Dear St. Jennifer, please let that be desire she saw in the depths of his dark eyes.
“I think…” she croaked, then licked her lips and tried again. “I think kisses always help with injuries.”
Something wicked gleamed in his gaze. “And do ye have any other injuries I could help with?”
“Aye…” She shifted her hand so she was cupping his cheek, then pointed to her neck with her free hand. “Here.”
Obligingly, he lowered his lips to her neck, trailing hot kisses along the skin, causing her to shiver with need.
“Here!” she cried with a gasp, pulling the neckline of her gown to the side so he could nuzzle at her collarbone.
St. Jennifer, aye!
His tongue dragged across her skin; the sensation both rough and sensuous all at once. When he spoke, his breath breezed across the wet skin, sending shivers racing down her spine.
“Where else, lass?”
Almost unbidden, her hands rose to cup her own breasts, lifting, as if gauging their weight and heft. “Here,” she choked hoarsely.
He made a sound which might’ve been a chuckle, as his fingers made short work of her ties. Soon, he was pulling aside her bodice, dragging linen across sensitive skin…and then his hands covered hers.
With a groan of agreement, Fen allowed her head to drop back, and he lowered his mouth to her nipples.
Dear St. Jennifer! It was as though his tongue was connected directly to her core! Each nip, each scrape of his teeth, each gentle lick, felt as if it stroked against her sensitive, wet folds further below.
Now that her hands were free, both dropped to the junction of her thighs, the base of one palm pressing against her pelvis, desperate for release. He noticed, and when he growled, she felt it reverberate throughout her entire body.
Then she was moving backwards until she felt the edge of the cot against the back of her knees, and she sat down, hard. The movement jarred the breath out of her—or maybe ‘twas his tongue—but she kept her wits about her enough to be able to tilt her head back and watch him reach for his belt.
And that’s when the purest sense of victory swept through her. Finally—finally!—she was going to get what she wanted. What she needed.
Whoshe needed.
He was standing before her, and she was breathless with desire, and right there, right in front of her face, was his kilt…bulging out from his hips as it covered that delightful hardness she’d felt the last time he’d held her close.
With only the slightest hesitation, Fen reached for the hem of his kilt. He froze when he felt her lift it, and she felt more powerful than she ever had before.
She lifted, and lifted, and then…
“By St. Jennifer’s blood, it does look like a sausage, does it no’?”
He groaned and bent forward, as if reaching for her, but Fen wasn’t done exploring. So she stopped him in the only way she could think of; she grabbed it.
Sucking in a breath, Brodie snapped upright once more. “Gentle, lass. A man’s cock is sensitive.”
Cock, eh? Her fingers moved along the length, marveling at the smoothness of it, encasing steel.
“Sensitive?” she teased. “Are my hands too cold? Is that why ye’re so stiff?”
“Stiff?” He sounded as if he were choking. “Aye…cold.”
It was as if the very thoughts had flown from his head. Smiling at her power, Fen leaned closer, inhaling his scent: sweat and soap and wool, and something strangely minty. How interesting.
Did he clean himself with herbs? Soak in herb-scented water?
How would he taste?
Feeling bold, Fen knew this was her chance to satisfy her curiosity. So she opened her mouth and slid her lips over the tip of his cock.