Never breaking eye contact, staring into her eyes as if the invitation in them was all that was sustaining him, he placed his hands slowly in hers and let her pull him onto the bed, where he knelt facing her.
She glanced down at their entwined hands, and his gaze followed. Her hands were small and white, nearly swallowed by his work-roughened and tan fingers. She flexed her fingers against his, savoring the first real feel of holding Aedan's hand. Until that moment, she'd only touched him in her dreams. She closed her eyes, savoring every bit of it, drinking the experience dry.
She opened them to find him regarding her with expectancy and fascination.
"Sometimes I think I know you, lass."
"You do," she said, with a little catch in her voice. "I'm Jane." Your Jane, she longed to cry.
He hesitated a long moment. Then, "I'm Aedan. Aedan MacKinnon."
Jane stared at him wonderingly. "You've remembered?" she exclaimed. "Oh, Aedan—"
He cut her words off with a gentle finger against her lips. "Does it matter? The villagers think I am. You think I am. Why should I not be?"
Jane's heart sank again. He still didn't recall.
But… he was here, and he was willing to let her touch him. She would take what she could get.
"Jane," he said urgently, "am I truly as a man should be?"
"Everything a man should be," she assured him.
"Then teach me what a man does with a woman such as you."
Aw, her heart purred. The look in his eyes was so innocent and hopeful, nearly masking the ever-present despair in his gaze.
"First," she said softly, raising his hand to her lips, "he kisses her, like so." She planted a sweet kiss in his palm and closed his fingers over it. He did the same with both her hands, lingering over the sensitive skin of her palm.
"Then," she breathed, "he lets her touch him all over. Like this." She slid her hands up his muscular arms and into his hair. Removing his leather thong, she combed her fingers through the plait until it fell dark and silky around his face. She laid her palms against his face, staring into his eyes. He was still beneath her touch, his eyes unfocused.
"More," he urged, a stray tomcat, starved for touch.
"And she touches him here," she said, skimming his shoulders, the muscles of his back, down over his lean hips, and back up his magnificent abs and muscled chest. Unable to resist, she dropped her head forward against his chest and licked him, tasting the salt of his skin.
A rough groan escaped him, and the heat of his arousal throbbed insistently against her thigh.
Jane whimpered at the contact and pressed against him. She tasted his neck, his jaw, his lips and buried her hands in his hair. "Then, he brushes his lips—"
"I know this part," he said, sounding pleased with himself.
Fitting his mouth to hers, he kissed her; a deep, starving soul-kiss, and dragged her hard against his body.
The feel of her naked body against his bare skin made his head swim. Made him burn. Made him tremble with wonder. He'd never known… he'd never suspected what pleasure was to be found in touch. The feel of her wee hands on his body made him hotter than any fire could and brought him crashing to his knees inside himself.
She'd said that he was fashioned as a man should be, and she touched him as if she desperately craved his body. He liked that. It made him feel… och, just feel and feel and feel.
He nibbled and suckled at her lips, then plunged his tongue deeply, thrusting. His body moved to a rhythm, innate and primal. She went supple in his arms, dropping back onto the bed, and he followed, stretching his body atop her lush softness. "Christ, lass, I've ne'er felt aught such as you!" Intoxicated, he kissed her deeply, his silky hot tongue tangling with hers. When she shifted her legs beneath him, the swollen part of him was suddenly flush between her thighs, and he thrust against her instinctively. She raised her hips, pressing back, and he thought he would die from such sensation. He cupped her bottom and pulled her more firmly against him. Digging his fingers into the softness of her bare bottom filled him with a wild and fierce sensation—an urge to possess, to hold her beneath him until she wept with pleasure. Until he shuddered atop her. Images came to him then:
Of a man and a woman rolling naked across a bed. Of the firm pistoning motion of a man's hips, of slender ankles and calves raised near a woman's breasts, of the musky scent of skin and bodies, the sweat and rawness and heat of—
"You have no clan. You have no home," the dark king said.