The Highlander's Christmas Countess (The Lairds Most Likely 8)

With a sigh of satisfaction, he squeezed the soft flesh and bent his head to take one sweet, silk-covered point between his lips. Kit released a broken cry of surprised pleasure and sagged in his hold. He drew on the tip as he caressed her other breast, then lifted his head. Her face was flushed, and her lips were red and full. Her eyelids were heavy over dark blue eyes. She was the perfect image of female surrender.

He glanced down to where damp silk outlined one pink nipple. The pale material clung to the curve of her hip and hinted at the glorious mysteries between her legs. Suddenly even this transparent garment provided too much concealment. He needed to see her body.

With shaking hands, he caught her shift and tugged it over her head, letting it drift to the ground behind her. Then he lost the ability to speak.

Hell, he lost the ability to breathe.

“Quentin…” she stammered, hands fluttering at her sides.

He knew she was desperate to cover herself, but he reached out and caught her wrists to stop her. She was lithe and slender, and her skin was as white as snow, so the rich raspberry nipples and the feathery dark curls that covered her sex were shocking in their erotic color. She was trembling, and she jerked in his hold, as though she still wanted to restore her modesty.

He’d imagined her naked, of course he had. Far too often to save him from feeling like a lustful satyr. But the reality of his bride’s unclothed body beggared even the most spectacular of his dreams.

It took an almighty effort, but Quentin mustered a few gruff words. “You’re beyond beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said, with those perfect manners he’d noticed from the first as so incongruous in a mere stableboy.

The reminder made him smile. “It’s my pleasure, believe me.”

She smiled back with touching uncertainty, and she stopped trying to pull away. This expression of trust made his heart turn over with gratitude and more of that almost agonizing protectiveness. “Let me touch you,” he murmured.

Wide eyes fixed on his features, and she licked her lips. But she nodded. Another concession. “I’d like that.”

Her bravery, when it was clear she was drowning in shyness, sliced at his heart. After he released her hands, his touch was light when he brushed along her shoulders and down her slender arms. Catching her hands, he brought them briefly to his lips. He placed swift kisses on her knuckles, then turned them over to kiss her palms with more lingering attention, until her eyelids fluttered and she curved toward him.

He shaped her flanks and hips and finally held her bare breasts, his thumbs flicking at the crests unti

l she gasped. Only then did he lean in and put his mouth on her, suckling and using his tongue and teeth to drive her wild.

She clung to his shoulders and pressed forward in quivering encouragement. Her flowery scent rose to tempt him. Drawing hard on her nipple, he finally dared to touch her between the legs. She was wet and sleek beneath his exploring fingers and lusciously hot. He stroked the delicate folds and found the place that made a woman quake.

Her shuddering gasp made him swell against the soft plaid of his kilt. He’d been hard since they’d started kissing, but touching her naked body rushed him toward the moment when he needed to be inside her. He scraped his teeth across her nipple, as he teased her center of pleasure until she was shaking.

“What…what wonderful things you’re doing to me,” she muttered, holding his head to her breasts and jutting her hips forward.

“There’s more,” he murmured against her skin and raised his head. He caught her around the waist and swung her until she tumbled against the sheets. Coming down over her, he reveled in the eager way her arms curled around him. He kissed her with open-mouthed fervor. “I need to take off this damned kilt.”

She let him go and shifted up against the pillows, reaching down to remove her stockings and cream satin slippers. “I’d like to see you.”

He rose to his knees and with fumbling hands unbuckled the black leather belt. Then he quickly pushed away the kilt, so that he was bare to her gaze.

She gave a muffled squeak, and her gaze was wide and wondering as it focused on the hard flesh rising between his thighs.

“What are you thinking about?”

To his surprise, eyes bright with laughter met his. She looked breathtakingly like the faux stableboy who had captured his interest. “Horses.”

He started to laugh, then couldn’t wait any longer. He surged forward and caught her in his arms, kissing her with mad abandon. He’d imagined it would take all night to coax his bride into accepting his possession – if she accepted him at all. But with a sweetness that surpassed imagination, he found himself poised between her thighs, ready to thrust into her.

“Christabel?” he asked on a long, broken exhalation.

She stared up at him, eyes weighty with need. “Make me your wife, Quentin. I’m ready.”

He slid his hand along her cleft and discovered that she was, as she said, ready. He pushed one finger inside her. By God, she was tight. All the time, he watched her face.

When discomfort drew her sleek black brows together, he stopped. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”