Page 49 of Rogue with a Brogue
He bunched up handfuls of silk and pushed the dress above her knees, and as she lifted her hips he took his time gazing at her bare thighs, the brown, curling hair at the apex of her legs, her flat stomach and the goose bumps his perusal seemed to raise on her skin.
“Arms up, my lass. I want to see all of ye.”
Brief uncertainty crossed her gaze, but without a hesitation she put her arms above her head and arched her back to let the material slide from beneath her. Once he tossed the gown aside, he sat back on his heels to take her in. She had skin the color of fine cream, kissed here and there with a spray of freckles. Her breasts were round and inviting, just the size to fit his hands. With a smile he went down onto his hands and knees over her. His cock strained at his trousers, but for the moment he ignored it—as well as any man could bear wanting a woman so much he could barely see straight. Leaning down, he kissed her slow and deep and openmouthed.
In other circumstances, with another woman, he might have tossed her onto the bed, shoved up her dress, and buried himself in her. The moment was the goal. This—she—was different. Whether she felt comfortable admitting it yet or not, Mary Campbell was going to be his bride. The goal was to give her pleasure, to make her crave him as much as he already craved her, and to claim her as his own. Forever.
Slowly he kissed and licked and nipped his way down her throat to her shoulders. Looking up at her to see her head raised just enough to watch him, he licked one sweet, pink nipple.
With a gasp she dug her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer against her. “Arran,” she said breathily, the sound deepening to a moan when he put his mouth over her breast and sucked.
God’s sake, he wanted her. And he needed her to want him. Shifting a little to rest his weight on one elbow, he slid the fingers of his free hand down her stomach, danced lightly across her thighs and then parted her nether lips and slipped inside her. She jumped, but he kept his mouth on her breast and his fingers down below moving in the same tempo. And sweet Saint Bridget, she was warm and wet—for him.
Her breath came faster and shallower, and she writhed deliciously beneath his hands until with a shuddering groan she climaxed. With her hands clawed into his scalp he thought she might have drawn blood, but he didn’t care.
“I’m sorry,” she rasped after a moment of panting. “Did I hurt you?”
“Nae,” he returned, finally lifting his head again. “Ye liked that, I assume?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. And there’s more, as well.”
“I… My goodness. More?”
“Aye. We’re only just beginning.”
“Then you should remove the rest of your clothes, too.” Her smile matched his. “I feel very naughty.”
He kneeled again, pulling her into a sitting position in front of him. “Come here,” he said, taking her hands and moving them to his waist.
She hesitated for a bit as if she didn’t quite know what to do. Then, blowing out her breath in a soft O, she unbuttoned the fastenings of his trousers. The tug as she worked at unfamiliar buttons had him clenching his jaw. “I want to do this correctly,” she said, her face setting into grim lines as she wrestled another button open.
“I dunnae think ye need to worry over that,” he responded, carefully keeping any amusement from his voice and expression.
“I don’t like not knowing what to do.”
“Well, that’s one of the lovely things aboot sex, lass. If ye stop thinking so much, yer body knows what to do. Sex has been aboot fer a fair amount longer than ye and me.”
Her hands paused, and she lifted her face to look at him. “How can anyone simply stop thinking?”
“I’ll have to introduce ye to my brother Munro. He’s a prime example.”
“Arran.”
He covered her hands with his. “Just do what feels good to ye, Mary. We’re here, and we’re together; naught else matters.” Drawing her arms up around his shoulders, he lowered his head and kissed her upturned face again. Tonight she tasted like sin, sweet and spicy and far too enticing for his peace of mind.
Reaching between them, he opened the last button of his trousers himself and pushed them down his thighs. Thank God. For a moment there he thought he might be permanently bent.
Mary, her arms still around his shoulders, looked down between them. “So that’s what that does.”
“It does more than that.”
She reached one hand down to stroke the length of him. “I think you should show me, Mr. Fox,” she murmured.
“With pleasure, Mrs. Fox.” He scooted backward to sit on his backside. “Help me with my boots, will ye?”
She tossed her own dancing slippers aside, then knelt to grab his heel and pull. After doing the same with the other boot, she set them both aside and stripped his trousers down his legs and off. Nowthatfelt better. And this was where they belonged—together. And whatever awkwardness she’d felt seemed to have vanished, because with a curious, aroused glance at his face she reached between his legs to curl her fingers around his cock and touch his balls. “All this goes in your trousers,” she mused. “It doesn’t seem comfortable at all.”
