“Mine,” he whispered, kissing her jaw, her throat, then the hollow between her breasts. “So beautiful. Do ye ken how beautiful ye are?”
She tugged at his hair, a wild instinct, and he only groaned approvingly.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
“I willnae.”
His touch became worship. He kissed her slowly, thoroughly. When his fingers slid under her skirts, exploring, her breath hitched.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Showin’ ye what it means to feel wanted. Desired.”
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. But her body answered.
He lifted her again, effortlessly.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, dizzy.
“To our bed, wife. Where ye belong.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Of course, Alasdair’s kiss was not gentle. He had never pretended to be that kind of man.
He was possessive and demanding, but somehow tenderness managed to find its way through her as he held her face, as if it were something precious.
His kisses were paradoxes: they threatened to extinguish her breath while also making her feel alive. She could only pull at his coat to drive him closer to her.
More. More. More.
Her mind was chanting. Her body was singing.
Clearly, he also wanted her close, as his body pressed against hers. His hard touched her soft. They weren’t quite one, though, and it was making her frantic.
“Alasdair,” she whispered and begged, with her voice trembling with desire and apprehension.
What would be happening next would be new to her. Unfamiliar.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, his breath warm and intoxicating against her skin. “Ye’re mine. All mine.”
“Yes,” she whispered back, breathless and trembling.
His hands slid slowly down her back, steady and sure, drawing her closer. She felt the unmistakable press of his arousal against her belly. The heat, the weight—it was undeniable. Yet she did not recoil. She could not.
A strange, wild part of her stirred, one she barely recognized. It was as though something inside her, something raw and untrained, was awakening.
Without quite meaning to, she began to move against him, pressing and grinding in a way that felt instinctive, almost animalistic.
Her cheeks flamed with sudden embarrassment.
What am I doing?she thought, suddenly aware of how clumsy and unladylike she must seem.
She pulled back, stammering, “I—I'm sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Alasdair’s hands tightened gently on her waist, his voice soft but firm. “No need to stop, darlin’. Ye’re doin’ fine.”
She looked up into his eyes, searching for mockery or impatience, but found only warmth and encouragement.