Her Wicked Highland Spy (The Marriage Maker #10)(23)

He closed his eyes and thrust. “By God, you drive me wild, woman.”

She felt her skirts lifting. At last. She whimpered in anticipation and rolled her hips forward until her thighs lay bare.

“Open your legs for me, sweeting.” He continued to slide his cock in her fingers.

She opened her legs.

“Wider. I want to see you,” his voice took on a hoarse edge as he lifted her knee and spread her wide. He touched her, slid his finger between her folds as his thumb circled her hidden bud. “God, you’re beautiful, and so wet for me.”

He spread his fingers, opening her folds to expose her pink heat. He drove two of his fingers deep inside.

“Yes,” she cried, pleasuring herself on his hand.

She gripped his cock, stroking him faster. He grunted with approval and met her rhythm, slamming his length as he watched her from under hooded eyes. She bucked wantonly against his fingers, too excited to care about anything but her own pleasure.

Their breath came faster, thrusting in unison.

She gasped and began to shake, the onset of a climax threatening. “More,” she gasped. “Give me more.”

He drove his finger harder into her channel and tipped her over the edge. She quivered uncontrollably as a spasm of pleasure rocked her core and ripped the air from her lungs. The climax rippled through her. She collapsed against the balloon’s wicker wall. He caught her with one arm, holding himself still in her channel as she clenched her release. She could do nothing but dig her fingers into his shoulders and moan his name again and again. As the last ripple of her release faded she opened her eyes and looked up into his.

“You’re so beautiful.” He brushed her lips in a sweet kiss.

She lay in his arms, one breast exposed and her gown bunched about her waist, his fingers still buried inside her. She smiled. With him, she had no control, but then, she didn’t need restraint.

His cock lay heavy against her thigh, swollen and in need of relief. She began to rock, sliding her fingers over his shaft once again, pressing him between her palm and the naked flesh of her thigh.

He withdrew his large fingers from her channel and he dropped his hand onto the railing. He closed his eyes and drove his cock against her in long, powerful thrusts. She watched him in wonder. Soon, that force would be pounding inside her. Soon, the massive, thick-ridged shaft pulsing in her hand would dive into her channel instead.

His frenzied thrusts seized and with a grunt, he threw his head back and released his seed, spilling it over her fingers and her soft thighs. Never had she witnessed a more erotic act. Never had she thought to see so powerful a man lose control in her hands. She remained motionless, as he shuddered and emptied himself. His muscles milked every last drop until he softened in her hands and slipped free.

Ethan nuzzled her neck fondled her still-exposed breast. “Then, I’ll take this as a ‘yes,’ you will marry me, lass?”

Rosalyn laughed and threw her arms around his neck and inhaled his scent. This is where she wanted to be. She wanted to be held by him. She wanted to stay that way forever, cradled in his arms with his lips on hers, passionate and tender, making love until they were spent.

“Let’s land this balloon and ride for Gretna Green,” she whispered. “At once.”





Chapter Twelve


Indulging the Senses



The ring of a hammer striking an anvil was the first sound Rosalyn heard as Ethan handed her down from the carriage at Gretna Green. Excitement raced through her. At last, they’d arrived. At last, he’d be hers.

“This way, my love.” Ethan tilted his head at a white-washed blacksmith’s shop.

She looked him up and down. He’d changed into his kilt, a dramatic red plaid. Never had she seen him more handsome.

His gorgeous blue-gray eyes narrowed. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Far from it,” she whispered. To settle the matter, she caught the lapels of his coat and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I can’t marry you quickly enough.”

He said nothing, but his eyes roamed her body. She’d worn her best dress, an ivory muslin with pale blue satin trim about the hem and the neckline. Perhaps she shouldn’t have. From his expression, she knew so very soon, he’d be ripping it off.

He gave her fingers a squeeze and, hand-in-hand, they headed toward the Blacksmith shop.

The wedding was a short affair. The Blacksmith Priest was an ancient man with thin wispy hair but a voice that boomed like thunder. He married them at once, with the young blacksmith who had been hammering the horseshoe, as witness.

Rosalyn closed her eyes and smiled as Ethan repeated his vows, the lilt of his brogue and the deep timbre of his voice playing her body like a violin.

Then, at last, the deed was done.

“I’m of a mind to rest the remainder of the day, my sweet wife,” Ethan said as they left the smithy and headed for the inn across the lane.

“Rest?” She lifted a wicked brow.

He chuckled, caught her hand, and brought her fingers to his mouth.

She followed him across the lane, feeling caught in a most pleasant dream. Oh, some small part of her was keenly aware of the summer afternoon and the way the breeze rifled her hair. The larger part, however, only saw what mattered the most: his broad shoulders, his strong thighs, and the kindest blue eyes she’d ever seen.