Home > Written in My Own Heart's Blood (Outlander #8)(268)

Written in My Own Heart's Blood (Outlander #8)(268)
Author: Diana Gabaldon

“Blasphemy, on our wedding night?” But she was pleased, he could tell.

“It’s not blasphemy, it’s a prayer of thanksgiving. And who told ye about the wager?” Fergus had bet him a bottle of stout that a Quaker bride would have plain linen undergarments. He hadn’t known, himself, but had had hopes that Rachel wouldn’t feel that pleasing her husband was the same thing as making a vain show for the world.

“Germain, of course.” She put her own arms around him and clasped him in similar manner, smiling up. “Thine is neither wee nor round, but no less sweet, I think. Does thee need help with thy fastenings?”

He could tell she wanted to, so he let her kneel and unbutton the flies of his breeches. The sight of the top of her dark, disheveled head, bowed earnestly to the task, made him put his hand gently on it, feeling her warmth, wanting the touch of her skin.

His breeches fell and she stood up to kiss him, her hand caressing his standing c**k as though by afterthought.

“Thy skin is so soft there,” she said against his mouth. “Like velvet!”

Her touch wasn’t tentative but very light, and he reached down and wrapped his fingers round hers, showing her the way of it, how to grasp it firmly and work it a bit.

“I like it when thee moans, Ian,” she whispered, pressing closer and working it more than a bit.

“I’m not moaning.”

“Yes, thee is.”

“I’m only breathin’ a bit. Here . . . I like that . . . but . . . here.” Swallowing, he picked her up—she made a little whoop—and carried her the two steps to the bed. He dropped her onto the mattress—she made a louder whoop—and landed beside her, scooping her into his arms. There was a certain amount of writhing, giggling, and inarticulate noises, and she got him out of his calico shirt, while he had her shift pulled up at the bottom and down at the top but still puddled round her waist.

“I win,” she said, wiggling the wadded shift down over her hips and kicking it off.

“Ye think that, do ye?” He bent his head and took her nipple in his mouth. She made a very gratifying noise and clutched his head. He butted her gently under the chin, then lowered his head and sucked harder, flicking his tongue like an adder’s.

“I like it when ye moan, Rachel,” he said, pausing for breath and grinning down at her. “D’ye want me to make ye scream?”

“Yes,” she said, breathless, one hand on her wet nipple. “Please.”

“In a bit.” He’d paused to breathe, lifting himself above her to let a bit of air in between them—it was a small room, and hot—and she reached up to feel his chest. She rubbed a thumb lightly over his nipple, and the sensation shot straight down to his cock.

“Let me,” she said softly, and lifted herself, a hand round his neck, and suckled him, very gently.

“More,” he said hoarsely, bracing himself against her weight. “Harder. Teeth.”

“Teeth?” she blurted, letting go.

“Teeth,” he said breathlessly, rolling onto his back and pulling her on top. She drew breath and lowered her head, hair spilling across his chest.

“Ow!”

“Thee said teeth.” She sat up anxiously. “Oh, Ian, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt thee.”

“I—ye didn’t . . . well, ye did, but . . . I mean—do it again, aye?”

She looked at him, dubious, and it occurred to him that when Uncle Jamie told him to go slow and gentle with his virgin, it might not have been all to do with sparing the virgin.

“Here, mo nighean donn,” he said, drawing her down beside him. His heart was hammering and he was sweating. He brushed the hair back from her temple and nuzzled her ear. “Slow for a bit, aye? Then I’ll show ye what I mean by teeth.”

IAN SMELLED OF wine and whisky and musky male skin—he burned astonishingly under her hands and smelled now something like a distant skunk, but in a much better way. She pressed her face into the curve of his shoulder, breathing him in with pleasure. She had his c**k in her hand, gripping firmly . . . but curiosity made her loose her hold and grope lower, fingers probing through the thickness of his pubic hair. He breathed out very suddenly when she cupped his scrotum, and she smiled against his shoulder.

“Does thee mind, Ian?” she whispered, rolling the lovely egg-like shapes of his balls in her palm. She’d seen male scrota many times, baggy and wrinkled, and while she wasn’t disgusted, had never thought them more than mildly interesting. This was wonderful, drawn up tight, the skin so soft and so hot. Daring, she scooted down a little and felt farther back between his legs.

He had an arm about her shoulders and it tightened, but he didn’t tell her to stop, instead spreading his legs a little, allowing her to explore him. She’d wiped men’s arses hundreds of time, and the fleeting thought occurred to her that not all of them took great care . . . but his hair was curly and very clean, and her hips moved against him involuntarily as her fingertip slid tentatively between his bu**ocks. He twitched, tensing involuntarily, and she stopped, feeling him shiver. Then she realized that he was laughing, shaking silently.

“Am I tickling thee?” she asked, raising up on one elbow. The light of the single candle flickered over his face, hollowing his cheeks and making his eyes shine as he smiled up at her.

“Aye, that’s one word for it.” He ran a hand half roughly up her back and gripped her by the nape. He shook his head slowly, looking at her. His hair had come loose from its binding and spread out dark behind his head. “Here I am, tryin’ to go slow, tryin’ to be gentle . . . and next thing I ken, ye’re squeezin’ my balls and stickin’ your fingers up my arse!”

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