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I am suddenly at a loss as to what to do. Should I get in bed and lie down or sit up with pillows stacked behind me? Do I sit at my vanity, brushing my hair with nonchalance? Stand at the foot of the bed, dutifully waiting?
Without thinking, I walk over to the window and pull back the heavy curtain. I cannot see much in the darkness since my room faces the garden, but the moonlight is sparkling on the surface of the fountain in its center, capturing my attention.
“Is it possible fer ye to be more stunning right now than ye were walking toward me this afternoon? I will hire an artist to paint ye just like this.”
My breath is caught in my chest. I try to swallow, but I can’t. There is something different in his voice that has my skin tingling. But more importantly, he has entered my room shirtless, wearing only loose pants meant for sleeping. I swear I have never seen anything more spectacular, more appealing, more beautiful than my husband’s natural form.My God!The desire that has taken over my core is all-consuming, and the only word I can muster is a whispered “Alasdair…”
He walks slowly toward me. I don’t even look at his face. I’m too fascinated by the subtle movements of his sinuous body. When he is finally standing directly in front of me, I am lightheaded, my knees weak.
He reaches forward and tips my chin up. “Touch me, Ella. I am yours now. I never want ye to be afraid to touch me.”
“I…I don’t know what to do.”
“Follow yer instincts. Ye have already proven they are quite keen.” The smirk that accompanies his comment accentuates that dimple on his cheek.
My trembling hand comes up to touch his chest. The hair is coarse and springy, and I like the way it feels under and between my fingers. But the taut skin over hard muscle is so enticing that my other hand comes up to join the exploration. I notice that his nipples have raised and hardened like mine do whenever he touches me. I know the ache of wanting I experience when it happens, and I wonder if it is the same for him. Bringing my thumbs down to rub them around his hard pebbles, I get the answer I was looking for.
“Christ, woman! Yer curiosity will be the death of me,” he says on a harsh inhale.
“Does that feel good?”
“God, yes, it feels good!”
His answer pleases me. Pulling my robe to the side, I look down to see my own nipples protruding harshly through the thin material. “I want you to do it to mine.”
When I look up at him to make sure my request is acceptable, I find the eyes of a hungry beast, nostrils flared, a signal he is ready to pounce.
“Give me this,” he commands as his warm fingers come up to pull my lip from between my teeth. Once again, I didn’t even know I was biting it, distracted as I was. He brings me close, arms wrapped around me, mouth almost touching mine. “You and I are going to have a verra blissful marriage.” Then he devours my lips and tongue with his own, and I become lost in the barrage of sensations that have me wanting to beg for more.
The kiss goes on, just as I had hoped it would. From the first time he kissed me this way—in the garden after he saved me from Lord Percy’s attack—I have craved it. We managed to sneak a few more in, here and there, before our wedding, but then he wasn’t standing before me shirtless and ready to take my virginity as my husband. That knowledge alone has taken my desire to new heights.
As his hand lands firmly on my hip and slowly glides its way up my side, pausing at the heavy weight of my full breast, I fear I will lose my ability to breathe altogether. But when the palm of his hand moves over my nipple and circles firmly, then takes it between his thumb and finger, a warm wetness releases between my legs, and my knees give way.
His firm hold keeps me floating against his body and free to focus on the combination of his strength, his ravaging kiss, and his masterful hand building the same unbearable pressure in my most sensitive and private place as the first time I saw him hidden in the darkness of the conservatory.
Without warning, he pulls away, breathing heavily and still holding me upright.
“Ella.” His breath is hard against my face. “We must slow down. I do’na want yer first release by my hand to be wi’ ye standing here after only a few minutes of kissing.” He cradles the side of my face, his thumb gently massaging. “Let me see those beautiful eyes.” He draws up my shy attention. “Tonight, is about you. Yer pleasure is my highest priority.”
He guides me toward the bed. The room is large, so it takes several paces before we stop at its side, enough time for me to regain some of my composure. Intimacy with Alasdair Stewart is like a drug, and my mind can only imagine where this night—and our marriage—will lead.
We kiss again because it seems that neither of us can do otherwise. When the tempo of our passion slows enough for him to speak, he gives me a polite warning. “I’m going to undress ye now. I want to see my wife the way God created her.” He kisses my lips gently as he slips the robe from my shoulders, my gasp catching his attention. “What is it?”
“I just… it felt different, the robe gliding across my skin.”
“Was it arousing?”
“Very much so.” I laugh in response.
“Good.” His voice goes low as his accent thickens. “’Tis what I want to hear.” The rolling of the R vibrates down my spine.
He takes the time to gently caress my shoulders before untying each of the laces holding up my gown. It falls down my body in a wistful flow that washes me in a cool draft, landing at my feet in an elegant puddle of shiny white silk. I stare at it, wondering at all it represents, then say a silent goodbye to my former self—to my innocence.
“Ella.” Alasdair’s voice is gruff with emotion. “I have’na ever laid my eyes upon anything more lovely than you right now at this moment. I need ye to know that is the truth. It is no exaggeration that ye are a work of art, a true masterpiece.”
No expensive gown, no fancy piece of jewelry, no fashionable adornment has ever made me feel more beautiful than the look in Alasdair’s eyes as he gazes upon my naked body. His desire for me is undeniable, and through it, I feel my sensuality blossom.
“Thank you,” my ingrained propriety replies.
