The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,104

do.”

“Is that so?” She grinned breathlessly. “Suppose ye’ll have to carry me, then. Careful ye dinnae strain those wee, dainty wrists.”

“God, you are the most vexing woman.”

“Do I spark yer temper?”

“Yes,” he gritted, loosening the fastenings at the back of her bodice.

She ran the tip of her smallest finger across his lower lip as he finally spread the silk and drew it down her shoulders. Shrugging free of her bodice and sleeves, she ran her hands over the lines of her corset, cupping her own breasts from beneath. “Would ye like a taste, English?”

He’d thought it would take him longer to reach this state, the one where his skin felt scorched and overly sensitized. After his explosive climax earlier, he’d assumed he could go on a leisurely exploration.

But that was before she began taunting him. Stoking him. Provoking him.

“Take them out,” he growled, gazing down at the creamy, tempting swells. When she hesitated, he tugged the laces at her back to loosen the stays. “Now.”

Because he was buried inside her sweet, tight warmth, he felt how his command affected her. A rush of her arousal bathed his cock, and her sleek muscles tightened and fluttered.

“Aye, husband.” She slid her fingers into the corset’s cups and lifted out her breasts, letting them rest on the edges of the boned fabric.

Nipples of deep, rosy pink were flushed nearly scarlet at the tips. Those sweet buds, he knew, would darken and swell when he tended them properly. For now, they were highly aroused and diamond hard. His mouth watered. His cock thickened. Readied.

He needed her, but not like this.

Within seconds, he reversed their positions, laying her on her back, spreading her hair out upon his pillow, and wrapping her legs around his hips. Then, he settled in.

His wife thoroughly enjoyed his hands, of course, the way he plumped and stroked, pinched and plucked. But she reserved her loudest, most enthusiastic approval for his mouth.

He suckled her for long, luscious minutes while pleasuring her below with slow, deliberate strokes of his cock. With every deep pull of his mouth and stroke of his tongue, he pushed her a bit further, mindful of signs of her nearing peak. When he finally felt sharp nails scoring his shoulders, he increased his rhythm. Took her harder and harder until the ramming strokes shocked even him.

But she loved it. She clawed and growled and demanded more. Her heels dug into his backside and her mouth ate at his. “Sweet Christ and all his unicorns, English,” she rasped, grunting as he thrust deeper. “Ye’re a bluidy magician. Ah, I cannae … I’m about to … Ahh!”

She sounded so astonished when her peak came, that he nearly laughed his triumph. Then his own peak followed hard on its heels, flooding her with his seed as her body wrung his dry.

In the tender moments afterward, she held him and traced tickling patterns on his back. He lay with his ear over her heart, listening to the steady thud. His palm slid from her thigh to her waist. Then, he cupped her soft, velvety belly.

And let himself imagine how beautiful their babes would be.

Chapter Twenty

TlU

Annie’s husband of precisely seven days flexed his jaw and stared out the library window with visible frustration. “I did tell you about my family,” he argued, tossing the letter he’d been holding on his desk. “All the important bits, at any rate.”

Over the past week, she’d softened toward him. How could she not? The man was tireless. She hadn’t laughed so much or floated so much or sighed like a pure dafty so much in all her life. On top of which, he’d moved heaven and earth to help Broderick.

The letter from Dunston was more proof of that.

And John did regret hurting her; that much was clear. He’d demonstrated his remorse over and over, doing everything she’d asked. He’d even promised to name their son Finlay.

He’d also explained his cynicism regarding title-hunting women.

They’d been lying in their bed a day after their wedding, exhausted from lovemaking and enjoying a breeze off the loch. At her insistence, he’d finally confessed how a half-French tart had tried to trap him years earlier.

“I had a London season where it seemed … prudent to seek a wife,” he’d said. “At the time, I didn’t know you existed, or I would have understood how