#DailyLinesPartII #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutMARCH25th #HappyBirthdayClaire #andwhosheloves #isalsowhatsheis “I don’t think they can hear us,” I said, though I lowered my voice. “I’ve done wi’ talking,” he whispered, and leaning forward, closed his teeth gently on the nape of my exposed neck. “Hush,” he said again, though mildly. I hadn’t actually said anything, and the sound I’d made was too high-pitched to draw the attention of anything save a passing bat. I exhaled strongly through my nose and heard him chuckle deep in his throat. My stays came loose and cool air flooded through the damp muslin of my shift. He paused, one hand on the tapes of my petticoats, to reach round with the other and gently lift one breast, heavy and free, thumb rubbing the nipple, hard and round as a cherrystone. I made another sound, this one lower-pitched. I thought vaguely how fortunate it was that he was left-handed, as that was the hand nimbly engaged in undoing the tapes of my skirts. These fell in a swishing heap round my feet, and I had a sudden vision—as his hand left my breast and the shift whiffed up round my ears—of Mr. [ ] suddenly opening the door, and--the shock probably wouldn’t kill him, but… “May as well be hung for sheep as lambs,” Jamie said, having evidently divined my thought from the fact that I’d turned round and was shielding my more private bits in the manner of Botticelli’s “Venus”. “And I’ll have ye naked.” He grinned at me, whipped off his own dirt-streaked shirt—he’d thrown off his coat when he set me down—and yanked down his breeks without pausing to undo the flies. He was thin enough to make this possible; the breeches hung on his hipbones, barely staying up by themselves, and I saw the shadow of his ribs beneath his skin as he bent to shed his stockings. He straightened and I put a hand on his chest. It was damp and warm, and the ruddy hairs prickled into gooseflesh at my touch. I could smell the hot, eager scent of him, even over the agricultural fug of the shed and the lingering smell of cabbage. “Not so fast,” I whispered. He made a Scottish sound of interrogation, reaching for me, and I dug my fingers into the muscle of his breast. “I want a kiss, first.” He put his mouth against my ear, and both hands firmly on my bottom. “Are ye in a position to make demands, d’ye think?” he whispered, tightening his grasp. I caught the faint barb in _that_. “Yes, I bloody am,” I said, and adjusted my own grip somewhat lower. _He_ wouldn’t be attracting any bats, I thought. We were eyeball to eyeball, clasped and breathing each other’s breath, close enough to see the smallest nuance of expression, even in the dimness. I saw the seriousness that underlay the laughter…and the doubt beneath the bravado. “I _am_ your wife,” I whispered, my lips brushing his. “I ken that,” he said, very softly, and kissed me.
Posted on: Sun, 20 Oct 2013 19:53:11 +0000
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