“And with this band, ye are now man and wife,” Owen said.
The warriors around the room stomped their feet and hooted.
“Share a drink from the cuach.” Owen took out the communal drinking cup with two handles and poured the uisge into it. “As a symbol of many other things ye will share.”
He brought the cuach to Craig’s mouth, and he took sip, then watched as Amy sipped the liquid as well, her lips red and soft around the side of the cuach.
“And join the union with a kiss,” Owen said.
Craig suppressed a “finally” that longed to get out of his throat. He looked into Amy’s eyes, then gazed at her lips, a little swollen from the spirits. Oh, how he craved them. But he would never do anything against her will.
He looked into her eyes again, asking for permission, letting her know he wouldn’t kiss her unless she wanted him to.
She breathed quickly, her chest rising and falling. There was alarm in her eyes, but also desire—then they softened, and her lips called to him.
With a groan he couldn’t stop, Craig brought her to him with his free arm and sealed his lips with hers.
Craig’s lips were like velvet, warm and soft, and yet his chest under her palm was hard as a rock and as hot as a furnace. His heart thumped under her hand fast and strong.
He smelled like clean skin, and male musk, and like mountains and the forest in fall after a rain.
And the kiss…
Oh, the kiss…
It spurred an avalanche of tingling and sweet burning through her lips. He pressed a little more, opening her mouth with his tongue. Then he swiped it against hers gently once, twice. Maybe she heard herself moan. Maybe it was him, but her head spun and her whole body ignited. Her mind went blank, filling with sighs and moans and dirty, dirty thoughts.
The room filled with whistles and hoots.
“Aye, ride the MacDougall so that she canna stand on the morrow!” someone cried.
“If he has anything to ride her with,” another man said.
The room erupted in guffaws.
Amy sprang away from Craig, her face hot.