And then she dragged his lips down to hers.
This kiss wasn’t the sweet brush they’d shared in the marketplace. This was no gentle promise. This was need and anger and passion and exaltation.
‘Twas glorious.
He stiffened, but for only a moment. Then, with another groan, he melted against her. His tongue dragged against the seam of her lips, and she gladly parted them, inviting him in. As he taught her how to nip and lick and titillate, his hands skimmed down her side and across her back, pulling her against him so she could feel all of his hardness.
She lost her breath. At least, she thought she did. All she knew was he was the one keeping her alive at that moment, sharing his life and his very soul with her. And aye, mayhap his breath as well.
When he moved his lips away from hers to focus on her jaw, then her neck, she gasped, “Ye dinnae mind, do ye?”
His mouth was pressed against the sensitive skin below her ear, and when he murmured, “Mind what?” the vibrations sent shivers down her spine.
“Mind me taking advantage of ye,” she gasped out.
He kissed her again. “Nay, lass. Ye can take advantage of me anytime ye want.”
“I want ye, Alistair.”
Make love to me.
The command hung between them for only a moment, then he lifted her, tugging her aching core flush against his hard manhood, and with a cry of joy, Lara snaked her arms around his neck to hold on.
He placed her on the bed, and she made short work of shrugging out of the top of her chemise. He was in the process of straightening when he saw her, and froze, his eyes darting across her breasts and shoulders, down her arms, and back to her breasts.
A wicked thought came to her then, and she cupped her own tits, lifting them together. She knew they were larger than he’d expected—she was likely curvier than he’d expected too—but he didn’t seem to mind.
He was already reaching for his belt, and when she pinched her own nipples, he muttered, “St. Elzear, bless me!” and fumbled with the leather.
She was grinning when his kilt fell around his ankles, and he bent to make short work of his boots. Hungrily, she watched him yank his shirt over his head, and then he stood, naked and magnificent, before her.
She’d seen him naked before, aye, when she’d spied on him in his room. But this…? This was better. Much better.
And Blessed Virgin, but his cock! The thing stood so proud and gleaming, and Lara shifted, trying to ease the ache in her core, knowing she was already wet for him. She was ready. She’d been ready for years.
Dropping her breasts, she reached for him. “Make love to me, Alistair.”
“Aye.” With a growl, he stepped forward, catching her in his arms. “I’ll make ye forget the arsehole who denied ye.”
She was grinning when he captured her lips again, and then they were lying atop the coverlets, and she’d kicked her way out of the remainder of her chemise to wrap one leg around his. The hot length of his manhood pressed against her belly, and she scrambled with her nails at his back, trying to get closer.
He was whispering things against her skin, as his lips caressed her neck, her shoulders, and finally—finally!—her nipples. She arched against him, straining, torn between touching him, and touching herself.
And then, she didn’t have to worry, because his hand had dropped to her wetness, a finger gently probing. She whimpered in need as the pad of his thumb brushed against her sensitive pearl. She didn’t want to beg, but she would, by God.
“Alistair!” she sobbed in desperation, gyrating her pelvis, trying to show him what she needed.
He was a quick learner, and by the time he slipped two fingers inside her dripping core, her inner muscles were quivering.
But nay! Nay, she didn’t want it to end this way. She’d fooked her own fingers often enough to know what it felt like, but now, she wanted more. And from the way his hard length pressed against her, he did as well.
Gasping, Lara pushed at his shoulders, wrenching herself away from him. He started, then began to push himself up on one elbow, clearly wondering what was wrong.
Naught was wrong. Everything was wrong. Not like this!
Before he could ask, she got her leverage and pushed at his shoulders, rolling him over to his back. He reached for her, and she threw one leg over his.
“What are ye doing?” he asked, his hands already settled on her hips.
Tossing her braid over one shoulder, she grasped his manhood. Blessed Virgin, but it felt perfect in her hands. He lay still under her, allowing her to touch him, but she didn’t want to take the time to explore him.
Nay, she knew what she needed. And she knew she wasn’t going to wait a minute more to have it.
So she grinned. “I’m teaching ye to give up control.”
She rocked forward on her knees, positioned herself, then sheathed her aching wetness around his cock.
They both moaned.
God in Heaven, but he was so big! When she’d watched him stroke himself, his cock had looked normal in his own hands, but inside her…
Well, suddenly she was thankful for the relatively large size of Treenis.
“Lara,” he gasped, his eyes squeezed closed.
“Let it go, Alistair,” she murmured, used to his size now. When she rocked forward, then back, he groaned. “Aye, that way. Ye remember how good it can feel to give up control, aye? Ye trust me, aye?”
“Always.” His voice was hoarse, but when he opened his eyes, she knew he meant it. His fingers dug into her hips, helping her in her movements, and she had to smile.
She took control, moving the way which brought her closer and closer to the edge. When his hand dropped to her curls, and he slid one finger in to stroke her pearl, she gasped
