The Heiress Bride - Catherine Coulter [129]
He didn’t hold back now. His fingers found her quickly and he began a rhythm that was at once deep and gentle, light and urgent. She had no chance to object, no chance to feel embarrassed. All she could do was feel how her body was jerking, her legs clenching, then opening to him, and he saw those feelings clearly on her expressive face. She stared up at him, her eyes vague and bewildered. “Colin,” she whispered and ran her tongue over her lower lip.
“Come along now, Joan. I want you to think about what my fingers are doing to you. I’m going to kiss you and I want you to let yourself go and cry out in my mouth.”
At that moment, he eased his middle finger into her and nearly cried out himself at the wondrous feeling of her. He kissed her as if he would die without her and he wondered vaguely in those moments if it wasn’t true. His fingers were on her swelled flesh again, stroking her, caressing her until she stiffened and pulled back. He looked at her face and smiled at her, painfully. “Yes, sweetheart. Come to me now.”
She did, from one moment to the next, she was gasping, her legs stiff, such sensations pulsing through her that she couldn’t begin to understand what was happening to her. Whatever it was, she prayed it would never stop. It was so strong and so deep and he was there, staring down at her, that smile in his eyes, and he was saying again and again, “Come to me, come to me . . .”
The feelings crested, flinging her into a world that was fresh and magical, a world that held her now and would never release her. She quieted. His fingers quieted, soothing her now, no longer inflaming her.
“Oh goodness,” she whispered. “Oh goodness, Colin. That was wonderful.”
“Yes,” he said and there was both pain and immense pleasure in his voice and he never stopped looking at her, and now he leaned down and kissed her, softly, lightly. Ah, the bewilderment in her Sherbrooke blue eyes, and the vagueness and the excitement. It pleased him, pleased him to his soul.
Sinjun drew a deep breath. His pleasure, she thought. He hadn’t received any pleasure from her. Would he hurt her now? Oh no, he wouldn’t ever hurt her again. But his pleasure . . . Her heart slowed. Her eyes fluttered closed. To Colin’s chagrin and amusement, she was asleep in the next moment.
He held her for a very long time in front of the warm fire, looking down at her, then into the dying flames, and wondering what this woman had done to him.
When Sinjun awoke the following morning, she was smiling. A silly smile, one that was absurdly content, one that held only one thought, and that thought was of her husband. Of Colin. God, she loved him. Suddenly she stilled and the smile slid off her face. She’d told him she loved him, loved him from the first moment she ever saw him, and he hadn’t replied. But he’d given her such pleasure that she’d wondered even as she prayed it would never end if she would die from it.
She’d told him she loved him and he’d said naught.
Well, she’d been a fool, but she didn’t care. It seemed ridiculous to her now that she would hold back anything from him. He cared for her, she knew that. Now he knew that she loved him. If it gave him power over her, then so be it. If he used the power to hurt her, so be that as well.
She was herself. She couldn’t change. She was a wife, Colin’s wife. God had given him to her; she would never hold back from him. He was, quite simply, the most important person in her life.
Still, when she entered the Laird’s Inbetween Room some forty-five minutes later for her breakfast, she felt flushed and nervous and embarrassed. Colin was there, seated at his ease at the head of the table, a cup of coffee in his hand, a bowl of porridge in front of him, a curl of heat rising from it. The bowl sat on a beautiful white linen tablecloth she’d bought in Kinross.
Her brothers weren’t there. Neither of the wives was there. The children weren’t there. Neither Aunt Arleth