Home > Written in My Own Heart's Blood (Outlander #8)(267)

Written in My Own Heart's Blood (Outlander #8)(267)
Author: Diana Gabaldon

“One flesh,” she reminded him, smiling, and cupped her hand. “I want to see thy half of it.”

“THEE HAS SEEN such things before,” Denny said. “I know thee has. Thee has brothers, for one thing. And—and in the course of . . . of treating wounded men . . .” He was lying naked on the bed, and so was she, fondling the object in question, which seemed to be enjoying the attention immensely. His fingers were sliding through her hair, playing with her earlobes.

“I hope thee doesn’t think I ever did this to any of my brothers,” she said, sniffing him with pleasure. “And those of wounded men aren’t generally in a condition to be appreciated at all.”

Denny cleared his throat and stretched himself a little, not quite squirming.

“I think thee should allow me to appreciate thy own flesh for a bit,” he said. “If thee expects me to be able to make thee a wife tonight.”

“Oh.” She looked down at his c**k and then at herself, surprised. “What do—does thee—mean? Why wouldn’t thee be able to?”

“Ah.” He looked pleased and eager—he was so young without his glasses—and bounced off the bed, going into the outer room, his bottom pale and tidy in the candlelight. To Dottie’s astonishment, he came back with the book she’d noticed on the table and handed it to her. It was bristling with bookmarks, and as she took it, it fell open in her hands, displaying several drawings of a naked man in cross section, his private parts in various stages of operation.

She looked up at Denny in disbelief.

“I thought—I know thee is a virgin; I didn’t want thee to be frightened, or unprepared.” He was blushing like a rose, and instead of collapsing in howls of laughter, which she badly wanted to do, she shut the book gently and took his face between her hands.

“Is thee a virgin, too, Denny?” she said softly. His blush grew fierce, but he kept her gaze.

“Yes. But—I do know how. I’m a physician.”

That was too much, and she did laugh, but in small, half-stifled blurts of giggling, which infected him, and in seconds they were in each other’s arms on the bed, shaking silently, with occasional snorts and repetitions of “I’m a physician,” which sent them into fresh paroxysms.

At last she found herself on her back, breathing heavily, Denny lying on top of her, and a slick of perspiration oiling them. She lifted a hand and touched his chest, and gooseflesh rippled over him, the dark hairs of his body curly and bristling. She was trembling, but not with either fear or laughter.

“Is thee ready?” he whispered.

“One flesh,” she whispered back. And they were.

THE CANDLES had burned down nearly to their sockets, and the naked shadows on the wall moved slowly.

“Dorothea!”

“Thee should probably be quiet,” she advised him, briefly removing her mouth in order to talk. “I’ve never done this before. Thee wouldn’t want to distract me, now, would thee?” Before he could summon a single word, she had resumed her alarming actions. He groaned—he couldn’t help it—and laid his hands gently, helplessly, on her head.

“It’s called fellatio, did thee know that?” she inquired, pausing momentarily for breath.

“I did. How . . . I mean . . . Oh. Oh, God.”

“What did you say?” Her face was beautiful, so flushed that the color showed even by candlelight, her lips deep rose and wet . . .

“I said—oh, God.”

A smile lit her shadowed face with happiness, and her already firm grip on him tightened. His shadow jerked.

“Oh, good,” she said, and with a small, triumphant crow of laughter, bent to slay him with her sharp white teeth.

IAN AND RACHEL

IAN LIFTED THE GREEN gown off in a whuff of fabric, and Rachel shook her head hard, shedding hairpins in all directions with little pinging sounds. She smiled at him, her dark hair coming damply down in chunks, and he laughed and plucked out a few more of the little wire hoops.

“I thought I should die,” she said, running her fingers through her loosened hair, which Jenny had put up before the party at the White Camel tavern. “Between the pins sticking into my head and the tightness of my stays. Unlace me, will thee—husband?” She turned her back to him but looked over her shoulder, eyes dancing.

He hadn’t thought it possible to be more moved in his feelings or more excited in body—but that one word did both. He wrapped one arm around her middle, making her squeak, pulled the knot of her laces loose, and gently bit the back of her neck, making her squeak much louder. She struggled, and he laughed, holding her tighter as he loosened the laces. She was slim as a willow sapling and twice as springy; she squirmed against him, and the small struggle heated his blood still further. If he had had no self-control, he would have had her pinned to the bed in seconds, stays and shift and stockings be damned.

But he did and let her go, easing the stay straps off her shoulders and the stays themselves over her head. She shook herself again, smoothing down the damp shift over her body, then stood tall, preening for him. Her ni**les stood out hard against the limp fabric.

“I won thy wager for thee,” she said, passing a hand over the delicate blue satin ribbon threaded through the neck of her shift and fluttering the hem, adorned with embroidered flowers in blue and yellow and rose.

“How did ye hear about that?” He reached for her, pulled her close, and clasped both hands on her arse, bare under the shift. “Christ, ye’ve got a sweet round wee bum.”

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