Lucy Monroe - Moon Craving

His teeth slid from her skin and he laved the small sting, building pleasure upon pleasure.

Her body writhed against his, though she’d had no conscious thought of doing so. Their skin slid along each other. And it felt delicious. Incredible. How could any woman withstand such pleasure?

Her hips arched toward something she could not name.

Hard hands pressed down on her thighs, stilling her movements.

Then he was on his knees above her, his mouth burning a trail downward until he reached her breast. When he gave it the same series of kisses he had on her neck, she felt a keening cry leave her throat. But she could do nothing but let out a silent wail of indefinable pleasure when he moved to pay similar attention to her nipple. He played, first with his tongue and then with his teeth, until she thought she would die from the unfulfilled, nameless longing coursing through her.

But his mouth did not stop there; he moved farther down, stopping several times along the path he had set for himself. Each time, she thought she would reach some pinnacle of pleasure that might well kill her, but in each case, he moved on as her body verged on the precipice.

When his mouth covered her most intimate flesh, she was so far drowned in the pleasure he had given her she had no thought to protest. He licked at her and then stabbed inside her with his tongue, not far enough to breach her maidenhead, but deeply enough that she felt irrevocably marked as his.

They lay together in a tableau so unbelievable, her mind refused to picture it—his head between her legs, his intimate kissing so intense she could barely breathe. He reached up with both hands, first cupping her breasts as if weighing their small curves before pinching both her nipples at once. She screamed . . . did not know if it had been silently or not, and could not make herself care if his warriors had heard.

He changed the way his tongue moved on her. The cliff of pleasure she had felt over and over drew closer, and then she was going over, her body going rigid as convulsions rocked her. He took her through the pleasure and into a series of smaller inner explosions until her body fell limp against the furs below her.

He surged up between her legs and reached for her hand. He placed it over the burning heat of his erection. Her fingers curled around him convulsively. He wrapped his hand around hers and began to move them both over his male heat.

His hips snapped too and fro, his hand around hers so tight it bordered on painful. Then she felt him give a triumphant shout, the sound beating in the air around them even though she could not hear it. Hot liquid landed on her stomach and breasts, searing her with yet another act of his possession.

Talorc’s wolf howled his triumph as the warrior shouted his pleasure and his seed shot out to land on the silken skin of his wife. The climax lasted longer than any orgasm he had ever had, each spurt of his come that landed against her skin giving his wolf feral pleasure Talorc could not begin to deny.

When he had finished climaxing, he leaned forward and began to rub his seed into her skin, marking Abigail in an unmistakable way for all Chrechte warriors to recognize.

Unlike other women who might have objected to something so earthy, Abigail lay compliant below him as he caressed every last drop of his come into her skin, until she was so thoroughly marked with his scent his own wolf would have a hard time distinguishing between their bodies.

She was his and all would know it.

Abigail woke alone.

After an initial pang of disappointment, relief flooded her. She did not know how to face Talorc after her wanton behavior the night before. It had felt so natural then, but in the first light of day, it seemed aberrant. She wished she could convince herself it had been a vivid dream. An amazing, if outrageous, dream.

Anything but the embarrassing reality that it was.

Did men and women really engage in such acts as a common occurrence in the marriage bed? Regardless if others did, she had a feeling she and her husband would. Talorc was not a man to deny himself what he saw as his, she thought. Add that to his assurance the morning of their wedding that he expected them both to find pleasure in their shared bed, and doing such again would be a definite matter of course.

At least until he learned the truth of her affliction.

She could only be grateful she would have experienced the mysteries of her own womanhood by then.

What had once terrified her had become a journey she was eager to take. And that, as much as what they had done last night, mortified her.

She was a true wanton.

Surely, she should not be so eager. Not that propriety mattered one way or the other. She spent too much time hiding her deafness, she had not subterfuge leftover to mask this newfound need. And no stomach for doing so either.

With that truth resounding in her conscience, she sat up and looked around her. No sign of Talorc. Again relief assailed her. The flap was down on the tent, but morning light filtered in from the outside. It looked like the cool light of early dawn. Knowing her laird, he would expect to return to their journey north soon.

She pulled back the fur covering her and reached for her shift, but stopped and wrinkled her nose. She smelled like him. Like sex with him.

It wasn’t just her cheeks that blushed, but her whole body, as renewed embarrassment flooded her. She could only hope his soldiers would not notice the fragrance of lovemaking over the stench of horses and their own sweat.

She would give her entire stash of spices she had brought with her for a stream to wash in right now. Not because she disliked the scent of Talorc’s seed on her, which caused yet another surge of shame. She should find it offensive rather than oddly satisfying, shouldn’t she?

However, regardless of her odd reaction to the situation, she hardly wanted everyone else to know what she had been doing with her new husband the night before.

She felt the vibration of heavy steps outside the tent and dove for the fur. She’d barely covered herself when the tent flap flipped back and Talorc scowled at her. “So, you are awake.”

Familiar dread sank in her stomach like a lodestone. She had missed something. Again. “Were you calling me? I just woke.”

The scowl diminished a tiny bit. “If you wish to eat before we break camp, you need to do so now.”

“I would rather wash.”

“There is no time.” He looked like that fact pleased him for some reason.

“I smell um . . .”

“Like me.”

“Yes.”

“It is as it should be.”

“You truly are uncivilized, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He actually smiled, clearly unperturbed by the question.

At least she had not insulted him. Sometimes she spoke without thought, and she hadn’t meant to offend. She herself was not sure whether she was appalled or charmed by her husband’s primal views.

“Do you wish me to bring your food to you in here?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll get dressed right now.” Well, as soon as he left to give her some privacy.

He showed no signs of doing so, however.

“I do not wish to dress in front of an open tent flap.”

He let it fall closed behind him, moving fully inside the tent.

Nonplussed, she stared at him. “You wish me to dress in front of you.”

“Do you know how to fasten your pleats already?”

“Um . . . no?”

He shrugged as if that was the only answer she needed.

She managed to get her shift and blouse on under the fur before climbing out to allow him to help her with the plaid. It was hard to get on in the small confines of the tent, but she managed it—with his help. When she was dressed and about to leave the tent, he put his hand on her arm.

She looked back at him over her shoulder.

“I will see all of you. Soon.”

She didn’t reply, just scrambled from the tent.

She rode her own horse this morning, a beautiful white mare his stallion seemed to have a fondness for. Talorc kept her horse positioned between his and Niall’s for the long morning ride. When they stopped to water the horses and eat again, the sun was high in the sky. Summer days were long and she had no doubt they would spend most of the light riding.

While they kept a fast pace, it was not as blurring a speed as the day before. Abigail was glad. She was a good rider, but she would have been nervous riding so fast without his strong arm around her to keep her planted on the horse’s back.

Their break was short and she forced herself to climb back onto her mare without complaint. She would not add to Talorc’s belief she was weak.

They had been riding for an hour when he grabbed her reins and forced her to meet his eyes. “Agree, wife.”

“Of course,” she said, before she could think better of it.

“I will tell you when it is safe to speak again.”

Ah, he had instructed her silence.

She nodded.

“Good.” He nodded. “You are a unique woman.”

Because she spoke little unless in a direct conversation of someone else’s making? It was a trait by necessity only. She would spend more time talking if she could trust herself not to betray her secret doing so. As it was, her silence at the wrong time was damning enough.

They stopped to water the horses again but did not dismount, just like the day before. This time, she noted no one spoke though. The warriors were all alert, and Talorc looked grimmer than usual.