Not Half Plaid (Bad in Plaid 2)

His fingers were still stroking her as she continued her roll toward him, but when she pushed herself up onto her knees, he had to retreat. “Lass, what—”

And then both her hands wrapped around his jutting cock, and he bit off the protest in a sort of strangled squawk.

Grinning, she stroked him with both hands and loved the way his gaze gleamed appreciatively as he watched.

“God’s teeth, Fenella,” he rasped. “I could die happy right now.”

On her knees beside his supine body, she opened her legs a bit wider, teasing him. His hand dropped to her hip, squeezing hard.

“Ye’re no’ allowed to die yet, husband. I’m no’ done with ye.”

His tongue darted out over his bottom lip, his breathing unsteady. “Ye look like an angel, with all those red curls cascading across yer tits. Have ye come to carry me off to Heaven, lass?”

She grinned wickedly. “Let us see if we can make that happen,” she murmured as she bent over him.

In the nights since Brodie had begun sharing her bed, he’d taught her lots of things. She’d taken to lovemaking faster than she’d ever thought possible, but this was still one of her favorite things.

Mainly because of the sounds he made as her lips closed around his cock.

Her hair fell forward, getting in her way, but then he was there, wrapping her curls in one hand and pulling it away for her. As her head bobbed, as she tasted his salty wetness, she reflected on the name for such a position. The Penitent Swan, but she was on her knees? Why a swan then?

Perhaps she should ask Wynda to ask the Gray Lady.

Later.

She smiled as her lips reached his tip. Aye, later.

“Lass,” he growled, his hand closing around his own cock. “Have I told ye I love ye?”

She chuckled, but didn’t stop. Instead, as he stroked himself—at a faster pace than she’d been setting—she concentrated her efforts on his tip, making certain he was well lubricated.

One hand cradled his ballocks, and the other snaked down between her legs to stroke her own core.

“Aye, ‘tis the way,” he growled again. “Fook yer fingers, lass. Think about my tongue—my cock—in ye, aye? Ye’re dripping, are ye no’? Ready for me…”

Another thing she’d discovered was exactly how much she enjoyed how he narrated their love-making.

The pressure was building in her core, each thrust of her fingers matching an ache above her clitoris. She needed more!

And she knew he appreciated her initiative.

So she pushed herself upright, swung her leg over his thighs, and straddled him. Now his cock was settled against her curls, and it was a simple matter for him to transfer his stroking to her.

She smiled.

And miracle of miracles, he smiled in return. By St. Jennifer’s blessed nose, but she loved that this man smiled for her.

“Ye like this, husband?” she murmured, as she planted her hands on his chest and slid forward.

Her wet folds slid over his cock, cradling it to its tip, before she slid back down again. His groan of pleasure was all the answer she needed. That, and the way his tight grip moved to her hips, as if urging her pace.

She teased him once more, then again, until he was panting with need, the same as she.

Then she lifted her hips, positioned his cock, and sunk down atop it.

When she was fully seated, they both exhaled.

His gaze was intense, and she felt powerful indeed, sitting atop him like this. She’d given him her virginity in this position, the night he’d confessed his love, and she still found it the most comfortable. With his weak leg, this was also easiest for him.