She rode his hand. She stood in the center of his home, where they’d worked together and where she’d taught his daughter how to read, and she rode his hand.
Smoothly, he caressed her, coaxed her. His lips teased her, his tongue made her moan.
“That’s it, lass,” he rasped against her skin, trailing kisses up to her throat and back down again. “Ye wanted pleasure? This is what I can give ye.”
“Please,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Aye.” His growl reverberated through her body as his fingers worked her. “This is what ye needed. Why ye came to me. I can give ye this—Good Christ.”
His own hips bucked, as if he were overcome as well. His hand was trapped between them because, as she rode him, she pressed against his hardness, rubbing, aching.
She wanted—needed—to drop her hands to his stiff member, to explore, to experience what she’d only read about. She wanted to give him the same sensations he was giving her.
But if she released her hold on his neck, she was ninety-five-percent certain she’d fall over.
The pressure built and his fingers pressed her gown into her own wetness, and then his teeth captured her nipple once more.
It was the teeth that did it, really. After that, she had no choice.
Her pleasure burst over her in the most frantic, desperate cloud of need, and she whimpered his name as she strained against his fingers.
“Aye, Wynda,” he whispered again, and she realized at some point, he’d released her nipple.
He called her Wynda, and that, more than anything, gave her pleasure.
But her orgasm had made everything fuzzy, sort of difficult to see, to understand.
And that’s when she felt him huff a breath of laughter against her naked breast.
“Breathe, lass,” he commanded.
So she sucked in a deep breath of air, and oh yes, that did rather help, didn’t it?
It took three more big gulps of air, each exhale bringing her closer and closer to the ground, before she realized she was still pressed against him.
His long hardness nestled along her navel, and the reminder sent a burst of sorrow and shame and pity through her. She should’ve taken him in hand, should’ve shown him the pleasure he’d shown her.
Mayhap she should offer.
What’s the protocol, the etiquette, in these situations? After one has approached the man one suspects one is falling in love with, and demands he pleasure her? After taking and using said man…should one offer to reciprocate?
Wait, was she “one” in that scenario? Why wasn’t her mind working properly?
He blew out a breath, then loosened his hold on her rear end, the same time he pulled his hand away from her mound. He hadn’t even been inside her, but she still felt bereft as he stepped away.
Of course, as soon as he did, she swayed—blasted knees!—and he shifted his hold to her shoulders.
Her shoulders! As if…as if this intimacy had never happened. As if he had to hold her at length.
As if his kilt wasn’t currently tented in front of him like a slightly askew Maypole.
“Are ye satisfied, lass?”
Satisfied?She blinked at him, trying to make sense of the question. Make sense of what had just happened. “Nay,” she answered truthfully. She doubted she’d ever be satisfied, when it came to this man.
His harsh bark of laughter surprised her. “Too bad, milady. I shouldnae have done what I did.”
Milady. She frowned woozily up at him. “Wynda,” she corrected. “And what, exactly, did ye do?”