"So put me down, MacKeltar," she panted a few minutes later against his mouth, desperate to feel his skin against hers. "I have too many clothes on!"
"I'm trying," he said, trailing kisses down her neck and scraping his velvety tongue back up, only to arrive at her lips again, a position he could hardly fail to take full advantage of.
"Don't put me down," she whimpered when he stopped kissing her. Her lips felt naked and cold without him, her body bereft.
The minute her toes touched the ground, she reached impatiently for his clothing, but he dived for her shorts at the same moment, cursing when he bumped his jaw on her head and she got tangled up in his hair.
She fumbled with his hair, then found her way to the leather bands across his chest but was unable to fathom how he'd fastened them. Brushing her hands aside, he tugged her shirt over her head, than stared at her bra. He touched the lacy fabric with fascination. "Lass, show me your breasts. Be quit of this thing, lest I tear it to shreds in my haste."
She popped the front clasp swiftly and slipped it off. The cool air teased her nipples into puckered crests, and he drew a sharp inhalation of breath. For a moment, he didn't seem to be able to move, just stood and stared.
"You have splendid breasts, lass," he purred, cupping the plump mounds. "Splendid," he repeated stupidly, and she almost laughed. Men loved breasts—any shape or form, they just loved them.
And he was certainly loving hers. He palmed them, lifting and squeezing, and with a husky groan he buried his face in her breasts, rubbing back and forth before drawing a nipple deep into his mouth.
Gwen panted softly when he scattered scorching kisses over her breasts. She twisted and turned in his arms, wanting his mouth there… and there… and there, telling him with her body just how and where she needed him. His fingers worked at her shorts, with little success, and grunting his frustration he tugged at her zipper but succeeded only in jamming it off the track. Encountering similar resistance with his costume, she moaned frantically. She wanted skin against skin; she needed it—every last inch, pressed slick and intimate.
"Oh, just do your own and I'll do mine," she snapped, impeded desire making her downright testy. She needed him naked now.
He looked as relieved as she felt by the efficient solution, and as she tugged and twisted at her zipper, then kicked off her shorts, he removed his plaid, tossing knives left and right, doffing his ax and sword and finally shucking his leather armor. He stood up straight, tossing his long dark hair over his shoulders, and looked at her.
"Christ, MacKeltar," Gwen breathed, stunned. Six and a half feet of sculpted naked warrior stood before her, unselfconscious in his nudity. Proud, in fact, and well he should be. He was raw and male and powerful beyond compare, and it had certainly not been a sock or twenty in his jeans. He was breathtaking, and he had a remarkable amount of mass that she had not been factoring into her equation of why she was orbiting him, but she certainly would be in the future. It explained a great deal.
His eyes drifted over her breasts, down her belly, then lit on her kitten thong, and he made a strangled sound. "I thought that was some strange ribbon to restrain your hair. 'Twas why I put it on your pallet that night, thinking you might plait it before you slept. But, ah, lass, I far prefer it there," he said roughly. " 'Tis wise you did not tell me that was beneath your trews, for I would have walked around hard all day thinking of removing it with my tongue."
He likes my thong, she thought, beaming. She'd always known that if she'd picked the right man to pluck her cherry, he would appreciate her good taste.
Slipping to his knees before her, he proceeded to do as he'd threatened, lifting the strap of her thong away from the smooth curve of her hip with his teeth and licking the sensitive skin beneath it. He tugged the silk down with little nips, curving his tongue beneath it. She dug her fingers into his shoulders as he licked again and again, building resonance beneath her skin. He sucked her sensitive nub through the silk, making her arch against him, begging for more. Each inch he bared he swept with a hot stroke of his tongue, alternating tiny love bites. His callused hands glided up her thighs, and the delicious friction created by his rough palms against her smooth skin awakened erogenous zones she'd never known she had. Her knees trembled and she clutched his muscled shoulders for support.
"Lovely you are," he purred, slipping his hands between her thighs, kneading and tasting her. "I doona know which part of you to taste first."
"Drustan," she moaned, pressing against him.
"What, Gwen? Do you want me?"