She loved it.
She loved him.
As she began to move, to stroke him with her inner core, she felt him lifting, helping to set the pace. Each time she pushed back against him, she sucked in a happy little breath, his cock pulsing against that special spot deep, deep inside her, right where she needed him most.
But soon enough, she fell forward, her head bowed, her eyes closed, her fingers curled into his chest, as her entire being centered on the pleasure she was wrenching from him. Each thrust, each stroke, sent her higher and higher, and she found her rhythm increasing to a frantic pace.
His hips bucked upward to meet her, and she heard him cursing—or mayhap praying—under his breath. Then his fingers tightened around her hips and he groaned, “Fenella…”
And she was lost.
She pushed back against him, the tip of his cock thrusting deep within her and allowed the pleasure to burst over her.
Wave after wave rocked her, shook her, as she clamped her knees tight against his side.
Then he gasped, and she felt a warmth rushing inside her and managed to smile in satisfaction.
They pulsed together as their breathing slowed. With her inner core still quivering around him, Fen dropped to his chest, pressing her cheek against his skin.
Both of his arms wrapped around her, holding her in place, and she felt…well, she felt hot and sticky and breathless, but also cherished and protected and loved.
Loved.
“I love ye,” she whispered against his skin.
His lips brushed her head. “No’ as much as I love ye.”
Her own lips twitched. “Is everything a competition with ye, husband?”
A chuckle shook his chest. “I’m no’ nearly as competitive as ye.”
It took them both a moment to register the competitive nature of that reply, and they both huffed in amusement.
They lay there long enough for him to soften, and their heartbeats to slow to match their breathing. When she shifted, he slid from her, and she felt a brief stab of disappointment.
With a sigh, he rolled until she was tucked up beside him instead of atop him.
“Ye will be the death of me, lass.”
“’Twill be a pleasant death, aye?”
“Aye,” he chuckled slightly. “But if we continue down this road, ye’ll be pregnant afore any of yer sisters.”
Fen’s lips twitched downward. “Dinnae doubt I want children, Brodie.” Her head rested against his shoulder and her fingers played with the small hairs on his chest. “The idea of baring yer children makes me…thrilled.”
“Little freckled hellions, like their mother?”
“I’m nae hellion.” She poked him. “I’m shy.”
“Ye’re no’ shy in my arms, my green-eyed angel.”
Nay, she wasn’t, was she? Fen grinned slightly. “I dinnae have green eyes.”
“Aye, ye do.” He squeezed her. “When ye’re angry at me, or when ye’re in my bed, yer eyes spit green fire.”
Och, she hadn’t realized. “Mayhap our bairn will have green eyes. And dark skin. Yer strength, and my…”
“Yer baking ability.” He sighed. “I never thought of bairns, ye understand. I never thought to marry, to settle. I assumed I’d die in battle defending my laird, as was right.”