Neither man pulled out of her throbbing body straight away. They stayed inside her until they were soft, all of them a tangle of sweating, carnal beasts. It was Davy who finally rose from the bed to bring a wet cloth to wash her with. He gently wiped her where she was so sensitive, cleaning her of blood and seed. Then Malcolm washed, too.
“You’re a woman now,” Davy told her, proudly. “And we made you one.”
Dreamily, Arabella asked, “How will I thank you?”
Davy laughed. “You just did!”
Malcolm laughed too. A sound she’d never heard before. A short, throaty, chortle. Raspy, as if much in disuse. She turned swiftly to see if she might catch an elusive smile upon Malcolm’s scarred face. But if he’d smiled, it was already gone, replaced with an expression of devotion as he bent to kiss her mouth.
Davy stole another kiss as well.
And though she was sore—every part sore—she felt like a woman, truly. And that made her happy. At least until she saw Malcolm’s bandage. “You’re bleeding a little…”
“T’was worth it,” he said.
Arabella frowned. “But—”
“You bled more than I did,?
? Malcolm said, drawing her head to rest upon the pillow of his bare chest. “T’was worth it.”
And Arabella murmured, “You’re right, it was.”
Chapter Nine
Arabella woke in a tangle of limbs. Their bodies were squeezed tight together in the bed, not a breath of space to spare. And though she ached with soreness, she also tingled with pleasure, every inch of her sensitive. So much so that when Davy sleepily moved his nakedness against her side and let his hand drift questingly to her breast, she realized she wanted him still.
And he was obliging.
Moving over her in silence, slipping between her thighs to push gently inside her swollen passage, he found his release again. Then it was Malcolm, who turned her to face him, taking her deep until the very last moment, when he pulled out from her and spurted his seed on her belly.
Hours later, it was Davy again, rocking her softly beneath him while proving she wasn’t the only one who was insatiable.
She had loved being shared by the men. Loved it so much that she longed to do it again. But there was something deeply fulfilling about taking them one at a time, too. Getting to know what pleased each of them individually. How each man best liked to be kissed, touched and stroked.
Davy was a languorous, adventurous, experimental lover who liked to tease her endlessly, denying her satisfaction until she whimpered and begged for it. Malcolm, by contrast, denied her nothing. He took her with a fierce determination, as if meaning to bring her to climax as fast as possible and leave her dewy and dazed.
It wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning that Arabella finally felt sated. But she promised herself that if either man should want her again she would never say no. Because they had given her something extraordinary and left her feeling nothing like a harlot, but rather, like a goddess…
CRACK!
Both men came awake, straight away. Davy leaping up from the bed to grab at his sword. Malcolm pushing himself to find his claymore at the side of the bed, cursing a foul string of curses as he was reminded of his injured leg.
“What the devil was that?” Arabella asked indelicately, wishing she, too, had a weapon to grab.
“Ice,” Davy called from the other room, hissing a relieved breath. In the nude, he left the bed and went to the door. He must’ve opened it because Arabella felt a sweep of cool air on her oversexed body. “It’s melting. And at a clip.”
Using his claymore as if it were a cane, Malcolm steadied himself upright, determined to stand. “Then we ought to be on our way.”
Davy returned, striking a pose in the doorway that made Arabella hungry for him all over again. She wanted to connect each freckle on his skin with a swipe of her tongue. Good God, perhaps she was born to be a harlot after all…
“There may be floods,” Davy warned, concern in his eyes. “And what if you haven’t the strength to guide a horse through it?”
Malcolm scowled. “Then you let me fall and drown and get the girl to safety.” Arabella shot him a startled look while Davy began to protest. But Malcolm wouldn’t hear it. “I’m not going to be the death of either of you. You’ve risked enough for me.”
Davy suggested, “The war bands might wait another day—”
“Do I need to slit my own throat, man, to get you to venture out?” Malcolm cried.