Page 29 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter twenty-eight

Mira

U p two dark, winding flights of stairs, he carried me, never once breaking eye contact.

He walked into his room and laid me gently onto a grand, ornately carved tester bed.

Four thick, turned columns anchored each corner, rising to support a flat canopy above.

Heavy rails framed the top, from which thick curtains hung, drawn back now but ready to wrap around us like a cocoon.

Antique rugs softened the floor beneath his feet, and a fire, already lit, crackled in the corner hearth—casting a flickering glow across the room.

Baird laid down beside me, brushing a few strands of hair from my forehead with the pads of his fingers.

His expression shifted into something softer. Tentative. Apprehensive.

“Are ye all right?” he asked quietly.

I reached up, cupping his cheek in my hand. My fingers stroked the side of his face with deliberate tenderness, needing him to feel the certainty in my touch. I didn’t want to leave even a trace of doubt in his mind.

“Baird, I’ve wanted you since the moment we met,” I said, my voice steady, but soft. “I was trying to answer your questions that first night, when we walked back to the inn—but all I could think about was kissing you.”

I paused, my fingers still against his cheek.

“I’m a grown woman. I know what I want. And I don’t have any expectations beyond tonight…

but I don’t want it to pass without knowing this part of you.

I want you. Take me roughly, make love to me tenderly—use my body for your pleasure, and give me the same. I don’t want to wait.”

He didn’t need any more confirmation. He rose over me, then moved down my body, one hand gently but firmly parting my thighs, his head lowering between them.

His lips brushed softly against my pussy before his tongue found my clit—slow at first, then more insistent. He slipped lower, tasting me deeply, and I arched off the bed, clutching the sheets in both hands as pleasure surged through me.

His pace quickened, his tongue unrelenting, and then he moaned— moaned —as if the act of pleasuring me was its own reward. That sound alone nearly undid me.

He slipped two fingers inside me again, curling them upward, and my sharp inhale told him everything he needed to know. He stroked that inner wall, steady and precise, building a pressure so intense I could barely breathe.

My inhales came fast now, erratic, my body flushed and trembling.

The climax overtook me like a wave of heat and light, and I cried out as incandescent pleasure flooded through me.

Liquid spilled like a fountain against the palm of his hand, and he withdrew his fingers to capture as much as he could in his mouth, tasting me with reverence.

The act shocked me. No lover had ever responded that way before, and I’d always carried a quiet shame about the mess I sometimes made .

Reflexively, I reached up to cover my face, flustered. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

But he gently caught my hand and pulled it away, holding it as he looked into my eyes—really looked, as if trying to see every part of me, even the ones I still tried to hide.

“I don’t ken… Why are ye sorry, lass?” he asked, a furrow forming between his brows.

“I can’t always control that,” I said, my voice small. “And your bed is wet now.”

He laughed, low and rough. “Well, Mira Garvie.” The smirk I loved pulled up the one corner of his mouth, his eyes glinting. “We’re not done yet. And this bed may be wetter still before we’re through tonight.”