“What are you…?” Juliana’s words ended on a sob.

“Getting you ready.” Elliot didn’t know what endearments women liked, or how to soothe her. He only knew how to touch her, her body and his communicating in silence.

Her wiry hair curled against his hand, the depths of her hot and moist. She’d never done this before—he knew by the way she started in surprise when he began stroking her. This was a new sensation for Juliana, and it was new to Elliot, because it was her.

I’ve waited for you all my life.

In the darkness and through the hunger, he’d dreamed of her, but his dreams had been incomplete. Elliot hadn’t known the full scent of her, the warmth of her skin, the feel of her beneath him.

He withdrew his fingers and touched them to his tongue. He hadn’t known the taste of her either. Sweet nectar. He needed more.

Elliot licked between her br**sts, tasting salt, then he kissed his way down her belly, yanked open the nightgown the rest of the way, and pressed a burning kiss to the join of her legs.

As she drew in a sharp breath, he tasted her, licking where he’d touched, his tongue entering where his finger had.

Beautiful, sweet honey. Elliot licked and drank, the tightness in his body easing.

Feast on her, drink of her. If I have enough of her, I will never be afraid again.

Juliana’s hands went to his hair, furrowing as he licked. Her little cries drove him wild. His body started to move, hips to roll with the rhythm of his tasting, his hardness digging into the mattress.

“Elliot!”

As her cry rang out, he felt the little pulses in her sheath, the female need, the headiest pleasure of all.

She was a virgin, and Elliot knew it would hurt going in. But she was wet and open, her body already releasing.

Elliot would love to lie here and lick her while she came into his mouth, then bring her to readiness again. And again. All night.

But his own body cried out for release, his c**k so tight it ached. Elliot took his mouth from her beautiful place, untied and wriggled out of his silken breeches, and slid up her body.

He had one instant of enjoying the softness of her under him, and then he thrust inside her.

Her eyes widened, beautiful Juliana, her cry turning almost to a wail. But not in pain. She closed over him, wanting him, her passage so slick that the barrier vanished with one push.

Crazed with need, Elliot took one, two, three strokes inside her, before his seed released, and his shouts mixed with hers.

He kept pumping, hips moving, needing her, unable to have enough of her. Wind slapped at the window, sending the old casement banging open, and a gust of wind poured over the bed.

It cooled Elliot’s skin and made Juliana shiver. Elliot’s thrusts slowed, and he curved protectively over her.

Always protect her. Juliana was his. She’d stood in the church today and declared that she belonged to him. Forever.

The sun rose early in high summer this far into the Highlands. Juliana opened her eyes as sunshine poured in through the eastern window and brushed the body of her husband beside her.

Juliana felt odd—exhausted and exhilarated, and yet at the same time pliant and relaxed. Gemma had explained what a woman was expected to do on her wedding night—lie back, breathe deeply, and remain calm.

She’d not mentioned a man licking, exploring, touching, and drinking. Gemma had said that the first time hurt. And it had, but in a wild, need-filled way that hadn’t been pain at all.

And yet, Juliana was sore, and she knew without doubt that she could no longer be called a maiden.

Elliot slept facedown next to her, his cheek crushed against the mattress, nowhere near a pillow. His long legs poured out the bottom of the bed, the covers thrown halfway off in his sleep.

His hair was half folded, half sticking up, the light brown burnished with gold from the sun. His lashes were golden too, resting against a face that had been Scottish fair before tropical sun had burned it brown.

One broad hand lay near his face, his bent arm showing her thick muscles that came from hard work. A design had been inked on his right bicep, a flowing vine that wrapped all the way around his arm.

Juliana stared at the tattoo, fascinated. She’d never seen anything like it. She’d heard of sailors being tattooed on their voyages to faraway places but had never seen a gentleman with one.

Then again, Juliana had never seen a man without his coat, waistcoat, shirt, high collar, and cravat, not even her own father. Athletes stripped to shirtsleeves or short sleeves to run, row, or play ball games, or so she’d heard tell, but Juliana had never attended a sporting exhibition. Quite a lot of gentlemen might have tattoos in places a lady would never see.

Part of Elliot’s backside was exposed, his knee hooked over the quilt. Juliana studied his tight hip, letting her gaze move to the wiry hair that traced down his leg.

He was a well-formed man. God had quite nicely put him together.

Elliot had scars on his back, random white lines from long cuts, similar to those on his face. He’d hurt, those scars told her; he’d bled. The cuts had been made deliberately, by someone who’d wanted to hurt him.

Juliana put out her finger and traced one of the scars that snaked to his shoulder. The skin was smooth where it had been cut, and she glided her touch over it, then down his arm to the delicate leaves of the tattoo.

She expected Elliot to wake at her touch. He’d open his gray eyes and smile at her, and perhaps—her heart beat faster—he would roll her onto her back and continue kissing and tasting her. The marriage bed was a fine place indeed.