It's the heat that pulls her from a restful slumber, straight back into reality. A sweltering heat that has sweat pooling in the dips of her body, her dampened curls plastered to her skin.
She shifts away from the furnace at her back, feeling the warm furs cocooning her body and curses her heavy limbs for not having the energy to escape the heat. It's a far cry from days past, temperatures so frigid that she shivered in her sleep, teeth chattering away in the darkness.
Claire knows the reason for this change, but she's not quite ready to face it.
To face him.
Her new husband.
She begins to shrug her way out from beneath the furs, seeking the sweet relief of the chilly morning air, sighing as she feels the sweat cooling on her skin. It's still early, the sky only just beginning to lighten, and the tavern beneath them very much silent.
The only sounds she hears are the light snores coming from behind her.
Inhaling deeply, she finds her senses clouded with the smell of them, sex and sweat and a note of something strangely comforting. She can't quite put her finger on it, the scent that is soothing her frazzled nerves but is grateful all the same.
She lies there, stark naked, and allows her thoughts to drift.
She thinks of her first wedding night, of her first husband. There had been no hurried consummation, she'd known him intimately long before their impromptu wedding.
Her first marriage hadn't been a choice.
Frank had suggested they go through with the ceremony, both dreading the war looming on the horizon, and she'd agreed because there was no other option. And then they'd gone their separate ways.
She returned from France a changed woman.
He'd become just another casualty of the war.
The golden ring he'd once given her now lies in a pile of discarded clothing, and she finds she has no desire to wear it anymore.
The silver band on her right hand is rough and beaten and barely polished.
Imperfect in every way.
But she cannot forget the look in Jamie's eyes as he'd slipped the ring onto her finger, the reverent way he'd brushed his lips over it later on.
She allows her eyes to flutter shut as she relives the memories of the previous day.
Their wedding ceremony, rife with tradition and customs that she didn't quite understand but knew were meaningful.
The journey back to the tavern, how he'd kept his hand on her back the entire time, almost possessive.
Their first time, awkward and not quite satisfying, but she hadn't lied when she whispered she liked it. Liked the weight of him pressing her against the bed, the way his curls tickled her cheek, feeling him hot and hard inside her.
Their second, when she'd lost control and cried out so loudly surely the whole of Scotland had heard.
She feels herself flush with need as the memories continue to play, remembering the intimacy they'd shared, culminating in his gift to her, the pearls he'd slipped around her neck. When he'd whispered how precious she was to him, her heart had almost skipped a beat, thundering away in the confines of her chest.
Could she truly already love a man she hardly knew?
Taking one more shuddering breath to steady herself, she turns towards him.
Not the blood-soaked highland warrior that had once threatened to put her over his shoulder had she dared to run.
He's softer now, bathed in the light of dawn, one arm thrown over his head and chest rising and falling with even breaths. His long lashes skim the skin above his cheeks, ears protruding from the side of his head— just a little, and his lips curved into a faint smile. He looks so young and innocent, a ghost of the boy he once must have been, before the horrifying ordeals he'd suffered at the hands of a cruel and sadistic demon.
But even cruelty hadn't been able to break Jamie.
The light in his eyes each time he offers her a smile is unmistakable.
She traces the bridge of his nose with one finger, smiling when it twitches beneath her touch. His lips are soft and full, his jaw sharp and his stubble prickles at her skin. She wonders what it might feel like between her thighs.
And when she leans in closer, propping herself up on her elbow, intent on moulding her body against his, now desiring the warmth she'd shied away from earlier, his eyes open.
An endless depth of blue.
Like an ocean on its finest day.
He smiles, wider than the one he'd worn in sleep, and reaches up to tug at her curls.
"Mo nighean donn," he murmurs, hand drifting from her hair to her cheek. She feels impossibly small as he cups her jaw, thumb brushing her bottom lip.
"Your brown-haired lass?" she offers in response, shifting forward until she's half draped over his chest, thigh hooked over his hip.
His lips capture hers then, his hand once more finding its way into her curls, drawing her closer. He kisses her with the same enthusiasm he had each time before;
Like a man drowning-
- and her, his final breath.
They drink each other in, uncaring that they both reek of whisky, and she smiles against his lips as his other hand finds purchase on her arse, fingers gently kneading her flesh.
"I thought ye might be a dream. That ye'd run away in the dead o' the night and I was here alone, pretendin' ye hadna left me."
It's a confession whispered as they pull apart, one that makes her chest tighten and brings forth a dull ache in the pit of her belly.
"I ken my thoughts are foolish, Sassenach. I've given ye my body, my spirit, but the choice tae become my wife wasna yers tae make."
His words are tearing her apart at the seams.
Even now, curled up together, naked as the day they were born, he's still convinced that she's here only as a prisoner, with no free will of her own.
Yes, she'd resisted the marriage, having no desire to let fear dictate her road in life. She'd accepted his friendship but shied away from his touch, afraid to return the lingering glances or acknowledge the heat that flared within her each time she caught him staring.
That first night at Leoch, she'd felt this almost irresistible pull towards him, and she'd chosen both flight and fight.
Tried to distance herself.
Ignored her burgeoning feelings at every turn.
Only to wind up here and now, willingly bound to a man with enough courage and bravery to rival an entire army and yet still enough sensitivity to note her changing moods and demonstrate care and affection through glances and touches and incredible gestures.
She thinks of the stones that had brought her here, and for the first time, there's no anger and resentment.
Jamie watches her, poorly concealed concern in his eyes and she knows he's trying to analyse each and every one of her thoughts. Her glass face never ceases to reveal her emotions, but she's not sure he sees the contentment amongst the conflict and uncertainty.
Sighing, she tips her head forward, resting her forehead against his, brushing the tip of his nose with her own.
"Til our life shall be done," she whispers, moving her hand to rest over his heart, wondering if he can feel the cool band of her ring against his skin.
If he's surprised by her words, he doesn't show it, simply nuzzling at her cheek and then moving to pull her into his arms. She shifts, turning her back to him, craving the feel of his body surrounding her own.
He presses gentle kisses to her shoulder as his chest moulds to her back, her arse tucking neatly into the cradle of his thighs. When he drapes an arm over her waist, she grabs his hand and settles it over one breast, humming as he playfully strokes her nipple. His cock is half hard between them, and it would be easy enough for him to sink inside her.
Take her the back way, like horses.
But it's comfort they seek at this moment, not bliss.
"Mo ghràidh," he whispers into her hair. His voice cracks as he speaks and she knows without turning that there must be tears in his eyes, for she feels a stray drop making its way down her shoulder and over her clavicle.
"What does that mean?" she wonders, craning her neck so he can bury his face further into her curls.
"I'll tell ye some other time, I promise."
She believes him.
Her second awakening of the morning is by far gentler than the first, the barest whisper of caresses upon her skin, like the flapping of a butterfly’s wings. It takes her a moment to focus on reality, feel the roughened pads of Jamie's fingers drawing circles by her hip bone.
They've shifted in their sleep, now chest to chest, her leg slung over his hip, as if she'd subconsciously tried to draw him closer — deeper. She can feel his cock, half-hard and resting against her thigh, and is hit with the memory of just how it felt to take him inside her. With a smirk concealed against the skin of his neck, she bucks her hips.
His answering groan echoes through her bones.
She hums in response, nuzzling into the juncture between his neck and shoulder.
Thinks about what it might be like to sink her teeth into the strip of skin just above his pulse point.
Laughs uproariously when she does exactly that and he near shrieks in reaction, thumb putting pressure on her hip while his fingers dig into the flesh of her arse.
"Ye're a wicked wee thing," he mutters, before lowering his lips to her jaw. She shifts, trying to chase his mouth, steal a good morning kiss she hadn't realised she was craving till right now. It's far too easy for him to physically overpower her, and the thought of it doesn't send waves of fear through her body, only a hot bolt of heat right between her thighs.
She's well aware of his strength. He could hold her down, pin her body to the mattress and she'd be trapped.
But her husband, this sweet and gentle and caring man, touches her as though she's made of glass. The combination of his sheer strength and the knowledge that he would never hurt her, makes him all the more endearing.
Unable to wait any longer, she twines her fingers into his curls and pulls him to her. His lips are dry and he still reeks of whisky, but she can't get enough of the taste of him. There are no slow kisses, lips gently pressed together, soft and sweet — only heat, the clashing of tongues and teeth as they breathe one another in, bodies pressed together so tightly that there's no room for air in between.
She trails one hand down, down, down.
Fingertips meet the gnarled tissue on his back, skimming over hills and ridges and then the taut muscles of his arse. She means to close her hand around him, take him inside her, rock together until the bliss of completion floods their bodies and his seed floods her womb.
The whine she releases when he suddenly pulls back is embarrassingly loud.
Her eyes fly open, confusion and displeasure flitting across her features, and he chuckles, ducking his head — suddenly shy.
"I would verra much like tae please ye, Claire." He lowers his lashes, a dusting of pink spreading across his cheeks. His smile and touch, both painfully hesitant as he brushes his knuckles over the line of her jaw. She’s reminded of his lack of experience — he’s never been with any other woman, and the thought of it pleases her so.
Just as the thought of him with another sends a flare of jealousy through her entire being.
Good God, she really does love him.
She spreads a palm over his chest, swallowing back tears as he immediately covers her hand with his, lacing their fingers together.
"You've done a fine job of it so far,” she murmurs.
Her words clearly inspire confidence. She sees it in the grin, tugging at the corner of his lips, the darkening of his pupils. Feels it in the twitch of his cock, hot and hard and pressing insistently into the swell of her belly, the movement of his hand, fingertips trailing over the curve of her breast, the dip of her waist and towards the juncture of her thighs.
He stops, just as his fingers brush the coarse curls there. "Could I…?"
"What?" she asks, barely resisting the urge to reach down and force him to just touch her already.
"Ye ken what ye did last night?" he asks, looking her dead in the eye, brow raised.
She chooses to feign ignorance, a half-dazed smile crossing her face. "Hmm?"
He grumbles, low in his throat. "Wi' yer mouth."
"Are you asking for an encore performance?" She’s not opposed to the idea. Just seeing the look on his face after the previous evening — the surprise, the wonder — is enough to convince her. It's not an act she'd particularly cared for in the past, but she'd enjoyed it with him.
Liked having him under her power.
But to her surprise, he shakes his head.
"Ye did bring me great pleasure, mo nighean. But I was wonderin' if I could maybe do the same fer ye now."
He'd brought it up last night, wanting to know if he should reciprocate, but she'd assumed he was just being polite about it.
"You want to…"
He grins, pushing up onto one arm, hovering over her.
She clenches her thighs together, suddenly very conscious of her own body. While far more experienced than Jamie when it comes to carnal pleasures, she's never had a man's mouth between her legs before. The thought of such a thing does make her quiver in anticipation, but she's also acutely aware of how she must smell down there.
"I'll need to wash first…"
What she wouldn't trade for a hot shower, scalding water reddening her skin, allowing her to quickly sluice off the dirt and sweat and rid her of any horrid odours. She can still feel the remnants of their lovemaking from the evening before, dried on her thighs, and she wonders for a moment what Jamie might think of tasting himself.
All manner of sinful thoughts tumble around in her mind.
When she tries to rise, Jamie settles one large hand on her thigh, shaking his head.
"Nay, Sassenach. You stay right here. I'll go fetch ye some water and clean cloth."
Her heart flutters a bit at that, and she pulls him close for another kiss, trying to convey through actions rather than words exactly how she feels about him. The dazed smile he wears after he pulls back makes her feel warm from head to toe.
"Hurry back, soldier," she murmurs, turning to watch him go.
And hurry he does.
She struggles to hold back the laughter when he trips over the pile of discarded clothing at the end of the bed, and once again as he fights to pull his sark on, arm coming through the hole for his head. He shoots her a half-hearted glare once he's managed to cover himself up, and then slips from the room.
Not three seconds later she hears a muffled curse as he stumbles on the stairs.
She stretches, feels the pleasant ache in her limbs, hears the pops in her spine as she arches her back. Suddenly the idea of being trapped in this room for another two days with a doting husband is very appealing.
Caught up in the heat of the moment, adrenaline coursing through their veins, it had been all too easy to ignore the dull pain in her ribs and the bloom of bruises across her midsection. She looks down at herself now, skirts her fingers over greens and yellows, blues and purples.
Her body is a map beneath her fingertips, and she explores, examining her injuries as she would do for any patient.
Pushing the pad of her thumb against the deepest shade of blue, she feels a sharp stab of pain. The gasp that tears from her lips is unavoidable, and as if fate had willed it, happens at the exact moment Jamie walks back through the door, a small tub of boiling water in his hands.
She's hunched over, vision obscured by a mess of curls, and only really notices his presence when he's kneeling by her side.
His voice is gentle, as is his touch when he settles a hand on her shoulders, but she can see the rage in his eyes as he takes in her injuries. She knows he's thinking of the man who inflicted them, the same man who had hurt him — tried to destroy him.
"I'm fine," she whispers, reassuring. The bruises had easily blended in with the shadows in the dim candlelight, but now the colours are stark against her pale skin. She sees the pain written on his face as he takes it all in and it makes her own heart ache. "Jamie, I'm fine."
He nods, but it's clear from the clench of his jaw, the barely restrained shaking of his hands, that he's trying very hard to stay calm. She leans over, brushes her lips against his forehead and feels him almost melting into her touch. Her fingers work their way into his curls, softly brushing through them, and she feels the deep sigh he releases.
Of comfort perhaps.
They stay like that, her chin on the crown of his head, her fingers in his hair until he slowly pulls back.
"Let's get ye cleaned up before the water cools."
She nods, meaning to rise and quickly clean herself off, but Jamie is already reaching into the tub and wringing out a clean rag. He turns to her, gesturing to her body with an awkward wave.
At a loss for words, throat thick with emotion, she nods, lying back against the mountain of pillows at the head of the bed. Her legs are still clamped tightly shut, and she wonders if it would be strange to just open herself up to him like that. As if sensing her hesitance, he lays one large hand on her thigh, thumb drawing circles against her skin.
He doesn't speak and she doesn't need him to.
She knows deep down that he won't hurt her.
Wills herself to relax as he brings the damp rag up to her face. He helps wipe the sleep from her eyes, the dried drool at the corner of her mouth, his touch so, so delicate.
Watches as he carefully wrings the rag out between each section of her body.
Her neck, the rise of her clavicles and then beneath her arms. She's never been particularly ticklish but the motion makes her squirm and their quiet laughter quickly fills the room.
Her arms, the mountain and valleys of her knuckles, between each and every finger. She cups his jaw afterwards, rubbing her thumb over his stubble, and quickly remembers exactly where they're headed after this.
Her entire body tingles in anticipation.
When he brings the rag to her chest, he pauses, eyes seeking permission. Water drips down into the valley between her breasts, pooling in her navel, and she curls her fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand to her heart.
He shifts, other hand moving to her hip, holding her in place as he drags the damp cloth over her breasts. It's rough, catching on her nipples, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip in response, worried that he'll stop if she cries out. He meets her gaze, pupils dark, from the cool blue sea to the deepest ocean trench, and lowers his head to her chest.
His lips follow the path of the rag, gentle kisses upon her cleaned skin. The slight scuff of his stubble whenever he angles his head a certain way sends a rush of wet heat between her thighs, makes her toes curl in pleasure.
And when he reaches her bruised middle she sees the divot between his brows.
His movements are rigid, no-nonsense, as if the markings on her skin are ink stains to be cleaned away. It's his way of coping with seeing her hurt and it shatters her. His entire body is shaking from control as he presses his lips to each bruise, kissing away the pain.
It's more intimate than anything she's experienced before.
And finally — finally, he coaxes her thighs apart with one hand. The water is cold now, the rag cool against her heated skin, and she near-whimpers as he wipes her down. She wants to sink her fingers into his curls, drag his mouth right where she needs it the most, but this is new for the both of them, a first they can share together.
All the more special.
She wants to be patient, but when he moves to clean the rest of her legs, she stops him, shaking her head.
The rag slips from his hold, hits the ground.
"Please," she whimpers, breaking the silence.
His eyes widen, throat bobbing as he swallows, and she lies still, watching as he shrugs his shirt off and then settles between her parted thighs. Despite her pleas, he spends a moment just sitting there, as if unsure how to begin. Taking matters into her own hands, she reaches down and draws a single finger between her damp folds.
She sighs, loudly, and it sends Jamie into a frenzy of motion.
He leaps forward, grabs her wrist and brings her hand up to his lips. His pupils, blown wide, as he sucks her finger into his mouth, tasting her for the first time.
For a split-second, the world freezes. She waits, wondering if he'll decide that she's not quite as desirable as he may have imagined. Tries to console herself.
But then he makes a noise, a growl tearing from his throat, and she barely has time to react before his face is right between her thighs, pausing just a hair's breadth away.
The first tentative swipe of his tongue has her clamping her thighs around his head.
It's unlike anything she's ever felt before, and she wants — needs — more.
Biting down on her lip to quell the screams, she writhes and quivers as he grows bolder with his motions. The tip of his tongue dips inside her and then it's as though he's made it a mission for him to reach as far in as he can. His nose brushes up against the sensitive bundle of nerves nestled right above her folds, his scruff leaving reddened patches on her skin.
Each time she moans or gasps it only serves to spur him on.
When he lifts his head for a moment to catch his breath, she sees lust in his eyes, his lips glistening with her. She wants to speak, to tell him exactly what she wants, what she needs him to do, but there's barely a coherent thought in her mind. Apparently, the desire is written across her face, because he dips his thumb inside her, gathering slickness, and reaches up to palm her breast, tugging sharply at her nipple.
Her back arches, hips tilting upwards, seeking more, and her mouth falls open in a silent scream.
He gives her no reprieve, lowering his head once more.
Dimly, in the part of her mind that is still functioning, she thinks she should have expected he'd be good at this. He'd kissed her like she'd never been kissed before, brought her to completion during only their second coupling. These thoughts are quickly lost as the edge of her vision darkens, stars dancing as her eyelids slip shut.
The pleasure builds and surges and a single word escapes her lips as she clamps down around his fingers.
She loses her grip on reality, swimming in a sea of pleasure, and when she finally comes to, she finds her husband slumped over her belly, hand still cupping her breast. With a soft exhale, she reaches down, slipping her fingers into his curls. He tilts his head up to her, looking very much like the cat that got the cream.
"Thank ye, Sassenach."
She wants to cuff him over the ear, berate him for thanking her after he'd brought her such pleasure, but she decides against it, dragging him up for a kiss instead. Before his body envelops her, she catches a quick glimpse of his cock — straining, flushed a deep purple, a single pearl of white nestled at the tip — and smiles, knowing their morning is far from over.
As pleasant as it is to have the weight of her husband against her naked body, pressing her into the furs, he radiates heat like a bloody furnace, and Claire ends up nudging at him until he rolls onto his back beside her. She stretches, feels the dull pops in her joints and then turns on her side, propping herself up on one arm and resting her other hand over the taut muscles of his very toned middle.
“Are we really going to stay here all day?”
He tilts his head to smile up at her, looking exactly as content as she feels.
“Weel, if ye dinna mind it Sassenach, I have no desire tae leave ye.”
Claire presses her lips together, trying to come up with a suitably romantic response, but her thoughts turn up empty. She bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to lose herself in the depths of his gaze, and then reaches forward to cup his cheek, drawing them closer together.
“Come here,” she whispers, concentrating on stealing his breath. When they pull apart, she brushes his bottom lip with her thumb, over the area where she might have bitten down a little too hard. Jamie pays it no mind, nuzzling his cheek against her palm and she finds herself endeared to him once more.
“You said we have two more days here, all to ourselves?”
If their wedding night is to be an indication of how they might spend the following days, she has a fair idea of what that might entail — a fair bit of food, an over-indulgence in drink and copious amounts of sex. Jamie it seems has far more innocent expectations. The look in his eyes can only be described as adoring as he lays his hand over hers, lacing their fingers together.
“Aye. I wanted tae make sure we could spend time together,” he says, and she knows that he would be genuinely happy if all they did was curl up beneath the covers and laze about the entire day. But judging from the state of his arousal, his body has other ideas.
“And what would be doing during all this time we're spending together?”
She means to tease him, not-so-subtly shifting until her thigh is resting is pressed right up against him, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. He swallows, throat bobbing, the muscles of his cheeks tightening ever so slightly.
“I thought we might get tae know one another better, away from pryin’ eyes.”
His fingers travel up her bare arms, dancing against her skin, until finally, his hand is cupping her jaw. Even the slightest touch makes her feel as though she's on fire, and she responds by slipping her own hand lower, from just above his navel to rest on the inside of his upper thigh.
“Is that all?” she asks, voice low.
The flush begins at the centre of his chest, slowly spreading to his neck, cheeks and the tips of his ears. She can't help but grin at the sight, pressing herself a little closer and whispering, “Tell me.”
He looks adorably confused, and she finds herself biting her lip, peering up at him between dark lashes.
“Tell me what you want to do to me.”
She knows he’s still shy about it, always seeking permission before touching her, whether it be through words or actions. After their first time the night before, he’d flushed red as his hair as he tried to ask whether or not she’d be amenable to doing it again. He’d grown bolder after she’d ordered him to take off his shirt, but the moment they’d reached completion and separated to lay side by side, the hesitance and awkwardness had returned.
“Sassenach—,” he manages to choke out, looking very much unsure of his next move.
“Tell… me…,” she urges, punctuating each word with a squeeze of his thigh.
“I want tae wake up with ye in my arms always, and kiss ye each night before we sleep.”
It's almost sickeningly sweet and far from where she's trying to direct their conversation. She tries not to show her amusement but ends up letting loose a giggle at the crestfallen expression on her poor husband’s face. Letting out a quiet sigh, she leans forward, giving him a quick kiss. He smiles into it, follows as she pulls back, pouting when she shakes her head.
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” she says, giving him a pointed look. He blinks, slow and deliberate, like a big ginger owl, and she decides to take matters into her own hands.
Or well — hand.
Holding his gaze, she slides her hand from his thigh to hover over his cock, grinning as she closes her fingers around the length of him.
“Tell me, Jamie,” she whispers, beginning a slow and torturous rhythm, one that has him squirming beneath her touch. His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw clenched and his fingers have quite the grip on her curls- as though he's trying to tether himself to reality by clinging to her.
“Mo ghràidh, I dinna wish for ye tae stop, but I canna think wi' yer wee hand touchin’ me so.”
She gives him a gentle squeeze, and he groans, throwing his head back. The vein in his forehead is protruding, his brows tightly knitted — a sight that has desire flooding her body, leaving her hot and damp between her thighs. She rather likes seeing him like this, in the throes of pleasure, fighting to maintain control. It’s something she’s missed in all their previous encounters, too lost in her own bliss to focus on anything other than the sensations overwhelming her. Even when she’d taken him into her mouth, her eyes had squeezed shut in concentration, trying her best to make his first experience memorable.
She’d swallowed him down and he’d invaded her senses-
The taste of him on her tongue.
The sound of his groans a harmony to the pounding of her own heartbeat.
The feel of his body, solid, like carved marble, nothing like her own.
A grin tugs at her lips as she replays the memory in her mind, and needing more, she increases pressure and speed, causing his eyes to fly open.
“Tell me what you want.”
It’s a demand, one accompanied by a vice-like grip from her hand and he chokes out his response, one hand reaching wildly for purchase on the furs beneath them.
“I dinna ken, Christ, what ye mean, Oh God, woman.”
She shifts until her body is half-draped over his, tongue deliberately darting out to wet her lips before she speaks.
“Well, I want you inside me, your hands on my body, your lips on my own.” His eyes are cloudy with arousal, deep blue eclipsed by black, but she sees clarity returning with each word, as he finally understands what she's asking of him. “What do you want?”
He groans, breathing in deeply and flushes beet red as he makes his confessions.
“I want tae hear ye, Sassenach. Listen to ye cry out as I take ye, God, when I heard ye say my name as I tasted ye, I near spilt myself.”
For someone unfamiliar with such lewd talk, he’s rather fantastic at it. She feels the rumble of his words against her chest, marvels at how his accent thickens and finds herself grinding against his hip, seeking friction, pressure, anything to relieve the ache between her thighs.
“Oh,” is all she manages, breathless and needing more.
“I sound like a right lecher, sayin’ these things to ye,” he mumbles, burying his face against the side of her neck. He teases the sensitive skin there, sinking his teeth into her flesh and then swiping over the area with his tongue, making her gasp in response.
“Don’t stop,” she pleads, urging him on by moving her hand faster. He reaches down and clasps his fingers over hers, inadvertently tightening her grip, and the guttural groan he releases has her trembling in anticipation.
“I canna even begin tae describe it,” he murmurs, lowering his voice as he continues, “What it feels like when I'm inside ye.”
She hears the implication in his tone well enough and knows she could easily roll over onto her back and drag him to lie above her, let him pin her to the bed and bury himself inside her. Wanting to try something new, something different, she releases him, grinning at his noise of displeasure. He falls silent as she climbs astride his body, lying rigid, fists clenched by his sides as she concentrates, lowering herself onto him.
The sands of time seem to come to a stop as she sinks down, little by little until she’s completely seated and there’s no room left for air between them.
“How does it feel?” she whispers. He’s hot and hard inside her, stretching her, filling her and she clenches around him, impatient, wanting to move but needing to hear his answer first.
“Like ye’re squeezin’ me so tightly I might burst.”
She laughs, but it’s cut short as he bucks his hips, driving impossibly deeper inside her. His hands find their way to her thighs, fingers spread against her skin as his thumbs press into her hipbones. She finds her own purchase, laying her palms flat over his chest and rocking against him, slowly at first and then faster and faster, chasing bliss even though he’d brought her over the edge not so long ago.
Evidently unwilling to lie there and let her do all the work, Jamie does his best to thrust up into her, his muscles tensing with each movement. One hand gravitates slowly upwards, mapping the skin of her waist and then up to her breast. He squeezes gently and she whines, pressing into his hand, urging him on, needing more, needing him to be rougher with her.
“Touch me,” she implores, giving him no further direction, letting him make sense of it for himself. He flicks her nipple with his thumb, roughened palm cupping the swell of her breast, and she yelps, clamping down around him.
Jamie is clearly spurred on by the sounds because he repeats the motion, and then his other hand is moving, inching closer to where they are joined. His eyes still seek permission and she doesn’t think she’s ever felt so many emotions at once, looking down at him, having him completely under her power.
And happy to be there.
Claire nods furiously and begins to increase her pace, feeling the bed creak with the force of the movements. He explores for a moment, brow furrowing as he concentrates on finding the right spot, bearing down when he locates it. Her reaction is instantaneous — moan tearing from between her lips, back arching and body rocking forward, trapping his hand between them.
The room is filled with only sounds of them — their cries of pleasure, each urging the other on, moving faster and faster until their vision is flooded with a bright white light.
She’s boneless, slumping against him.
His arms immediately find their way around her, cradling her to his chest and the position is a little awkward, but she’s not ready for him to slip out from inside her. It feels foolish to say, but there’s a sense of completion when they’re joined. She can’t explain the feeling — it’s primal perhaps, ingrained within the very essence of what makes them human, but everything is easier when they’re touching.
They lie there in silence for a while. She catches her breath, feels her heart rate finally slow back down to normal. Jamie’s breath ruffles her hair and she tilts her head back to find that he’s half-asleep. With a content sigh, she presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw and shifts further up his body so they can curl up face to face.
Even drifting off into unconsciousness, his arms like iron bands around her body, holding her against him, keeping her safe.