Pendragon (Sherbrooke Brides 7)

Meggie’s brain shut down. Yes, he was actually touching her there, with his mouth, his teeth, his tongue. Then she lifted off the bed, so embarrassed when she tried to yell at him, she could only stutter. She tried to jerk away from him, shoving at his shoulders, yanking on his hair, but he just raised his mouth a bit, looked at her straight in her Sherbrooke eyes, and said, his breath hot against her flesh, “Lie down, Meggie. Close your eyes and let yourself enjoy what I’m doing to you. It’s the done thing, just like the tongues. Relax. I’m your husband. This gives me great pleasure. Don’t deny me my pleasure, Meggie.”

“Oh no, oh goodness, but, Thomas—”

“Be quiet,” he said and blew his hot breath against her.

Meggie lurched up and yelled.

He eased a finger inside her and she yelled again, only this time, he knew she’d shoot him if he stopped. Good, he had her now. He pushed her until—“Come now, Meggie. Just let go. Come along, come to me—”

Meggie didn’t understand what was happening to her, but she knew she’d simply shatter into pieces if anything or anyone tried to stop it happening, whatever it was. She was quaking, stuttering she was so frantic, so maddened by the feelings building and building until—she arched her back, fisted her hands in his hair, and screamed to the beamed ceiling.

He pushed her and pushed her until he felt every bit of tension, every frantic need from deep inside her finally quiet, leaving her utterly limp, utterly his. He gave a shout of satisfaction as he came into her hard, deep and deeper still, and she raised her hips, something that nearly sent him right over the edge. No, he wouldn’t leave her this quickly, it wasn’t fair to either of them. Where had she gotten the energy to want him more? Then he looked down at them, saw himself going deeper inside her, and trembled like a tree branch in a high wind.

Those long legs of hers went around his flanks, and she moaned, and he tried, he truly tried to slow himself, to come out of her a bit until he managed to grab on to just a bit of control, but then he just couldn’t, couldn’t do anything but go forward and he did, touching her womb. Her womb, he was part of her. Oh God. Even then he gritted his teeth, trying desperately to hold himself still, not to move even a small little bit, but it did no good. He went right over the edge when she bit his shoulder, then licked where she’d bitten.

He yelled louder than his wife had, then collapsed on top of her.

Meggie, flattened by a very big sweaty male body, didn’t mind a bit. So this was pleasure. She bit his shoulder again, licked it, and grinned. She was astounded. She’d wanted to sing and dance with the champagne, but it was nothing compared to this. Now she wanted to whirl about in a fast waltz, she wanted to stomp her feet to some wild music that the gypsies played. She was filled with energy, with power, and all because of him, because of Thomas, her husband.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his ear, and squeezed her arms around his back.

He was breathing hard,

his face beside hers, and she’d brought him to this.

“I was very good, wasn’t I?” she said, and bit his ear-lobe this time. “Just look at you, my lord, felled like a tree, breathing so hard I fear an attack of apoplexy, and all because I’m me and I did it to you.”

“I’m going to die,” he said finally, tried to bring himself up on his elbow but failing. He fell on her again.

“Perhaps I should give lessons, do you think?”

“Meggie, aren’t you at all tired? Utterly relaxed? Your limbs weak and useless? Your brain ready to nap?”

“I want to dance, Thomas. Waltz with me. Then may we do this again?”

He groaned, and managed to pull himself up on his elbows. He was still inside her, and when he moved, he felt himself harden again. It was amazing. He didn’t want to waltz, oh no. “Meggie, I don’t think we are quite finished yet. Do you mind if we dance a bit later?”

She stared up at him, her head cocked to the side. “I must be truly amazing,” she said, and lifted her hips. She felt him hard now, as hard as he’d been before he’d reached his climax. It felt wonderful. “All right. We will waltz after. Do something, Thomas, please.”

And he did, grinning even as he kissed her mouth, the underside of her breast, her hipbone, the inside of her left knee. He kissed her until she moaned in his mouth, and he thought, You’re mine, not his, just mine. It didn’t take long since he was already far gone. He shuddered and quaked and threw his head back and moaned long and deep. Then when he managed to focus on her face again, he saw that she wasn’t unconscious from pleasure as she should be. He didn’t pause, pulled out of her, took her with his mouth, and sent her right over the edge, again. She didn’t manage a moan or a yell, but just heaved and jerked about like a puppet, then sighed deeply, and reached for him. Before Thomas fell asleep, he brought her close against him, felt her breath against his flesh, knew the instant she was asleep, and he thought, I am really excellent at this. Perhaps even better than my bride. He smiled, knew that Jeremy hadn’t intruded this time, and closed his eyes. He was gone in just under two seconds.

19

Off the coast of southwestern Ireland

Between Cork Harbour and Kinsale

MEGGIE DECIDED SHE loved the Celtic Sea. This morning it looked like the English Channel on a very bad day, a gray raucous day, water whipped up by the wind, tearing and whipping about the boat. Today the sea was as rough and pure and wild as the frigid North Sea that slammed into the rocks near her home Kildrummy Castle in Scotland.

Then, suddenly, a gleaming sliver of sun slid through a sky full of fat gray clouds, knifing into the high waves just ahead of their boat. As for the boat—The Kelpie—it rocked madly, lifted to the top of a wave, then slammed down hard into a deep trough. It was like slicing a knife into bread, fast and deep. Then holding steady, a long pause, as if the boat were holding its breath, then up again, towering on top of the cresting waves.

She’d never experienced anything like this. It was magnificent, exciting, and she loved every instant of it. She thought she’d even go so far as to say that she loved it as much as she’d loved the pleasure she’d wallowed in the previous night. Then, of course, morning had come as it always did, and even though one just wanted to lie there and smile and do nothing at all, except reach for her husband and begin it all again, it wasn’t possible because her husband had been gone. Long gone and it was only six o’clock in the morning, a stormy morning that would have made staying in bed, sipping chocolate, and kissing until her mouth was numb, a very lovely thing indeed.

It was not to be, dammit. And then he was there beside her, looking up at the billowing storm clouds overhead, feeling the harsh sea wind whip his hair around his face.

He said, “We’ll be landing soon in Cork Harbour.”

She had her hand firmly on her bonnet. She turned to see her husband, his dark eyes watering from the sea winds whipping about his head. He looked immensely wonderful, but he had changed again. This wasn’t the man who’d groaned and yelled and kissed her numb the previous night. What was wrong with men? Were they all like this—utterly unpredictable, without a single idea how nice it would be to smile and kiss?