Bride For A Knight Page 0,91

her nakedness.

And she was naked beneath the modesty of that one wee skirt fold. Her rich musky arousal drifted up between them and he could feel the melting heat of her. Even just kneeling on the plaid, gazing at her. Och, aye, without doubt Aveline Matheson wore nothing but her own tender flesh and woman's curls beneath her gown and he wasn't quite ready to look fully on such sweetness.

He'd spill when he did. Leastways he suspected he would. Especially when he touched his mouth to her. So he kept her covered for the now and simply savored the sleek, smooth feel of her naked thighs, relishing how each time he slid his hands up and down them, they fell open just a wee bit more. He wanted her opened as wide as possible when he settled himself between her legs and licked and nibbled his way from her knees up to the soft, fragrant center of her.

A center suddenly freed completely to his view when a particularly soft and warm-feeling wind swept across the glade. Sweet and fragrant as spring sunshine, but brisk enough to lift a certain skirt fold until the moon shone fully on the silkycurled triangle between her legs.

"O-o-oh, lass." Jamie stared at her, incredible heat surging into his loins. "You leave me breathless!"

Not taking his gaze off of her, he reached to touch her, tracing a wondering finger down the very center of her, finding her sleek, slippery, and moist as sun-warmed honey.

Certain she'd taste as delectable, he urged her to lie back on the plaid, then bent her knees, spreading them until she was even more fully exposed to him. The whole of her female sweetness completely open, hot, wet, and glistening. Her beauty stilled his heart and for several long-seeming moments, he could only sit and look at her. Everything else in the night lost importance. Nothing existed but the lure of her silver-shimmering female curls and the strange warm wind swirling over and around them. A fey wind, it riffled their hair and tugged at their clothes until, somehow, they were both quite naked and the gently swaying grass and the dark ring of trees sheltering the glade sighed in approval.

"Keep touching me," she pleaded then, arching against him when he withdrew his hand, thinking only to cup and knead her breasts for a moment, perhaps tease a bit at her nipples.

She looked at him, her eyes passion-glazed. Needy . "Keep touching me there, where you have been," she urged again. "I can't bear it if you do not."

And so he did, returning his hand to her sweetest heat, stroking, probing, and swirling his fingers, teasing caresses across her wet and eager flesh, rubbing and circling until even his most skilled touches weren't enough and she lifted her hips off the plaid, her body begging in a silent, urgent cry as elemental as the sacred ground beneath them.

But when her writhing and gasps of pleasure began growing frantic, he did lift away his hand, quickly positioning himself there where he'd burned to be all night.

"Ach, dia!" she cried when he opened his mouth over her, sucking gently. Then his large hands slipped beneath her, his fingers splaying across her bottom, cupping and lifting her, drawing her even deeper into his seeking mouth. White-hot pleasure shot through her, the intensity of it almost too glorious to bear.

Especially when he looked up, locking gazes with her as he began doing just what she'd hoped he'd do.

And so wondrously, his eyes never leaving hers as he dragged his tongue over her, again and again, each sweet, slow lick enflaming her, making her twist and wind on the plaid, certain she would soon splinter into so many bright-sparkling pieces she'd ne'er be able to gather them.

His tongue plunged into her then, and the shattering began. A slow, free-falling glide into blinding bliss as his tongue dipped in and out, mirroring the most intimate of acts, then withdrawing to swirl over her again, each luxurious, sweeping glide of his tongue making the earth beneath her tremble and sigh, the very hills around them quivering, crying out with the darkness of her need. Until his laving tongue found that place and she realized the tremors and cries were her own, each hot, fluttery flick and swirl of his tongue on her most pulsing, sensitive spot, hurtling her deeper into the glittering madness, the silent little glade and the whole of the cold, moon-washed night spinning wildly around her.