lusted for her. Showing womanly attributes was adding unneeded complication. Especially with the extent of attributes this lass claimed.
If Thayne believed in luck, he’d have to count himself in it with the woman he’d claimed. Fully. As the morn lengthened he felt even luckier.
She’d stayed at his side while he set Iain to saddling horses and Pellin to cooking. Pellin was a great cook. Could usually create sup with little in supplies and less in equipment. Dunn-Fyne couldn’t fault the aroma of fried gruel cakes, even as it blended with fresh rain smell. The lass had been at Thayne’s left side the entire time as he shoved three cakes into his mouth, one after the other, quickly chewing and swallowing, while never moving his hand from the hilt of his claymore. They all did the same. Such a manner of eating was usual when accompanying enemy clan. They all ate in silence without cutlery or even plates.
His wife wasn’t used to such. It was obvious as she tore her cake into pieces to fit into the cup, barely touching and then blowing at her fingers from the heat. Then she nibbled on one little piece at a time. Thayne glanced at her as she did it and waited but she hadn’t made one act of argument over any of it.
She’d kept her head bowed and rarely raised her eyes. Twice, in fact. Thayne sucked in on his cheeks and considered it. No . . . it had been three times. This Amalie had glanced up at him thrice, showing spirit and fire and how well hidden it all was. That was fine with him. As long as they kept the charade long enough to reach MacGowan land, he’d be well satisfied.
Thayne shifted and resettled on the hard leather of his saddle, brushing his groin against the woman’s thigh with the motion. She’d settled into the spot in front of him with one glance, telling him wordlessly how much she disliked their closeness. Thayne hadn’t cared. Much. The lass was formed too well, with bonny features, slender waist, lush thighs and woman-area, while her breasts tempted him with every upward move of his arm. She seemed fashioned for pleasure. Those reminders added to the satisfied part. If Dunn-Fyne saw fit to see them bedded down in a reasonably private way, regardless of whether they’d reached MacGowan land, Thayne wouldn’t fight off consummating this marriage of his.
His mind wandered where his body couldn’t and he let it, clenching deep in his lower back, feeling the heavy pronounced thump of heartbeat as it started and then heightened, elongating and thickening him. Thayne tilted forward slightly, so he could fit where he wanted, tightening his thighs against the horse at the same time he drew back, bringing her into place. He barely kept the groan from sounding. This woman was perfectly formed. Lush. Even sideways atop him and covered with skirts and plaid, he could sense her haven. Beckoning. Enwrapping. Undulating.
She didn’t help him, but she wasn’t fighting either. At first. Thayne stifled the chivalrous instinct the moment it surfaced. This woman was made for pleasure. And they were wed. It was his right to be and do exactly as he was. She stiffened and made a strange gurgling sound before tightening her buttocks to move. Thayne hardened the arm looped about her until she ceased. He should’ve known not to trust her. There wasn’t a woman birthed that did anything without argue. Nor one that didn’t know how to tease and tempt. And annoy. But he couldn’t stay annoyed long. She was too womanly and had such a luscious smell about her that he bent his head and inhaled, filling his lungs with her smell before sending the gust of it with enough force it ruffled what material the rain hadn’t weighed down.
“Thayne . . . I—”
He shushed her with a warning at her ear, at the exact moment he fitted her atop him again, twisting her forward-facing to slide against her. He held her in position, his left hand atop her belly, enjoying pulsing motions he didn’t bother controlling. Despite
If Thayne believed in luck, he’d have to count himself in it with the woman he’d claimed. Fully. As the morn lengthened he felt even luckier.
She’d stayed at his side while he set Iain to saddling horses and Pellin to cooking. Pellin was a great cook. Could usually create sup with little in supplies and less in equipment. Dunn-Fyne couldn’t fault the aroma of fried gruel cakes, even as it blended with fresh rain smell. The lass had been at Thayne’s left side the entire time as he shoved three cakes into his mouth, one after the other, quickly chewing and swallowing, while never moving his hand from the hilt of his claymore. They all did the same. Such a manner of eating was usual when accompanying enemy clan. They all ate in silence without cutlery or even plates.
His wife wasn’t used to such. It was obvious as she tore her cake into pieces to fit into the cup, barely touching and then blowing at her fingers from the heat. Then she nibbled on one little piece at a time. Thayne glanced at her as she did it and waited but she hadn’t made one act of argument over any of it.
She’d kept her head bowed and rarely raised her eyes. Twice, in fact. Thayne sucked in on his cheeks and considered it. No . . . it had been three times. This Amalie had glanced up at him thrice, showing spirit and fire and how well hidden it all was. That was fine with him. As long as they kept the charade long enough to reach MacGowan land, he’d be well satisfied.
Thayne shifted and resettled on the hard leather of his saddle, brushing his groin against the woman’s thigh with the motion. She’d settled into the spot in front of him with one glance, telling him wordlessly how much she disliked their closeness. Thayne hadn’t cared. Much. The lass was formed too well, with bonny features, slender waist, lush thighs and woman-area, while her breasts tempted him with every upward move of his arm. She seemed fashioned for pleasure. Those reminders added to the satisfied part. If Dunn-Fyne saw fit to see them bedded down in a reasonably private way, regardless of whether they’d reached MacGowan land, Thayne wouldn’t fight off consummating this marriage of his.
His mind wandered where his body couldn’t and he let it, clenching deep in his lower back, feeling the heavy pronounced thump of heartbeat as it started and then heightened, elongating and thickening him. Thayne tilted forward slightly, so he could fit where he wanted, tightening his thighs against the horse at the same time he drew back, bringing her into place. He barely kept the groan from sounding. This woman was perfectly formed. Lush. Even sideways atop him and covered with skirts and plaid, he could sense her haven. Beckoning. Enwrapping. Undulating.
She didn’t help him, but she wasn’t fighting either. At first. Thayne stifled the chivalrous instinct the moment it surfaced. This woman was made for pleasure. And they were wed. It was his right to be and do exactly as he was. She stiffened and made a strange gurgling sound before tightening her buttocks to move. Thayne hardened the arm looped about her until she ceased. He should’ve known not to trust her. There wasn’t a woman birthed that did anything without argue. Nor one that didn’t know how to tease and tempt. And annoy. But he couldn’t stay annoyed long. She was too womanly and had such a luscious smell about her that he bent his head and inhaled, filling his lungs with her smell before sending the gust of it with enough force it ruffled what material the rain hadn’t weighed down.
“Thayne . . . I—”
He shushed her with a warning at her ear, at the exact moment he fitted her atop him again, twisting her forward-facing to slide against her. He held her in position, his left hand atop her belly, enjoying pulsing motions he didn’t bother controlling. Despite
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