Chapter 17

17

I s it finally goin’ to be a punishment worthy of the name?

Freya could not believe she was able to sit there, perfectly still, when her entire body was a restless tangle of shivering, sparking nerves, and the wildfire in her veins spread through every limb. Just the sight of Doughall standing there, his gray eyes glinting, powerful in his silence, made her toes curl and her thighs press together as if to relieve a pressure she did not understand.

There’s a good wife…

The sentence alone made her want to moan. It was no real surprise—books had always been her escape, so of course her body responded to his voice and his words as viscerally as a caress.

“Grip the edge of the desk,” Doughall told her in a throaty rumble.

She swallowed thickly, doing as he asked.

“Those hands dinnae move from that spot.” He approached her, covering her hands with his. “Am I understood?”

Peering up into his eyes, she could not stop herself from nodding. If she behaved herself, maybe he would kiss her again.

“Such a good wife.”

He ran his calloused hands up her wrists, her arms, over her shoulders, up her neck, where they rested for a moment.

His thumbs paused on the hollow at the base of her throat, perhaps a warning of what he was capable of, and a reminder that although he could hurt her, he would not. He sealed that assurance with a kiss, slower and softer than before, his lips just grazing hers. A delicious torment, fueling her need for more. So much so that when he pulled away, she whimpered at the injustice.

“Patience,” he whispered.

His mouth trailed along her jaw, then back down her throat to her chest. His fingertips pursued his lips, the light friction making her skin tingle, leaving behind a feverish heat that rushed in every direction. Her entire body was coming to life, lighting beacons of pleasure, warning the parts of her that had not yet had their awakening that something was approaching.

With the same ease she might rip off a piece of bread in the morning, Doughall took the collar of her nightdress in his warrior’s hands… and tore it.

A gasp escaped her lips. “That… isnae mine.”

“Whose is it?” He held her gaze and continued to tear the fabric all the way to the hem.

“It was… in the armoire.”

“Then it’s mine to do with as I please,” he said with a dark laugh.

She was no longer sure if he meant the nightdress or her, nor did she mind which he wished to do with as he pleased. She was at his mercy, and, despite his words and actions, she had never felt safer.

Careful not to touch her bare skin, Doughall peeled back the torn nightdress, exposing her to the warmth that radiated from the crackling fire.

Considering that her plan for the night had been to go to bed and forget that she had ever been forced into a betrothal by her brother, she had not had any reason to think about wearing undergarments. As such, there was nothing between her bare skin and his eyes, which took her in with such ravenous intensity that it made her wish she could hide herself from him.

It took every speck of willpower she possessed not to remove her hands from the edge of the desk and cover herself. Not because she was ashamed, but because that would have been the ‘proper’ thing to do.

“Aye, a fine… fine wife,” he growled, returning his kiss to her chest.

All hope of breathing normally abandoned her lungs as his lips explored, tracing a searing line across to her breast, while his hand came up to grasp the other. She threw her head back and pushed her chest forward, a shudder racking her body as his mouth closed over her erect nipple.

“Oh… Oh, Doughall…” she gasped as he sucked, the pull of his mouth unleashing a fizzing bolt of pure bliss that ricocheted to the center of her.

Without realizing it, she raised her hand to run her fingers through his hair.

He pulled back sharply, taking her by the wrist and pinning her hand back to the edge of the desk. She gripped the wood instinctively, having no time to anticipate the punishment for her disobedience. It came a half-second later as he dropped to his knees and bit the inside of her thigh, eliciting a fierce jolt of pleasure and pain that melted her desire.

She cried out at the thrill of it, almost tempted to touch him again just to see what he would do.

But, to her surprise, he did not come back up to draw her nipple into his mouth again. He stayed where he was, kneeling between her thighs, his tongue soothing the spot he had bitten. A soft kiss to that same spot stirred an ache within her very core, wild and glorious and utterly foreign to her.

He’s explorin’, I’m discoverin’.

And, clearly, he was a guide who knew the territory well.

He kissed up the inside of her thigh, his hands running over the tops of them, gripping that pliant flesh just hard enough for it to feel pleasurable. If anything, she wanted him to grip it harder, like he meant it.

As he got closer to the apex of her thighs, her breath caught in her throat.

She shivered as he deliberately blew on that secret part of her, sending her body into a fresh frenzy of anticipation. For what, precisely? She did not know, but that was part of the excitement.

“Have ye been patient?” he asked.

She nodded eagerly, gripping the edge of the desk with all her might.

“I dinnae think ye have.”

That breath in her throat transformed into a cry as his tongue tasted her for the first time. A quick, teasing stroke across a part of her that she had not known existed—a small bonfire between her thighs that he had just doused in the purest liquor. A bundle of nerves, now sparking so wildly that not a single part of her could escape the burn.

She tilted her hips up, needing him to do that again before she lost her mind.

But he sat back on his haunches and glanced up at her, making her wait. Even on his knees, he had all the power, all the control. And she was content to give it to him if he would just release the tension that was building within her, putting her out of her wondrous misery.

“Have ye been patient?” he repeated.

She swallowed a breath, overcome with a feverish heat. “I have.”

“Are ye goin’ to continue to be?”

“Aye,” she lied, for if she did not feel his tongue again, she would leap off that desk, grab his face, and kiss him with all the desire that thrummed and crackled inside her.

He leaned in and kissed up her thighs once more, sending her anticipation to maddening heights. And as he reached her mound for a second time, the waiting became the most unbearable torture, for now she knew what was coming. He seemed entirely aware of that, pushing her to the limit of what she could bear before she had to disobey.

She had almost reached that point when he drew his tongue in a long, slow stroke through her wet folds and over the bundle of nerves that was ready to explode.

The sensation rocked her, seizing her entire being. Her neck arched back, and her hips bucked, her back bowing and her heart threatening to pound right out of her chest.

“Oh… Doughall…” she panted, her breathing ragged as he tasted her again.

It was unlike anything she could have imagined, his tongue a gift from the carnal gods, teasing and thrilling and controlling the current of pleasure that pulsed through her. He circled her swollen bud with his tongue, curled his tongue around that potent spot and sucked lightly, brushed his tongue across that center of absolute bliss, keeping her guessing but never letting the intensity ebb.

And as something began to build inside her, surging upward from the foundation of delirious anticipation he had elicited, his fingertips slid between her folds. They came to a pause at the entrance to her sex, one fingertip slowly circling that gateway, before easing inside her.

Her hips bucked, her arms trembling as she continued to grip the edge of the desk, though all she wanted to do was lie back and entirely submit to everything he was doing.

With a tantalizing touch, he slid his finger slowly in and out, adding another finger on the third stroke. The sensation was new and overwhelming, stoking the fire that raged through her, prompting her to gasp and moan and cry out and pant, utterly transported from the mundanity of her life to a realm of pure bliss.

He curled his fingers, finding another bundle of nerves somewhere within the depths of her. And as he pumped those skillful fingers and continued to lavish her swollen bud with all of the attention of his gifted tongue, she soared. All of the missteps and dangers and dismissals she had received up to that moment no longer mattered. She felt… powerful, the intensity of her pleasure pouring strength into every part of her—mind, body, soul.

He was making her feel like she could take on the world and win. Still, she would not remove her hands from the edge of the desk—as if it might break the spell if she did.

“Oh… Oh God… Oh!”

All of a sudden, the earth shattered, or Freya shattered—she could not tell which.

That fierce current of pleasure within her became a thrashing ocean of untold ecstasy, her body tossed and pulled through wave after cresting wave of near-violent euphoria. Her legs shook, her arms wobbled. Her lungs were on fire, unable to squeeze out anything other than a strangled cry through her throat, while every muscle clenched tight as she rode the storm of her conclusion.

Her head swam with pleasure, her eyes fluttering shut, her back arching, her hips bucking, and though Doughall did not stop, he did slow the strokes of his tongue and the pulse of his fingers. It felt like he was somehow throwing her a rope, guiding her back through the maelstrom of her bliss to reality, letting her luxuriate in it while keeping her anchored.

If this is how patience is rewarded, I’ll never be impatient again… unless this is what I’m impatient for.

Exhausted and still shaking, the potency of her conclusion began to ebb, leaving gentler pulses and softer sparks in her veins. She managed to catch her breath at last, opening her eyes and straightening her neck as Doughall slowly withdrew his fingers and turned his head to kiss the inside of her thighs.

There were so many things she wanted to say, so many questions she wanted to ask, but nothing would come. It took all the strength she had left just to keep holding the edge of the desk.

Doughall stood up, and Freya met his eyes, bracing for him to turn and leave as he had done before.

“A lesson well learned,” he said quietly, his arms sliding underneath her, picking her up as if she weighed nothing.

Still holding her, he took a blanket—not the one she had arrived in, but one of his own—and draped it over her. Wordlessly, he carried her out of the room, wielding her through the night-silent hallways of the castle and up to her bedchamber.

She curled into his chest, too relaxed and sleepy to question the gentleness of the act, and too warm in his embrace to risk him making her walk.

Reaching her bedchamber, he kicked the door open and glanced around, likely to make sure that there was no one else in the room. That done, he carried her over to the bed and pulled back the coverlets, setting her down so carefully that she wondered if he had been switched for a different man somewhere on the stairs.

“Rest now,” he instructed, pulling the coverlets and furs over her bare skin and the torn remains of her nightdress.

He brushed a lock of hair from her face and stared at her for a moment. Was he about to give her a goodnight kiss, or was he going to leave without a word again?

He got up and walked to the door, confirming the latter.

Tired as she was, delirious as she was, Freya could not have that.

“Dinnae,” she called, reaching out a hand. “Please, dinnae go.”

He halted as if she had yanked on a leash, his back to her. With those three small words, it seemed she had managed another impossible feat: she had surprised him.