Page 9 of The Lady’s Guide to Being Snowbound with a Scottish Laird (The Lady’s Guide to Love #9)
Four high ranking trumps and a king of clubs!
With such cards losing was impossible, even with her opponent commencing. The set was swiftly played, and her victory confirmed. Finlay’s disappointment was palpable, while Margaret enjoyed a surge of triumph. Three tricks and she’d claim the final set!
Taking up the cards, she turned them toward herself and fanned them out.
The wave of nausea was immediate. Not a single heart, and the rest low-ranking.
She’d be lucky to claim a single trick, let alone three.
Her only chance lay in her right to lay the first card.
If Finlay was similarly devoid of trumps, there was the slimmest of chances…
She glanced up at him.
He was usually quite skilled at concealing the state of his hand; this time, his eyes betrayed him, glinting darkly.
Margaret’s stomach churned, but there was nothing to be gained in procrastination. Selecting her highest numbered card—a seven of spades—she placed it down.
The way Finlay’s lip curled! He was savoring the moment, no doubt, as he lay an eight of the same suit, taking the trick. The next was also his, as he placed an ace of diamonds.
Margaret reordered her cards, as if doing so might transform them.
This can’t be happening!
He had only to win again, and all would be lost. She might enforce their separation, refusing to live beneath his roof, but a divorce would never be possible unless ’twas at Finlay’s instigation.
Alastair had assured her of that, while gently prompting that the best course of action was reconciliation.
He thought the rift could be fixed and, perhaps, for someone else, it would be possible, but she needed Finlay to have married her for the right reasons. She’d tried to forgive, to make herself believe these were unimportant details, but she couldn’t escape the facts.
Her mouth turned dry as Finlay laid the next card.
A heart.
’Twas as if her whole body were numb. Her cards fell. She didn’t need to say anything. They spoke for themselves.
“Magsie.” There was no gloating.
As he cupped her face, she was powerless to deny him. His hands moved to the nape of her neck, burying in her tumbled curls, and she squeezed shut her eyes—against the tears that threatened, against looking at him.
Defiance drained away, leaving her limp.
He’d no intention of letting her go, even though his care for her only went so far.
In the world of Finlay Dalreagh, there were a hundred things more important than she, no matter how many times he called her ‘love’ and ‘the woman of his heart’; and yet, for the longest time, she’d let herself believe it was enough, or that he would change.
She’d been so lonely, conjuring him a thousand times. Not a night passed that she didn’t hold him in her mind, in that agonizing space before slumber came.
She knew he’d bed her, and that she’d allow him. That’s what all this had been leading to, branding her with more bittersweet memories.
At the first touch of his lips, she quivered, weak with longing. He was gentle, murmuring her name between kisses that covered her cheeks, her lids, her brow. She could no more deny his mouth than her need to breathe.
When their tongues met, she gave an unbridled moan. He was pulling her into him, wrapping her in his strength, making her feel as if she were sinking beneath the waters of Loch Dunrannoch. The surface was above, but she’d no will to save herself.
His hands, hot as irons in the fire, grasped her bottom.
How had that happened? They’d been in her hair; now they were beneath the bunched fabric of her nightgown.
Breaking off the kiss, he dragged the garment briskly over her head, flinging it away. Finlay’s gaze raked her body, from the fullness of her breasts to the nip of her waist and the generous flair of her hips, then lower, to the soft curls of her mound.
The look in his eyes was entirely lustful, raw, animalistic, and Margaret’s own carnality flared in response.
She wanted him to drink her in, to see exactly what he’d been missing.
Shamelessly, she cupped her breast, letting her thumb play with the nipple.
The other hand she dipped betwixt her legs.
Finlay’s jaw slackened. As if in a trance, he pulled off his shirt, revealing strong shoulders and a finely muscled abdomen. The blanket which had been draped about his waist slipped, giving her a sinfully seductive glimpse of the base of his shaft.
It was Margaret’s turn to be transfixed.
She’d seen that part of him before, as they’d been free with each other in the weeks prior to the wedding, but it seemed an age past. The first time, she’d thought it impossible he’d fit where he told her it must go. Only later had she come to love that his girth stretched her so.
She wanted to hold his thickness now, and taste him, knowing he’d soon be thrusting inside, taking away her ability to do aught but surrender.
His eyes were lit. “You want it.”
’Twas no question, but a growl.
When he cast away his covering he was aroused, jutting straight, the head smooth and glistening.
As wet as I am.
She still had her finger inside, and she could feel her body making ready for him.
As if in imitation of her, he took himself in hand, stroking the whole of the velvet length, then slow fisting at the root, before pulsing the tip, jerking faster.
“You want this, wife.” Pushing his pelvis forward, he parted his thighs, displaying the twin sacs beneath his sex organ, showing her more of what she’d be getting.
Arrogant bastard!
’Tis no wonder I hate him!
And yet she wanted him.
Thick and hard and thrusting inside her.
Needed him so badly she could have wept.
A heavy yearning, sweet and painful.
She was only a few days past her monthly flow, making the mating safe. She might indulge, if she so wished, without fear of pregnancy.
“Hold me.” His voice was low, hungry.
She hesitated, not wanting to give in so easily, but her need was greater than her dignity.
Finlay’s groan was immediate, his head falling back as she took over what he’d begun. But she wanted more than that. If she was going to do this, she wanted him to beg, to feel her power over him.
Keeping hold, she dipped her head. Advancing and retreating, she brushed her lips over his slickness, teasing, before forming a tight ring. With the flat of her tongue, she laved him, drawing up and down, taking him further each time, into the warmth of her mouth.
He was harder now; starkly erect, his brine salty on her tongue.
“Lass, what you do to me!” Raising her up, the look on his face was one of unadulterated need. “I want to spill inside you, wife—deep inside.”
’Twas she who took the initiative, parting her legs to straddle his lap. One tilt brought the tip of his cock between her labia and, slowly, she sank down upon his arousal.
His face contorted with the pleasure of it. “You’re so tight, lass. Tight and wet—a fiery sheath for my sword.”
A sword, indeed, but I’ll be the one to slay you!
He closed his eyes, holding her firm at the hips and moaning as she began in earnest, circling her pelvis. She’d learnt ’twas the way to build her own pleasure, pushing her ‘pearl’ against the base of him with each sinuous movement.
The air was cool against her back, but her skin was seared everywhere they touched. His mouth claimed her breast and the force with which he sucked her nipple sent a rush between her thighs. He pinched it between tongue and teeth, making her cry out in protest, yet grind all the more.
“Aye! Ride me, wife. Fuck me fast or slow but fuck me hard.”
Shocking as it was, she liked his vulgar language. Still she tugged back his head, stopping his mouth with hers, preventing him from speaking more. The kiss was savage sweet. She curled her tongue, teasing, until he sucked the tip deep, as he had her breast.
A fierce wave overtook her flesh, and she was no longer in command of her movements. All control was lost. He thrust upward while pulling her down, over and over, moving her as was his will. She mewled and cried but he was relentless, plundering, while ripples of pleasure flowed through her.
She clung to him as he went rigid, penetrating her one final time, to spend his seed high within her body.