Page 60 of Marin’s Promise

18

Marin didn't want to think on what her marriage to Bran meant for her family. She didn't want to consider her father’s reaction when he came home to Werrick Castle and found it overtaken, or what dangers lay in wait for him at the battle in Berwick. Nor did she want to ruminate on how egregiously she had failed to protect Werrick Castle.

With such unwanted thoughts pulling at her, it was easy to give in to the heady rush of lust stoking fire in her blood. She let her world center on pleasure, on the skilled caress of Bran’s mouth, the power of his body beneath the fine doublet, the silkiness of his hair despite his powerful and undeniable masculinity.

His arousal pressed into her stomach and piqued her curiosity, as well as several other emotions she was all too eager to embrace. She put her hands to his chest without trepidation, empowered by a wife's permission. He pushed against her palms, welcoming her touch.

Her fingers moved down the fine wool of the blue doublet, one of her father's that Anice had insisted on having altered to fit Bran for the wedding. Bran groaned against her mouth and swept his tongue deeper, his kisses hungrier, more insistent. The smooth leather of the belt at his doublet met her fingertips. She moved blindly to pull the leather free of itself. It fell to the floor with a slap.

He broke free from the kiss, his gaze fixed intently on her as he shrugged off the doublet. It joined the belt on the floor.

The memory of him without his shirt sizzled in her mind. She had been too timid then to touch his firm flesh, to see if it was as solid as it had appeared.

“The leine too,” Marin said boldly. “I want to see you.”

His mouth lifted in a cocky half-smile. While the arrogance might have ordinarily rankled her, there was a confidence behind it that heightened his allure.

“I like a woman who knows what she wants.” He lifted the hem of his shirt and lifted it over his head, revealing the rippled muscles of his stomach and the swell of his chest, all shadows of raw, masculine strength in the firelight.

Marin's mouth went dry. The tips of her nipples tingled. She'd practiced with soldiers long enough to know a physique such as Bran's was hard-won and not common. A man who fought with diligence. With passion.

The scent of sandalwood rose from his skin, enticing and sensual–his scent. She breathed him in and let her gaze stroke over him.

“Ye can touch me, wife.” His words startled her, and she pushed her hand to his naked chest to mask the sudden foolishness washing over her. After all, she had asked him to remove his shirt and then merely stared.

His skin was warm and soft, the slight furring of dark hair prickled against her palm, while his heartbeat beneath was steady. And faster than normal. The same as her own frenzied pulse.

His deep brown eyes watched her intently from underneath hooded lids. Marin let her hand drift over his chest, letting her fingers dip and glide over his beautiful, war-honed flesh. First his chest, then the bulk of his chiseled arms, carved no doubt from the swing of his battle axe.

She hadn't yet had a chance to skim her fingertips over his abdomen when his hand cupped her chin and he forced her gaze upward.

“I want to see ye too.” He stroked his thumb over her lower lip and she instinctively touched the tip of her tongue to the pad of his finger. He gave a short groan on the exhale of his breath, as though her action pained him.

She knew better now. There was no pain, save from the force of desire.

She turned her back to him and swept aside her hair, revealing the laces of her gown. Cool air graced the back of her neck and sent a ripple through her that was equal parts pleasure, excitement and anxiousness.

He was careful as he worked the laces of her gown, not with the lust-blind enthusiasm she'd expected from a lifelong warrior, but with the care one would expect of a troubadour. The surcoat loosened around her and his fingers lightly stroked over the exposed skin. First against the exposed top of her back, just over her girdle, a whisper of a touch that drew a gasp from her lips.

Then his caress teased higher, over the sensitive skin of her neck. Marin tilted her head to the side to give him better access. His hands slid over her shoulders, pushing aside the heavy dress and girdle as he did so. His breath fanned over the dip where her neck connected with her shoulder and the place between her legs went hot with longing.

“Ye're so verra lovely.” His whispered words swept over the delicate line of her neck. She shivered.

He pressed his mouth to her there, once, twice, three times. Dear God, four and five times. Her skin burned with his touch, eager for so much more. His hand shifted to her chest where it slipped beneath the gown and cupped a breast with his palm. His fingers played over her sensitive nipple until a needling pleasure left her crying out.

He nibbled the area just below her ear and a moan made its way from her throat. The more he kissed and licked, nipped and sucked, the more she wanted. His hands moved over her as he sampled her, carefully peeling the gown from her body, unveiling her, one lover's kiss at a time. He pulled the ribbon on her chemise, and she did not move to stop him.

She wanted to be naked against him, to feel the heat of him against her, the strength of his body. The hardness of his phallus.

She drew a shaky breath at the thought of where that would go—an idea that had repelled her when first she'd heard of it years ago. An idea that now left her aching with curiosity.

The chemise fell away. Bran's chest pressed to her back and the hard column of male flesh she'd been considering fit snuggly against her rump. She arched her back against him in hungry instinct rather than thought.

His hands were around her, fondling, touching…everywhere. Skimming the sides of her breasts, holding them, over the length of her upper thighs, across her flat stomach. Everywhere except the place burning for his attention.

He caught her earlobe gently between his teeth as his fingers crept toward the most private place between her legs. Before she could even register through the lust-hazed fog of her mind what he might do, one finger delivered a long, stroking sweep, and elicited a pleasure so white hot and brilliant, she couldn't help but cry out.

“Ye're so damn wet,” he growled against her neck.