Under the Highlander's Spell(60)
When then was it time?
The thought struck him hard, and he fought the question that haunted him day in and day out. He wanted to make love to her, wanted to make her his, wanted her as his wife.
He pulled the nightdress down to her waist, his hand catching the slim curve, and ever so grateful that her skirt remained in place or his hand would not have stopped.
She sighed softly. Or was it a passionate moan? Did his hand stir her desires as her naked flesh did his? Or was he merely wishing?
“I’ll have you done in a minute,” he said, letting her know he intended nothing more than to do as he had stated. Tuck her in bed.
“Take your time,” she whispered.
He stilled his hand at her waist. She had told him to hurry, and now told him to take his time. What did she truly want from him?
He pressed his cheek to hers. “I love touching you.”
He waited, leaving the decision to her. He would finish dressing her and put her to bed or he would make love to her.
She turned, her lips caressing his with the faintest of kisses. “Then touch me.”
He grew so hard so fast that it sent an ache through his loins, but he intended to make sure that she was not dazed with sleep, that she was fully aware of what she wanted.
He took hold of her chin and looked directly in her eyes. “Once I touch you, I won’t stop.”
She tugged her chin free of his grip and teased his lips with hers while she said, “I don’t want you to stop. I want to taste your passion. You do have passion, Artair, don’t you?”
He could see that her exhaustion had vanished, replaced by a lustful glow, and that was all he needed to know.
“I’ll let you see that for yourself,” he said, and whipped her nightdress off her head, her skirt following.
She stretched back on the bed like a lazy cat preparing its limbs before sprinting, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her languid movements as he slowly disrobed, preparing as she did—to sprint.
He fell over her naked; his hands splayed on either side of her head, his taut body a breath away from hers, beneath him. He heard anticipation in her gasp when he came to rest so close yet not touching her.
She pushed his long hair behind his shoulders and ran her fingers down along his arms and up again, then over his chest and down to his waist just above his shaft. She played his flesh like a fine instrument until his senses heated beyond reason and he bent his head back and groaned with desire.
He dropped his head back down until his mouth nearly touched hers. “My turn.”
His lips took charge, dancing over every inch of her creamy flesh, kissing curves, nibbling mounds, tickling nipples mercilessly with his tongue, and when she groaned and grabbed the blanket tight in her outstretched hands, he laughed wickedly. “I’ve only begun.”
If he thought he’d be the only one tormenting, he was wrong. Her hands quickly learned every sensitive spot on his body, and they were soon locked in a battle of sensual wills, each driving the other wild with touches, kisses, nibbles, licks that drove the passion beyond bearable to the edge of erotic insanity.
When she grabbed hold of his neck and with a heavy breath begged, “Please,” he wrapped his arm around her sweat-dampened waist and swung her around until she lay beneath him. Holding back, controlling himself despite his excitement, he entered her gently.
Zia smiled and took hold of his shoulders. “Do not keep me waiting.”
He laughed low and hardy, and with a grin of pure pleasure drove into her, and she called out in equal pleasure. They rode hard and steady, each holding on tightly to the other, their moans matching, soaring until she cried out in pleasure but warned him not to hurry—she was not done yet.
It wasn’t until her third cry that he released himself, and with a force greater than ever before. It was like riding a never-ending wave of pleasure until finally he was deposited on shore.
Together they lay still, wrapped around each other, waiting for their breathing to ease, until Artair finally rolled off, taking Zia with him to rest against his side.
She rested her hand on his chest and he placed his over hers.
“You do have passion,” she said.
“Another good reason to wed me,” he teased.
“You should show your passion more often.”
He laughed. “That would get us in a lot of trouble. We’d forever be making love.”
She tried to poke him, but he kept hold of her hand. “That’s not what I meant.”
“My passion rears its head when necessary,” he teased, giving her a poke of his own.
“And it’s a large head at that,” she retaliated.
He laughed heartily. “You are not the woman I expected—”
He stopped, about to say, You are not the woman I expected to fall in love with, catching himself just in time. He didn’t think she would appreciate a declaration of love at that moment. She would think that he said it only to please her, which would not be the truth.