again, so she touched him all the more, gliding her palms over the ridges of his stomach muscles, the pelt of his hair, arrowing down to his manhood, erect and twitching towards her hand. She closed her fingers around him, savoring the heavy heat, the tender power. She explored him from root to tip, caressing softly, then more firmly, until his breath turned ragged.
She smirked, just a little.
And he noticed.
“It’s like that, is it?” He growled. The teasing glint in his eye was the only warning before he ran his open mouth over her belly button, tickling her with his breath and his tongue until she tried to wriggle away. It was amazing to her that she could be on fire, that they could be both sweaty, needful as animals but also laughing friends, and at the very same time. She giggled.
His lips curved in an answering grin against her skin and then was moving lower and lower, until his mouth was at the core of her. He ran his tongue over her petals and then slowly, so damned slowly, up to her bud. It made her tremble, in her thighs and her knees, down to her very breath. He was so careful, but his arm was solid over her hips, pinning her in place when she tried to get closer. The combination shivered inside her, like liquid waves building slowly. He worked her with his mouth, kissing, teasing, and then sucking at her bud until she started to make small noises in the back of her throat. Her inner walls fluttered, clutching at nothing until he slid two fingers inside of her, crooking them even as he rolled her bud in his mouth, sucking harder.
The waves of pleasure peaked, cresting, carrying her away for long, languid moments where there was only her body, no other worries, or cares, or wants. Only Dougal’s mouth and his hands and the internal fireworks that sparked and shimmered.
He lifted his head and watched her come back to herself, dark hair spread on the pillow, lips parted on a quivering breath. She reached for him and he slid up her body. She hummed when his manhood grazed her curls. He hesitated, until she scowled. He had to bite back a grin even as he spoke. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not hurting me.”
She was a gentlewoman, an aristocrat. And he was only playing the part.
He might have tortured himself for much, much longer on that point, if she hadn’t reached down and grasped him firmly. “Do I have your attention?”
He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
She arched up, nudging the head of his manhood between her soft lips, still slick with desire. “Now, Dougal.”
He slid into her, slowly, prolonging the moment, wringing every delicious second of enjoyment out of it. She moved against him, gasping, as he filled her up. She clutched his shoulders when he retreated, made a soft sound when he returned, plunging deeper. No matter how she wriggled or panted, he would not make haste. They moved against each other, warm glistening skin meeting even as mouths met, as climaxes met, peaking, shattering, dragging them to the crest, over and over, until they fell together.
Dougal pushed off, clearly concerned about crushing her, before he’d even caught his breath. He lay next to her, his large warm hand on her hip. She felt sated, happy. Where she was meant to be.
Devastated.
“I wish you weren’t going,” Dougal said softly.