Her eyes widened as he stood up and stepped out of the tub. The bath had obviously not dimmed his lust at all. She squeaked when he suddenly grabbed her by the arms and lifted her out of the tub, setting her down facing him on the cloth she had spread out on the floor. She murmured a protest when he tugged one of her arms away from her breasts and began to dry it. Slowly, with a sensuous care that sent her passions soaring, he dried her body.
Ilsa was so caught up in how he was making her feel that by the time he knelt before her to begin to dry her feet, she was only briefly concerned about how exposed she was. The way he dried her stomach then heated it with kisses quickly killed that soft flicker of modesty. He did the same to each leg, lingering over her thighs until she was trembling. She groaned softly as he nudged her legs wider apart to dry between them.
When Diarmot dropped the cloth, Ilsa was more than ready to go to the bed.
Then she felt his mouth upon that part of her he had just gently patted dry. She tensed in shock and tried to pull away, but he grasped her by her hips and held her steady. Ilsa was not sure if what he was doing was right, but it took only a few strokes of his tongue for her to decide she did not care. She clung to his shoulders as she lost herself in the pleasure he gave her. Only his hold on her kept her from collapsing as her release tore through her with dizzying force.
Although still dazed as Diarmot slowly rose, kissing his way back up her body, Ilsa felt a twitch of renewed desire. Then she noticed that Diarmot was still damp. Eluding his grasp, she picked up the drying cloth. Turnabout is fair play, she decided, and enjoyed the way his eyes widened as she started to dry his arms.
By the time Ilsa reached his taut stomach, she could feel the faint tremors in his body beneath her lips. His passion was running hot and wild. Afraid he might end her play before she was ready, she stepped behind him, almost smiling at his soft grunt of disappointment. As she dried his back, then kissed, licked, and occasionally nipped his warm, smooth skin from his broad shoulders down to his strong calves, she felt her own passion rise. When she moved in front of him again to start at his ankles and moved upward, she was more than ready to be as bold and intimate in her attentions as he had been. She was eager.
Diarmot was not sure how much more he could endure as Ilsa dried and kissed her way up each of his legs. When she meticulously dried the damp from his groin, he tensed, wondering if she would be bold enough to bless that area with her kisses. He shuddered with delight when she dropped the drying cloth, ran her fingernails lightly over his thighs, and touched her warm, soft lips to his aching shaft. Although he was not sure he was very coherent, he muttered his approval and encouragement. He threaded his fingers in her thick hair to hold her close as she drove him to near madness with her lips and tongue.
The feel of her mouth lightly enclosing the head of his staff told Diarmot he had to stop this play. It was both too late and too soon to enjoy such pleasure.
Too late for him to grasp enough control to savor it and, despite her apparent willingness, probably too soon to request her to gift him with the intimate pleasure he now craved. He grasped her by the arms and pulled her away, then gently pushed her back onto the drying cloths scattered over the floor.
"Oh. I thought ye liked that," Ilsa said, afraid she had shocked or offended him with her boldness.
"I did. Too much." He knelt between her legs. "Another time, when I am nay so needful of being within ye."
He looked her over, noting the flush of passion upon her skin, her taut nipples, and the rapid pace of her breathing. Placing his hand over her womanhood, he felt the hot damp of welcome and saw the way she shivered at his touch. Diarmot realized her passion had been stirred by making love to him and the last thin restraints he had clung to snapped. He fell on her, thrusting himself inside her heat, blind need driving him onward. Even as his release shook him, he heard her cry out and felt her body tighten around him. The only clear thought he had as he collapsed on top of her, was that at least he had not hurt her.
Ilsa blinked when, after several minutes of lying together, sated and a little dazed, Diarmot got up. She clumsily wrapped a drying cloth around herself and sat up. It irritated her when she saw that Diarmot was silently dressing.
Surely he could at least manage some inconsequential talk without threatening the truce they had agreed to. Her eyes widened in surprise when he paused on his way to the door to press a kiss to the top of her head.
"Dinnae tarry too long," he said. "The food will be set out soon," he added even as he shut the door behind him.
Staring at the closed door, Ilsa quickly suppressed the urge to throw something at it. She would fix her mind on that brief, affectionate kiss. It could mean that she was slowly winning her battle to conquer his heart and mind.
As she rose to get dressed, she told herself not to let her hopes rise too high.
It was early days yet and a man as scarred in spirit as Diarmot was would not cast aside his bitterness and wariness easily. They were his defenses against pain. Ilsa just wished she did not have to suffer as she struggled to prove to him that she would never hurt him.
CHAPTER EIGHT