“I seem to recall that promise. Was it verra good you said? Or verra verra good?”
He palmed her breast fully now, kneading and squeezing. With his thumb, he found her nipple and teased it to a tight, straining peak. Back. And forth.
“Verra . . . verra . . . verra good.”
His own blood pounded in his veins, all of it making a mad rush in one direction—-down. Beneath the bed linens, his cock began to throb and harden.
He moved his attention to her other breast, spreading his fingers wide to stretch the fabric to its sheerest. God, she was lovely. Perfect pink--tinged flesh capped with a small, reddish nipple that looked as though it would taste of berry wine.
Her breath caught. “Could you . . .”
Logan froze at once. When she said nothing further, he lifted his head and met her gaze.
Damn. Why had he given her the chance? Now, even if she hadn’t been planning it, she was going to ask him to stop. And then he would have to stop, because he wasn’t the sort of man who’d continue.
The business of war and killing stripped a man of his humanity. Over his decade in the army, he’d seen soldiers—-even ones that wore the same uniform—-commit the vilest of acts against women. Sometimes he’d been in a position to stop it; other times, not. But misusing women was the one line Logan had never crossed.
He didn’t view it as a point of pride. He didn’t deserve any medals for it. But it let him know he’d held on to a scrap of his soul.
He wouldn’t surrender that now. Not even for the chance to hold her tonight.
Don’t, lass. Don’t ask me to stop.
She said, “Could you at least kiss me when you do that?”
Relief and desire crashed through him.
“Aye. That I can do.”
He bent his head and drew that berry--wine nipple into his mouth, suckling her straight through that damned extra chemise.
Judging by her sharp gasp, that wasn’t the kiss she’d been expecting. But she didn’t complain.
Logan was in paradise. She was sweet. So sweet that his brain went light as air, and he couldn’t hold back a low moan.
He licked over her nipple, then moved in widening circles, painting the sheer linen to her breast. He paused to admire the transparent effect, then rolled atop her so that he could better start in on the other side.
What with the two shifts cocooning her body, he couldn’t settle between her legs. Instead he braced his knees on either side of her thighs.
And his cock wedged right where it wanted to be.
When their bodies met, she gave a startled gasp. And then he moved against her, and her gasp became a low, sweet sigh.
Yes.
“That’s it.” He rocked his hips against hers. “Do you feel it? It’s only the beginning, mo chridhe.”
She shut her eyes. Her dark lashes fluttered against her cheeks. “You truly must kiss me when you do that.”
Logan obliged her, this time pressing his lips to hers.
As he sank into the lush heat of her kiss, a wildness gathered and growled within him.
He wanted her. All of her. Under him. Surrounding him. Taking him into her softness and heat.
And he couldn’t get enough of her sweet taste. As if possessed, he pushed her arms against the mattress and kissed her neck, her brow, her lips, her lovely breasts.
Then he moved lower.
He rose up on his knees and began to kiss a trail down her linen--sheathed body. From the hollow between her breasts . . .
To her shy, adorable navel . . .
And further.
From far away, he heard himself murmuring in Gaelic. Words began tumbling from his lips, unbidden. Words he’d never spoken to any other woman in his life.
“Maddie a ghràdh. Mo chridhe. Mo bean.”
Maddie, darling. My heart. My wife.
Her fancies had started to addle his brain, too. What was she doing to him?
He spread the linen tight over her hips, revealing the dark triangle of shadow guarding her sex.
And then he bent to kiss her there.
She flinched and bucked, bashing him in the head with her knee.
Ouch.
With a low moan of pain, Logan rolled to the side, clutching his head.
He stared up at the bed’s wooden canopy, struggling for breath. Had he been wondering what she was doing to him? He knew what she was doing to him.
She was killing him.
That’s what she was doing to him.
“What . . .” She clutched the bedsheets to her chest. “What was . . . Why would you do . . . that?”
Why indeed.
“Because humans have more imagination than lobsters, mo chridhe. There’s more than one way to share pleasure.”
She was quiet for a long moment. “How many ways?”
He rolled onto his side to face her, skimming a single finger from her breastbone to her belly. “Here’s an idea. I’ll demonstrate them, and you keep count.”
This time her silence seemed endless.
“Perhaps another time, thank you.” She turned onto her side. Away from him.
And that was it, then. Wanting pulsed through his body, coiling and sparking with electric intensity. He didn’t dare put his trust in pillows or decency to contain it.
It would be another cold, restless night on the floor.
Chapter Ten