A Perfect Knight For Love by Jackie Ivie

replaced by immense heat as his hands clenched about her and lifted, pressing her to the mass of him in order to just hold her there. For countless moments of time. And then his mouth found hers, prying her lips apart to lap at her tongue with his, and giving a full-body groan as accompaniment. Amalie’s entire being flexed in readiness, startled and alert and entirely excited. She’d barely caught at the sensation before he moved his lips, trailing fire-spiked ice along her chin and to an ear. And once he reached there, he whispered words at her that started a riot of shivers. Amalie’s shoulder lifted in defense.
    “Sweet—! Ah . . . lass! You’ve been over-blessed with woman skills. Makes it nice—and sweet! Powerful sweet!”
    He shifted, going to his knees and taking her with him, in a slant of provocation and something else. The sense of nakedness. Him. All of him. Wherever she touched, and wherever she tried not to touch. Her hands kept contacting, sparking before she lifted them, while Thayne’s fingers climbed rapidly up her spine, sliding each button from its hole, opening the material to flesh that quivered at the touch. And everywhere she experienced shivers. Rivulets of them went over her shoulders to center in each breast tip, making darts of painful intensity and throbbing. Amalie felt the scratch of wool at her back, the rush of air at her bosom, and then the absolute shock as lips found her pointed nipple flesh. And started suckling.
    Hammers hit at her, filling her frame with a pounding akin to drums. Those were chased by a torrent of shaking and a flood of feeling outside every realm of her experience and imagination. Her mouth went wide to allow a cry of pure reaction and that wasn’t enough. She couldn’t have dreamt passion and intensity such as those filling her veins. And then more of both until it all became a throb of thrill and anticipation and absolute want. Then that got chased by growing excitement and agitation that had her arching and bucking against him while her fingers clenched his hair.
    “Ah . . . lass. I can barely keep from taking—! Na’ yet! I’ve na’ prepared . . .”
    Whispered words unfastened him from her breast, touching on the trail of wet he tongued into existence as he slid back up, licking at her lips before taking the kiss. Amalie’s hands found his, slid up his arms . . . reaching his shoulders before sliding the same way back, kneading and pushing against sinew and strength. She felt his arms harden as he lifted his upper body from her, his lips never leaving hers, sucking and playing and absorbing, and causing such a myriad of stimulation she was close to sobbing with the combination. She grazed her palms along his arms . . . reached his shoulders again, and dug her nails into him with the grip, seeking to bring him back. Closer. Again. More.
    She barely felt him balancing, moving a hand to hers and sliding it to a hold against his chest. Until she understood. Amalie moved her hands then, spreading her fingers wide, pressing to his chest, where a heavy thump of heart tickled her palm, sending heat, moisture, and intensity. And then she slid her hand farther down him, exploring a roping of bumps and valleys all along him, learning the musculature of his lower chest, his belly . . . around to his back.
    Amalie arched up from the wool-covered support, seeking to reach and match against skin he was denying her, her mouth open and keening a cry of frustration that hurt her throat.
    “Easy, lass . . .”
    She didn’t want to go easy! She didn’t know what it was she wanted, but slow and easy wasn’t it. But then fingers reached the bare skin of her leg, making her lurch against him in a harsh and heavy fashion. He shoved a handful of skirt up, gaining chilled air on exposed skin, and then fingers replaced that, sending sparks. Amalie gulped for air as he slid his hand higher . . . grazing flesh. And when she exhaled, it carried a moan of anticipation and