Page 65 of The Chief's Wild Promise
She drew him in deep, hungry for him, letting him hit the back of her throat before she withdrew, swirled her tongue around the crown of his shaft, and repeated the action. Again and again. When she’d pleasured him like this on their wedding night, it had surprised her how much she’d enjoyed the act. Aye, she’d read the description in The Art of Coupling but had been nervous about trying it. She wasn’t nervous any longer.
He’d just brought her over the edge, yet an ache started once more inside her womb. She still craved him. And each groan he gave, each strangled curse, made hunger twist and writhe in her loins.
“Stop!” Bran gasped, pulling free of her mouth.
Makenna gave a cry of protest, but he merely grabbed hold of her and rolled her away from him so she was on all fours on the sheepskin. Then, gripping her hips, he drove into her from behind in one smooth, gliding motion.
The shock of the invasion made her cry out, even as she bucked against him, bringing him deeper still. “Bran, please,” she pleaded. “Now … hard!”
He grunted a curse, tightened his grip on her hips, and rode her like a stallion.
And with each punishing thrust, Makenna arched up to meet him. Sinking down onto her elbows, she canted her hips so that every time he drove into her, the tip of him hit a place inside her and turned her liquid. “Oh, aye. There! Aye!”
And when he ground into her, thrusting deeper still, she squealed again. Pleasure churned and pulsed through her loins, tipping her over the brink. She lost any sense of where she was. Suddenly, she was spinning. And then his raw cry shattered the air, bringing her back to earth. A heartbeat later, heat flooded through her lower belly.
They collapsed together on the sheepskin, both gasping for breath. With him still buried deep inside her, Makenna welcomed the weight of him pressing her down. She wanted to stay like this forever. To think that she was wedded to this man now, and that they could tumble as often as they wished. Just the thought made her belly clench with excitement once more.
“Am I squashing ye?”
His breath tickled her ear, and Makenna giggled. “Aye … but I like it.”
He huffed a laugh before shifting slightly so that he rested his weight on an elbow. His lips then grazed her neck, and she shivered. “I don’t think I will get enough of ye,” he said huskily. “Ever.”
“And nor I, of ye,” she whispered back.
His breathing hitched. Her response had surprised him.
Makenna’s brow furrowed. Surely, her passionate response told him that she craved him as much as he did her? But, sometimes, words were necessary. Bran was strong and proud, yet she’d seen the insecurity he hid from the world. He needed to hear how much she wanted him.
“Just one look from ye is enough to rob me of thought,” she whispered, even as her cheeks warmed. She wasn’t used to being bold about her feelings, but for him, she’d do it. “Yer touch, yer kisses, set me alight … and when ye are inside me … I feel like … everything is … right.”
His chest heaved against her back, emotion shuddering through his body. “I’m not used to feeling this close to anyone,” he admitted roughly.
“Neither am I,” she whispered.
He made a sound low in his throat. “I don’t like being so … exposed.”
“Ye can trust me, Bran,” she replied, her tone turning fierce. She wanted him to believe her. “We MacGregors are loyal. I’m at yer side now … and I will always remain so.” And as she spoke those words, she believed them wholly.
He stroked her back in response, his breathing shallow now. An instant later, he withdrew from her, in a slow slide that merely left her needing him again. Swallowing a groan, she twisted under him. Their gazes met and held, the intimacy of the moment turning the air between them heavy and charged.
“Ye’ll put up with me then?” he asked softly, his lips quirking.
She smiled up at him. “Aye … if ye’ll suffer me?”
Bran’s hand lifted, and he caressed her face, his eyes gleaming. “Gladly.”
Crouched on the bank of the River Lyon, while puddocks croaked in the nearby rushes, Makenna placed the small boat made of reeds upon the water. It carried a brooch that had belonged to Lloyd Walker, taken from his quarters in the guard tower.
His body remained at Finlarig Castle—so, instead of a burial, they were giving him one last journey.
Earlier, they’d stood in the sunny kirkyard, where Father Malcolm had spoken prayers and blessings for the souls of the fallen. The families of the warriors who’d been cut down by the Campbells wept and consoled each other. Afterward, a group gathered at a curve in the nearby River Lyon.
Craeg, Ailean, and Lyle had spent the last day making the boat. The lads had cut rushes from the riverbank and woven them tightly into a craft reminiscent of a birlinn. It was a sweet gesture, and one that Makenna appreciated.
They hadn’t known Walker long, although just a couple of days after their arrival at Meggernie, they’d taken to following the Captain of the Guard around like eager puppies. Walker didn’t have any bairns of his own, and he’d been delighted by the attention.
“Goodbye, Lloyd,” Makenna murmured, watching the wee boat bob in the swirling current. “Have a safe journey.”