Forgetting the Scot by Jennifer Trethewey

Author:Jennifer Trethewey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Entangled, Amara, Highland Romance, Scottish Romance, Historical Romance, Regency Romance, Highlanders, Regency, Horses, Viscounts, Dukes
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC
Published: 2018-09-23T06:56:53+00:00

Chapter Eight

Six bells. Only an hour before his next watch. Magnus hadn’t slept. They had so little time alone and only these four hours together like this, naked, lying next to each other. While the lamp still burned, he watched her sleep, listened to her steady breathing, memorized her face, and studied the way her lips parted while she slept, as if she had surrendered completely, knowing she was safe with him. He convinced himself that she slept better in his arms and had only sweet dreams. Perhaps she even dreamed of him.

An hour left. Should he wake her? Love her again? Bring her pleasure like he had before? He hardened at the thought. What he truly wanted was what he had denied himself earlier: to thrust inside her heat over and over until she cried out his name and he spent himself. God, he was a selfish bastard to imagine such a thing. Her husband had probably used her that way, and he didn’t want to be anything like that man.

Virginia stirred, then shifted to her other side. It was still quite dark. Only a pale sliver of silver light fell across their bodies—in his case, it illuminated his cock twitching restlessly between his legs. She sat up, careful not to disturb him, and reached out a slender hand. Curious to know what she might do if she thought him unaware, he remained still until those silky fingers curved around his girth.

“Oh God.” He groaned and arched into her palm.

She laughed her bedroom laugh. “I woke you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. I havenae finished with you, yet.”

“Do you like being touched like this?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and hissed through his teeth. “Yes.”

She made a little moan of satisfaction. “You sound like I’m torturing you.”

“You are—I am—Oh Christ.”

Virginia leaned over and covered his entreaties with a kiss, soft and wet and languid, then slung a leg over his torso, straddling his body. The minx planned to ride him.

She rose up like a goddess above him. He slid his hands up her long thighs, over her belly, and cupped her perfect breasts. She sank down on his cock with one long, low gasp, or perhaps it was he who made the sound. He didn’t know, didn’t care. He was inside her, being swept into oblivion by the pace she set, her hips rocking and undulating.

“Tell me what you want,” he said.

“You,” she sighed.

“I want to hear you say the words, speak your desire. I want you to ask for what you need.”

A low rumbling chuckle rolled out of her. “You want encouragement from your partner?”

“Oh, aye.”

She switched her hips in a wicked circle, and he choked a groan. “Here,” she said, and drew his hand down to the spot between her thighs.

“Say it, love. Tell me what you want.”

“Touch me,” she whispered. “Like you did before. Touch me while you move inside me.”

He slid his thumb to her cunny at the place of their joining, that place he knew would make her lose her reason.

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