“I can manage,” he said, and true to his word he had soon unfastened her gown enough so that he could slip it from her shoulders and halfway down her arms.
The décolletage slid down, and he eased the sleeves further, dragging the front of the gown with them. Slowly, slowly he lowered it. Discovering, inch by inch, her rounded, ivory flesh, not quite disclosing her naked breasts to his eager gaze. His breath was uneven—she could feel his chest rising and falling—and his body hot and close against her back. Meg swallowed, and looking down, watched her own body be revealed. But instead of being embarrassed or apprehensive, she tried to see herself through his eyes.
It was difficult, for all she saw was Meg Mackintosh. Her breasts were largish, it was true, and an annoyance to her whenever she wished to ride like a man. Did he see something else in them entirely that she had been missing all these years? He seemed…spellbound.
“Gregor,” she whispered, uncertainly.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, astonishing her, and let go of one sleeve to rest his hand briefly on the fleshy curve of her upper breast, trailing his fingers into the shadowy niche between them. She found herself watching his hand, his fingers, on her skin. The darker color of his flesh, the scars and marks upon him that came from many years of fighting and living in the Highlands. The sight of his male skin against her white breasts was suddenly, marvelously, exciting.
Her heart beat faster.
Gregor lowered the décolletage a little more, slowly, so slowly. They were both breathing fast now. And then the green silk caught on the very tips of her breasts, giving a teasing glimpse of the darker circles around her nipples, now barely hidden from view.
“Ah, morvoren,” he said, his voice low and ragged. “Let me just…”
His fingers trembling, he freed her from the constraints of her bodice, and the cloth fell to her waist, catching on the swell of her hips. Now at last her breasts were bared to his gaze, and in wonder she let him take his fill. And watched, hardly daring to breath, as he brought his hands up beneath them and gently took them, one in each palm, until the bountiful, creamy flesh spilled over his fingers.
Meg’s head fell back against his shoulder and she gasped with a pleasure almost too much to bear. His fingers stroked, caressed, his thumbs finding her nipples and rubbing at them until Meg was squirming against him. Wanting, needing…When she could stand it no more, she turned about, facing him. Her lashes lifted on blue eyes that were dreamy and sensual.
Gregor smiled. He knew he had stirred passion in her, but there was a long way to go yet, until she was entirely his. Somehow he had to control his own passion, hold back, and let her gain the most pleasure. He bent his head and took the tip of one breast in his mouth.
Instantly the heat surrounded her aching nipple, the moist sweep of his tongue causing her to cry out. Meg reached up to find something to hold on to, just as her trembling legs gave way. She grasped his shoulders, and then his hair, her fingers tangling in the silky length, drawing him even closer.
He placed one last kiss upon her breast, and then turned to the other one, giving it the same treatment. Meg moaned deep in her throat. The heat was gathering in her belly and her chest, and between her legs. She didn’t know if she could take much more without her body shattering with pleasure. In desperation, she forced his head up, kissing his chin, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, before he reached to still her frantic movements, a hand either side of her face.
As if he understood completely how she was feeling, Gregor smiled down at her. But it wasn’t a gentle smile. His handsome face was hard, his eyes glittered. He looked as if he wanted to devour her whole. She might have been afraid of what she saw then, in his expression, if she had not wanted above all things to be devoured.
His mouth closed on hers, opening her lips with his, and she felt his tongue. The sensation was new and strange, but she bided her time, allowing him to guide her. Soon she was playing with his tongue, using her own to follow and explore. Her breasts were pressed to his chest, the buttons on his jacket slightly painful, and he had slid his hands over the bare flesh of her back and shoulders, down to the curve of her bottom. Cupping her through her gown, he pressed her urgently against his body. And she felt the hard length of his desire.
For the first time since he had drawn her into his room, Meg’s dreamy state threatened to unravel. She knew what that hard rod was, she knew what it meant, and she knew where it was made to go. Suddenly, she was less than keen that he use it on her.
As if sensing her change of heart, Gregor shifted her in his arms, bringing a hand up to her breasts, fondling them until she was once more gasping and pliant in his arms. She slid her own arms about his neck, once again using his strength to support her weakened legs. And then, before she could do more than squeak in protest, he was lifting her, holding her to his chest, and in two long strides had reached the bed and placed her upon it.
Meg found herself sinking into the feather ticking, her hair in her eyes, her gown still caught about her hips and hampering her movements. She struggled up onto her elbows, complaining, only to stop when she realized that Gregor was hastily disrobing. He had already removed his jacket and was now pulling the fine linen shirt over his head and tossing it aside.
Suddenly the memory of him, by the loch near Shona’s cottage, returned to her. His body, half naked, in the cold dawn. She had stood upon the shore, spellbound, her fingers itching to touch him, to tame him. And yet she had not dared; she had told herself it would not be proper. Well, now she could touch him as much as she wished.
If she were brave enough.
His kilt fell to the floor, and, naked, he came toward her. He was just the same as he had been, when he dragged himself wounded from his bed at the Clashennic Inn—not that she had dared more than a glance or two! But he was different, too, for then he had been weak and shaking with fever, barely able to stand. Now he was fit and strong, a man in his prime. And he was aroused. Oh, yes, he was very aroused indeed.
Meg swallowed nervously as she ran her eye over the great length of him. He was surely far too large for a normal man? How could he possibly put…how could she…
“It will not fit,” Meg told him with characteristic bluntness.
Gregor’s eyes narrowed and he gave her a slow, entirely wicked smile. “Would you place a wager on that, lass?” he asked her gently.
Meg chewed her lip, her eyes still fixed on that part of him. She seemed completely unable to drag her gaze away. “I don’t want to place a wager, and I certainly don’t want—”
“There will be pleasure in it,” he interrupted roughly. “For us both.”
“I have heard that it can be painful for the woman,” Meg blurted out. “I have heard stories.”
He was her husband; he could force her if he wished, and no one would dare question him. How could she have forgotten that small fact?
There was a silence, apart from the beating of Meg’s heart, as she held herself ready to flee. Or fight.
“Sweet Meg,” he whispered.