Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,73

how her heart still beat for him as it never had for another. He’d stuffed her full of hope to yank it away again.

He captured her wrists with his hands and brought her palms against his chest. His heart hammered into her skin, and her eyes went wide. By heaven, he was as wildly affected in this moment as she was.

“But,” he said slowly, “Elizabeth told me that ye had always wanted Kilgore and were merely using me to make him jealous.”

Guinevere’s lips parted at the revelation.

“And then she kissed me. I’m a damn fool, as I said. Undoubtedly one of the biggest ones who has ever lived because, in that moment, I was furious and wanted to strike back at ye, so I did not push her away immediately. By the time I did, the library door had opened and we were caught. My pride cost me everything. It cost me ye.”

“I want to believe you,” she said, meaning it. In fact, she wanted to profess her love and throw herself into his arms, but she was afraid.

“Then believe this, Guin,” he said, tugging her fully to him to crush his mouth to hers.

His tongue pressed against the crease of her mouth, and she opened for him with a groan of all the longing she had repressed for the past five years. He tasted of the whisky he’d been drinking, smoky and spicy with hints of lemon and vanilla. It was heaven. He was heaven.

Desire sprang forth hot and unstoppable, and she was helpless to resist. His nearness was overwhelming. Her need was overwhelming. Her hope that they might have the love she once thought possible was overwhelming. There was no past between them in this moment. No betrayals or jealousy.

He pulled back, leaving her breathless, and he cupped her face. “Tell me ye want me.”

“I do, I do,” she said, kissing him. “I want you.”

She didn’t care that she’d relented. They were to be wed, and she wanted her marriage to start in peace not war. She wanted love. He had been the one man she had ever believed truly wanted her for who she really was, and she would embrace anew the hope that they could have something wonderful.

He groaned, and then his lips captured hers in a kiss that burned with possession. He caressed her mouth as his hands moved softly over her hips to skim her waist and then settled on her breasts. Immediately, they grew heavy and taut, and deep in her belly, all the way to her core, her body tightened and an ache sprang forth.

He caught her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and squeezed gently while circling them. The friction was delicious and sweet torture. She arched toward him, rubbing her hips against him and feeling the proof of his own need for her. Her hands came to his shoulders, and she gripped him, nails meeting flesh.

He pulled back, panting, and stared at her. “I want to make ye mine right now, Guinevere, but—”

She pressed a finger to his lips. “Never say that word again. I despise it.”

“Ah, mo ghraidh, I will never say it again.”

“What does mo ghraidh mean?” she asked as he brushed her hair away from her neck to trail feathery kisses down her burning skin.

He answered between kisses. “I. Will. Tell. Ye. One. Day. But not today.”

She would have protested, but his finger slipped under the top edge of her nightgown and the cool night air swept over her skin. Gooseflesh covered her breasts. She should be scandalized, should most certainly protest, but she wasn’t and she didn’t. She had fully exposed herself, set her heart in his hands once more. She prayed he would be careful with it.

The last thought was stolen from her when his tongue touched the tip of her bud. All the air in her lungs fled as her insides coiled. He circled her nipple once, twice, and she wanted to scream at the exquisite pleasure.

“Make me yours, Asher.”

He answered with a tormented groan followed by taking her breast in his mouth to suckle her. There was a pulling inside her and incessant pulsing between her legs. She wanted him. She wanted him in a way that was not proper, but she didn’t care. There was no one here to judge her or correct her. There was only the two of them and the passion between them.

As his suckling grew stronger, one of his hands moved downward to lift her nightgown up her