Read Online Devil Black by Laura Strickland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Strickland
Tags: Medieval
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will always be honest with each other.”
“A worthy hope.”
“So you—” Her lips worked, seeking to form the words. “You do not mean to cast me off for this reason?”
For one, sober moment Dougal gazed at her. He did not think he could cast her off now even had he learned she had been plucked by the devil himself.
His hands finished their work, pushed the green gown from her shoulders. The fabric fell to her waist, revealing all that lay beneath.
“Lady Wife,” he said, “I have many desires at this moment, but none to cast you off. Come to the bed and let me show you.”
Chapter Eleven
“Kiss me,” the Black Devil bade Isobel, and obediently she turned to him, parted her lips, and felt the languorous passion pour through her again. For many hours now she—who usually never embraced obedience—had complied with Dougal’s every request, placing her body, her lips, where he instructed, kissing, licking, biting, with the most astonishing results. She had never dreamed such acts, performed together, constituted coupling. It felt surprisingly like magic—black magic, probably—and bore absolutely no relation to what had passed between herself and he who had ruined her, back in her father’s stable.
Dougal MacRae, she decided, using what shreds of wit she still possessed, must be a master at the art of lovemaking. He had only to touch her with his long-fingered, rough-palmed hands and she lost all inhibition—all decency—and caught fire with heedless delight. His fingers wooed her body in places she barely knew existed, coaxing from her responses she had never imagined.
After many hours in the great, canopied bed, she no longer felt her body was entirely her own, but she did not mind. Were she to give herself, body and soul, to any man, it would be him.
He spoke in whispers that filled her ears, his Scots burr, in moments of intense pleasure, becoming a buzz of sensuality. The scent of him filled and seduced her, as did the feel of his glossy, black hair trailing across her bare skin when he bent to fondle her breast with his mouth. The first time he did that, Isobel nearly flew from the bed, so sharp was the pleasure.
His hands and that weapon between his legs—ever at the ready, it seemed—had claimed her, but it was into his eyes she fell: bottomless eyes the color of a wild mist, spiked with black lashes. The eyes of a devil, or a saint?
Did she care? Not at this moment. She stretched her naked limbs as he kissed her and felt his hand slide down her body and slip between her legs once again.
He broke the kiss to whisper, “I should let you sleep, Lady Wife. Are you not weary? It is nearly dawn.”
Isobel made a sound of protest deep in her throat and opened her eyes just enough to see him. By God, he was a beautiful creature, naked save for the black hair flowing over his shoulders, every muscle sculpted and defined. She now knew him to be incredibly strong, agile and skillful.
She could think of things she would rather do than sleep.
He must have seen those things in her eyes, for he gave a small, wicked smile. “Ah, ’tis that way, is it?” Gently, his fingers parted her thighs and entered her, even while his gaze held hers. “Only tell me, Isobel, what you want.”
Isobel’s thoughts stuttered. Until a few hours ago she had no idea her body could break apart at a man’s touch, fly away beyond her control, and dissolve in racking waves of pleasure. She had thought coupling a quick, ultimately painful act that resulted in shame.
She supposed she should be ashamed, now—cavorting, naked, as she was, begging inwardly for inconceivable things. But when he touched her, she lost all reason.
“I want—” But she had no words for it.
The wicked smile invaded his eyes. He needed no words. He cupped her breast, bent his mouth to it, and his fingers, inside her, played her as a master harper might his instrument.
“I wish, Wife,” he said when at last the waves of pleasure
“A worthy hope.”
“So you—” Her lips worked, seeking to form the words. “You do not mean to cast me off for this reason?”
For one, sober moment Dougal gazed at her. He did not think he could cast her off now even had he learned she had been plucked by the devil himself.
His hands finished their work, pushed the green gown from her shoulders. The fabric fell to her waist, revealing all that lay beneath.
“Lady Wife,” he said, “I have many desires at this moment, but none to cast you off. Come to the bed and let me show you.”
Chapter Eleven
“Kiss me,” the Black Devil bade Isobel, and obediently she turned to him, parted her lips, and felt the languorous passion pour through her again. For many hours now she—who usually never embraced obedience—had complied with Dougal’s every request, placing her body, her lips, where he instructed, kissing, licking, biting, with the most astonishing results. She had never dreamed such acts, performed together, constituted coupling. It felt surprisingly like magic—black magic, probably—and bore absolutely no relation to what had passed between herself and he who had ruined her, back in her father’s stable.
Dougal MacRae, she decided, using what shreds of wit she still possessed, must be a master at the art of lovemaking. He had only to touch her with his long-fingered, rough-palmed hands and she lost all inhibition—all decency—and caught fire with heedless delight. His fingers wooed her body in places she barely knew existed, coaxing from her responses she had never imagined.
After many hours in the great, canopied bed, she no longer felt her body was entirely her own, but she did not mind. Were she to give herself, body and soul, to any man, it would be him.
He spoke in whispers that filled her ears, his Scots burr, in moments of intense pleasure, becoming a buzz of sensuality. The scent of him filled and seduced her, as did the feel of his glossy, black hair trailing across her bare skin when he bent to fondle her breast with his mouth. The first time he did that, Isobel nearly flew from the bed, so sharp was the pleasure.
His hands and that weapon between his legs—ever at the ready, it seemed—had claimed her, but it was into his eyes she fell: bottomless eyes the color of a wild mist, spiked with black lashes. The eyes of a devil, or a saint?
Did she care? Not at this moment. She stretched her naked limbs as he kissed her and felt his hand slide down her body and slip between her legs once again.
He broke the kiss to whisper, “I should let you sleep, Lady Wife. Are you not weary? It is nearly dawn.”
Isobel made a sound of protest deep in her throat and opened her eyes just enough to see him. By God, he was a beautiful creature, naked save for the black hair flowing over his shoulders, every muscle sculpted and defined. She now knew him to be incredibly strong, agile and skillful.
She could think of things she would rather do than sleep.
He must have seen those things in her eyes, for he gave a small, wicked smile. “Ah, ’tis that way, is it?” Gently, his fingers parted her thighs and entered her, even while his gaze held hers. “Only tell me, Isobel, what you want.”
Isobel’s thoughts stuttered. Until a few hours ago she had no idea her body could break apart at a man’s touch, fly away beyond her control, and dissolve in racking waves of pleasure. She had thought coupling a quick, ultimately painful act that resulted in shame.
She supposed she should be ashamed, now—cavorting, naked, as she was, begging inwardly for inconceivable things. But when he touched her, she lost all reason.
“I want—” But she had no words for it.
The wicked smile invaded his eyes. He needed no words. He cupped her breast, bent his mouth to it, and his fingers, inside her, played her as a master harper might his instrument.
“I wish, Wife,” he said when at last the waves of pleasure
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