Page 73 of To Wed a Wild Scot
Logan didn’t need to be told twice. He leapt up from the bed, shed his boots and tore his shirt over his head.
But then he hesitated, his fingers hovering over the buttons of his falls. He was painfully hard for her, his eager flesh rigid and straining, and she was watching him, her heavy-lidded gaze taking in every inch of him. Would the sight of his engorged cock distress her? They’d been under the covers last night, so she hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but she’d certainly felt it when he’d entered her, battering at her tender flesh, making her bleed—
“Logan.” She held her arms out to him. “Come here.”
He stared down at her, his mouth opening in wonder at what he saw. Her skin was dewy, and she was trembling. Her hard, pointed nipples were flushed a dark pink from his mouth, and the curls between her legs were damp with her arousal.
He sucked in a quick breath. She wanted him. Against all odds, and even after last’s night disaster, she wanted him.
He tore at his buttons, then ripped off his pantaloons, his stiff cock bobbing eagerly as he joined her on the bed. He rested his hands on her inner thighs and gave a gentle push. “Open your legs for me,breagha bhean.”
She obeyed him at once, putting to rest any lingering doubts he had about her desire for him. “That’s it, Ana.” Logan took himself in hand and carefully nudged his head against her entrance, but he didn’t slide inside. Instead he hovered there for long moments, his body shaking with the effort to keep still.
Then, so slowly he wasn’t sure he was actually moving, he pushed the tip inside.
His back bowed with pleasure when her warmth closed around him. He was barely inside her, and already he was in danger of releasing. He slid in another inch, gritting his teeth. “You feel so good,bòcan. So good. Am I hurting you?”
She shook her head, wild tendrils of her hair tumbling over her bare shoulders. “No. I want all of you, Logan. Please.”
He groaned at her breathless murmur, that sweet plea on her lips. He moved forward another inch, then another, a bead of sweat rising on his forehead. He could feel her stretching, her body working to accommodate him, yet still he hesitated.
Slowly, slowly…
“Logan.” Juliana arched under him, her hips meeting his.
Logan swallowed as he slid deeper inside her. Christ. He was going to explode.
Another inch. Another. He was so deep now her body was working him, pulling him in. “Ah, God. Juliana.”
With one final push of his hips, he was buried inside her. Then he stilled again, panting as he waited for her to adjust to him. “Are you all right,bhean?”
“Yes.” She gave a tiny thrust of her hips to urge him on.
He drew back slowly, then thrust into her again. Then again and again, until she took up his rhythm. “Yes, Ana. Move with me.”
She pressed her face to his neck with a moan. “Logan, I—I—”
“Let go, Juliana. Come for me.” Logan’s neck corded with strain as he struggled to hold on, his hips working quickly now to give her what she needed. Right before she shattered she let out a breathless cry, and wrapped her legs around his hips.
Then she was tightening around him, her body squeezing him—
Logan threw his head back with a groan as the tingling in his spine spread to his legs, his belly, his cock. His own release took him hard, then left him dazed and shaking in its wake.
He looked down at Juliana to find her staring up at him, a dreamy smile on her lips. He leaned down and pressed kisses to her forehead, eyelids, and finally her mouth.
He shifted away to relieve her of his weight, but this time he didn’t retreat to his own side of the bed. He caught her in his arms, pulled her close, and eased her head down to his chest. “Sleep, Ana.”
“Mmmm.” She let out a contented sigh, kissed his chest, then curled closer. Within minutes her breathing deepened and she melted against him.
Logan buried his face in her hair and followed her into sleep.
Chapter Eighteen
The journey from Dalwhinnie to Surrey took ten days, and they were the most confusing ten days of Juliana’s life.
She worried about her father every day, and when she wasn’t worrying about her father, she was worrying about Grace. She startled awake before dawn each morning, torn out of her nightmares by her own gasping breaths. In the darkest of her dreams—the one that left her clammy and shaking with horror—they arrived at Graystone Court only to find her father dead, and Lord Cowden dragging Grace away.
She’d known it would be this way. She’d known she’d spend every moment of every day between Inverness and Surrey agonizing over Grace and her father, and every night trapped in nightmares of grief and loss.
