“This is, perhaps, not the most fitting place,” he whispered, his breath skimming across her skin, “but you have me at a disadvantage. Your touch drives me wild.”
She vaguely remembered trying to drive him wild, stroking his engorged member—that she remembered too well—but he'd gotten the better of her.
“Technically,” he went on, his deep voice moving over her like silk as he ran his tongue along the edge of her ear, “this isn’t our wedding night. Therefore, it’s not as if I’m a complete cad. Can you forgive me for, yet, one more transgression?” His mouth glided across her cheek. “I promise to be a better husband afterwards.” He covered her mouth with his and dragged her against him.
Her breasts, crushed against his chest, ached. She exhaled, her breath mingling with his. A soft moan emanate from her throat. He slid a hand up her back and ran his fingers along her neck just below the hairline.
Phoebe shivered.
He pulled her to her feet. Her legs felt like rubber.
"Steady, sweetheart."
He turned her until her back faced him and pushed aside her hair. With one arm around her waist, he held her close while kissing her neck. She was vaguely aware of him unbuttoning her dress, but the sensation of his mouth on the sensitive skim of her neck muddled her brain. A moment later, he pushed the dress from her shoulders and it slipped to the floor. He grasped her chemise and began pulling it over her head.
"My lord," she cried, but he had the garment off her and a chill raced across her flesh.
He turned her and her skin heated when his gaze dropped to her naked breasts.
"Sir," she began, but he cut her off with a kiss, then lifted her into his arms and crossed to the bed. He laid her on the mattress and she knew she should push him away, leave, run as far away from him as she could. But when he lowered himself onto her, a dizzying current spun the room. Then he kissed her and she was sure she was drowning. He trailed kisses along her cheek and down her throat to her shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” he said, and Phoebe felt herself floating between the real and unreal.
He filled her senses.
Kiernan shoved off of the bed and in seconds had his boots off. He rose, loosened his belt, then unwrapped his kilt. Phoebe's heart jumped in the instant before the plaide dropped to the floor and she couldn't tear her gaze from his shaft. He was just as he'd been that night in his chambers: thick, rigid, and—heaven help her—in definite proportion to his size. He began unbuttoning his shirt.
Her heart beat faster. What in God's name was she doing? She hadn't come here to seduce her husband. She had come looking for her father. Kiernan braced one knee on the bed, then bent and kissed her. Phoebe started to shove him away, but her palms connected with the hard flesh of his chest. Her eyes flew open and the sight of her fingers splayed against the dark expanse of muscle caused her to knead the unyielding flesh. He drew back a fraction and she tore her gaze from the mesmerizing sight to see that his blue eyes had darkened to a hard glitter.
He shucked his shirt, then came down on top of her. Her breath hitched and she clutched his shoulders. The softer contours of her body submitted to his hard planes, and his engorged member lay thick and heavy on her belly. Her nipples rose to marbled points against his chest and the juncture between her legs tightened in response. She couldn't halt the reaction and a throb thrummed from the most intimate part of her.
Kieran covered her mouth with his as he shifted, then began a slow glide of his shaft through her curls and along her belly. Phoebe sucked in a breath and he slipped his tongue inside her mouth. He gave another slow thrust of his shaft, this time caressing the tip of the throbbing point between her legs. Phoebe startled at the pleasure that radiated through her. Feather light, one hand skimmed along her arm, over her shoulder, then covered her breast. Kneading the breast, he broke the kiss and slid his mouth along her cheek, down her neck to the other breast. An instant later, he sucked a nipple into his mouth.
She was slowly going insane.
He reached between their bodies and Phoebe gasped when his warm finger stroked her heated sex. He flicked his tongue on her nipple as his finger teased, stroked, urged her to want more…to want him. She gripped his shoulders in an effort to halt the whirl of sensations, but the feel of steel beneath her fingers compelled her to pull him closer instead.
The stroking ceased and she realized he was fitting his shaft to the entrance of her channel. Her stomach did a somersault. This was as far as she and Brandon had gotten—though the journey had been nothing like this. She hadn't lost her mind with Brandon. The tip of Kiernan's penis eased into her. Phoebe tensed.
"Easy, love," he whispered. "We have all night."
She flushed. He had guessed the truth? But how?
He inched deeper. She held her breath as his girth stretched her. This was strange. He reached between them and began stroking her again, this time with more fervor. She clamped her legs around his hips.