Tearing her gaze from his groin, Ilsa quickly scolded herself for that sudden flicker of unease. She was no virgin. Except for the first time they had made love, she recalled no pain, only pleasure. Since she doubted a man could become more impressively endowed in just a year, she had obviously accommodated him well in the past and could do so again.
She tensed when he crouched over her and began to remove her shift. A protest formed upon her tongue, but she bit it back. This, too, was his right. If he was planning to do more than rut on her, however, it would certainly be impossible to pretend she was giving him only reluctant duty. She blushed when he tossed her shift aside and stared at her bared body. He looked at her as if he had never seen her before. Obviously the sight of her stirred no memory, but, if she judged his expression correctly, it did stir his lust. She could make that be enough for now.
Diarmot told himself to cease dawdling and get about the business of easing his needs. He then told himself that enjoying the sight of such loveliness revealed no more than any man's natural interest in the female form. Ilsa's breasts were round and full, the nipples a dusky rose. Her waist was tiny, her stomach taut with only a few faint scars from when pregnant with her sons, and her legs were long and strong. Her skin was smooth, soft, and without blemish.
Between her pale, slender thighs was a neat little triangle of copper curls that had him aching, his mind rapidly filling with thoughts of all the ways he wished to enjoy that treasure.
And why not enjoy himself?, he thought. Even the slowest of wits knew passion had nothing to do with any of the deeper emotions a man might feel for his wife.
This beauty was his by the laws of the land and the church, so why not savor it?
And, if he roused a little passion in Ilsa as he satisfied his own needs, so be it. She owed him some recompense for so thoroughly disrupting his plans.
He watched her eyes widen as he lowered his head to touch his mouth to hers.
The soft fullness of her mouth was too great a temptation to ignore. For a brief moment, she held herself tautly, silently rejecting his kiss, but only for a moment. She then slowly curled her strong, slender arms around his neck as she responded to the gentle prod of his tongue and parted her lips. Diarmot suspected his body echoed the faint tremors that went through her as he stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue, but he did not care. She was sweet to the taste, her body soft and welcoming as he settled himself on top of her.
Passion had been missing from his life for too long and he was greedy for a taste of it.
Ilsa recognized her swift surrender, regretted that weakness, then ceased to worry about it. There was evidently no chance she could feign being no more than a dutiful wife in his bed. So be it, she decided. If this was all he had to give her, she would take it. If nothing else, lovemaking would allow her to express all the love she now had to keep hidden. And, since men rarely believed strong passion came from the heart, Diarmot would never guess how very vulnerable she was.
She tilted her head back as he moved his kisses to her throat. A soft groan of pleasure escaped her when he slid one hand up her ribcage to caress her breast, teasing her nipples to an almost painful hardness with his fingers. When his kisses finally reached her breasts, she was almost as much relieved as she was enflamed. She threaded her fingers into his thick hair as he feasted upon her breasts, laving, suckling, and even giving her the occasional gentle nip. By the time he slid his hand between her legs she was desperate for his touch. It only took a few strokes of his long fingers to make her desperate for all of him.
"Jesu, ye already weep for me," he muttered as he prepared himself to possess her.
When he thrust into her, she cried out, and he paused, afraid he had been too rough. Diarmot started to retreat only to have her wrap her strong legs around him and push him back deep inside. As he began to move, the feel of her tight heat surrounding him, the way she so perfectly matched his every thrust, and the feel of her strong lithe body wrapped around him, quickly robbed him of all control.
She cried out his name as she bowed slightly off the bed with the strength of her release. Diarmot wrapped his arm around her slim hips and held her close as he buried himself as deeply within her as possible and joined her in that blind fall. When he slumped against her, he was not sure who was trembling more, him or her.
The moment he felt he had gained enough strength to do so, Diarmot flopped onto his back at her side. He felt almost boneless. A glance at Ilsa revealed her sprawled on her back obviously suffering from the same affliction. That offered him some comfort.