But the other part of him . . .
“If you had any idea how bad I want this. Want you. Màiri.”
Fuck Ambrose. He would not let that man be the first to bring her pleasure.
Ian spun them toward the closest column, pressing her back against it. And then he kissed her again, more slowly. Taking his time, he ran his tongue across her lower lip, teasing her until the telltale pull of his linen shirt told him she wanted more.
Her gown was too damn confining. But Màiri’s neck and chest were exposed to him. He should know—he had been staring at the swell of her breasts all night. Indulging himself now, he trailed a path of kisses from her neck downward. Inching the neckline as low as he was able, he let his lips explore every inch of skin not bound by velvet fabric.
“I did not think . . . ,” he heard her whisper as if it were some far-off sound.
Ian lifted his head.
“That I wanted you? Are you kidding me? Màiri, I’ve never wanted a woman more. If you had any idea of your own power.”
He grabbed her hand, something that was becoming a habit with them, and then did the stupidest fucking thing yet. Ian guided it downward onto him, watching Màiri’s eyes to be sure he wasn’t scaring her. He watched as understanding dawned.
“You did that. Tonight. In the tub. The first time we met. At our wedding. Hell, even just knowing you’re in the same room does this to me. It’s been damn uncomfortable to be around you, Màiri,” he admitted.
“That happens”—she moved her hand just enough to force a groan from him—“to every man?”
“Hell no. Not like this. It would be hard to get much done, walking around with a permanent hard-on. But with you . . .”
He removed his hand. But she didn’t.
“’Tis wrong, is it not? To touch you this way? The church says so.”
God save him from the Middle Ages.
“There are many things wrong in this world. Your time and mine. But pleasure between two consenting adults, married ones especially? No. I don’t believe it’s wrong.”
Finally, thankfully, Màiri took her hand from him.
“And still, something has stopped you.”
That very same hand that had felt him—and how badly he ached to make them man and wife in truth—flew up, and no fucking way was he going to let her cover her cheek. Was Màiri even aware of how often she did it? How often she turned as she spoke, attempting to hide half of herself?
He captured it midway up, pinning it behind her head.
“You are beautiful.”
Ian took her second hand, pinning it on the other side of her head.
“Not in spite of it—” he nodded toward her birthmark, “—but because of it.”
He leaned forward, kissed that very mark, and then kissed her again on the lips. Pressing into her, Ian stopped thinking. He had one goal now, and he’d not be deterred.
It wasn’t the ideal time or place, or even the ideal way to do it. But as he circled his hips against her, plunging his tongue into her mouth with every press of their hips, Ian became more confident it was all he’d need to give her pleasure. For now.
Breathing heavier, pressing harder, Màiri was close. And it was his job to put her over the edge.
“This is just the beginning,” he whispered, tightening his grip on her wrists and not relenting as he positioned them as close as possible given the obstruction of the damn gown. “I’m going to make you come once. And then we’re going upstairs, where I plan to remove every bit of clothing, and we’ll do it again. Properly.”
He followed his whispered promise with a kiss just below her ear.
“Let go, my sweet wife. Come for me.”
And she did.
