He pressed his tongue into her mouth, leaning his body against hers, parting her legs with one knee, and straddling her, his arousal thick and rigid. He wanted more than anything to lay claim to her. Now. Forever.
He slid his fingers into her soft, wet heat, feeling the warm slickness from her climax. She moaned, bucking against him, her body arching as if she was pushing him to finish this.
His blood ran hot as every muscle flexed with need. His mouth caressed her collarbone. She shivered as he touched her, explored her, and enjoyed her soft skin, her exquisite fragrance tantalizing him.
His mouth captured hers. Their tongues twisted and danced together as if mating of their own accord. He ran his fingers through her hair, gripping the silky, damp locks. Liquid fire rushed through his veins, his cock straining against her thigh, his body rubbing against the muscle, her hips rising, forcing him to press harder against her.
He inserted two fingers into her tight sheath. Tight like a virgin, he thought to himself. She would have had encounters with human males, and of course she was mated to that slug of a bastard centuries ago, but when was the last time she’d been with a man? She felt too tight for it to have been recently. He was glad to know it. She was his. No one else’s.
He licked her taut nipple, taking it in his mouth, tugging gently with his lips. She moaned and cupped his head against her breast, writhing beneath him, her pelvis lifting against his throbbing erection. He kissed her across her breast, the valley between, and her right breast until he reached the other nipple, pushing her thighs open for him before pressing his erection against her hot, wet core. Not entering yet. Teasing. Wanting her to come when he did.
“Oh, Cearnach,” she moaned, as he slid two fingers into her again, then pushed as deep as he could go.
She spread her legs farther apart for him, and he declared against her mouth in Gaelic, “You are mine.”
“As you are mine,” she whispered back.
He lifted his head and stared at her. Had she known Gaelic all along? Had she known what Vardon had called her?
Swearing in Gaelic, Cearnach gazed into her molten eyes. She lifted her hands and pulled his face back to hers, kissing him thoroughly, their tongues dueling as if in a medieval fight, making him forget all else but her.
It was time. Time to make her his. He pushed the broad head of his penis into her, slowly at first until he was fully inside her. Thrusting carefully, he pushed deeper, mating with her, their hearts beating so loudly that he barely could hear anything else.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”
This was what he’d wanted from the moment he’d seen her: him wrapped around her soft curves, Elaine’s wet heat wrapped around him in the ultimate joining.
He swept his tongue across her parted lips, thrusting his cock deep inside her tight heat and feeling as though he was the first man in centuries to explore her core.
Her sheath softened for him, allowing him to thrust deeper as the raw craving within him grew.
She was beautiful, her face flushed, her breathing fast, her body moving against him like a siren encouraging his every move.
Her chocolate eyes were smoky with lust, her fingertips touching his muscles, his skin, leaving a trail of heat.
She slid her legs around his hips and dug her heels into his ass, her breathing suspended as he sensed she was ready to explode. He groaned out loud, unable to hold back any longer. He felt the end coming, tried to hold on, felt her muscles contracting around him. Then he let loose, rocketed with the orgasm, and felt her body shuddering with ripples of climax. He loved the wolf beneath him, the sexy, loving woman who would share his world until the end of his days.
He groaned and settled on top of her, still sheathed in her wet, slick heat, wanting to remain joined like this for hours. With her. Together. As one.
For a long time, they stayed like that, breathing deeply of each other, listening to their hearts beating in unison, feeling the warmth of their bodies pressed together, sharing the knowledge that they were joined as wolf mates for life.
He hadn’t realized they’d fallen asleep until he woke to find Elaine cuddled in his arms, the bed curtains still open, and the day growing later. The world outside the keep was full of activity as he heard the clanging of swords in practice sword-fighting, horses clip-clopping on the stone pavers as they were being taken out for exercise, the barks of their Irish wolfhounds and Duncan’s mate’s standard poodles as they raced around the inner bailey, the shouts of his people as they called out to each other.
“Elaine,” he said softly, wanting to hold on to this moment forever but knowing they had to get up and face the day. Which meant facing his clan, his pack, his family and letting them all know they had a new she-wolf as part of the family.
“Hmm,” she said, her voice dreamy. She tightened her hold around his waist, her eyes still closed, her lashes fanning her cheeks.
He ran his hand over her bare arm, caressing and loving the way she felt—warm and silky soft. “You know Gaelic,” he said.
“My parents taught me the old ways.”
He hated that she’d known what that bastard had called her. He kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry for what Vardon had said.”
“He was trying to make himself feel better for striking me. He didn’t mean it.”
Cearnach looked at Elaine in wonder. “You are a treasure. I’ll return to my chamber and get dressed while you slip into your clothes.”
She raised her head and looked at him, her expression a little skeptical. “What if your ghostly cousin returns?”
Not having considered such a thing, he frowned at her. “He better not.” His voice was dark with threat. Then he took a deep breath and rethought his cousin’s interference. “I’m pretty certain now that Flynn got his way, he will leave you alone. At least he better.”
Elaine sighed, hoping Cearnach was right. She rolled over onto her back and surveyed the rest of the chamber—the richly woven Turkish tapestries hanging on the walls, the thick bottle glass covering narrow arrow-slit windows. Antique oil paintings of lochs, heather-covered hills, snowcapped mountains, and bubbling streams hung from some of the walls.
One painting stood out from all the rest. A red-blond, long-haired Highland cow stared at her with warm brown eyes half hidden under bangs that nearly reached the tip of its nose.
“That is a painting of the first cow we ever stole from our neighbors,” Cearnach remarked as he caressed her shoulder, his voice hinting of self-righteous satisfaction.
She turned and frowned at him, surprised to hear that his own clan was not above reproach when she had worried what he thought of her family and their pirating past. “Your kin stole from others?”
“’Tis an Old World tradition, lass. They stole one of our kin’s brides before she reached the kirk. We stole a cow in retaliation. Well, six, but who’s counting?”
Surprised that they’d be satisfied with cows in the lady’s place, she frowned. She would have envisioned a fierce battle between the clans lasting for days instead. “Wasn’t the lady worth more than the cows?” Where was the romance in that?
His mouth curved up a fraction more, his dark eyes alight with humor. “She orchestrated the whole charade. The man she wanted to mate couldn’t make up his mind and hadn’t believed she’d marry someone else. When she agreed to marry one of my kin, the Highlander finally took her seriously. And rescued her, or so he believed. In truth, she’d arranged the whole affair through one mishap or another so that she never make it to the kirk. At least she hadn’t wanted bloodshed between the clans.”
“Your kinsman must have felt awful to lose his bride before she even arrived at the altar. He must have been heartbroken.”