Then deep, warm, wet kisses where she needed him the most. Lapping and nibbling, his hands glided up her body to tease her nipples as he kissed and tasted her until she shuddered against his mouth, arching her hips up for more.

Resonance built to an exquisite peak, and she shattered, crying his name.

While she was still resonating with tiny tremors, he rolled her over and ran his tongue down her spine to the hollow where her back met her hips. Then kissed and tasted and nipped every inch of her bottom. Kneading, plumping, caressing, dangerously near the hottest part of her. But not quite there. She was going to die if he didn’t get inside her, she thought, gritting her teeth. She burned, she ached for want of him.

Slipping his hand between her and the sacks, he palmed her woman’s mound and pulled her back against him, resting the heavy ridge of his cock in the cleft of her bottom. As he rubbed against her lush softness, he caught her tiny nub with his fingers, flicking lightly back and forth.

He savored the tiny cries she made, the soft pants and breathy moans, listened intently to discover just what touch elicited each sound, then played her again and again, bringing her dangerously near the peak—

—then denying for the pleasure of hearing her cries grow wilder, of feeling her hips buck back against him, of seeing such evidence of her desire. She knew what he was, and still wanted him with such hunger. It was more than he’d ever dreamed of having. If only she would say the words, those three simple words he longed to hear…Aye, he was a warrior, he was strong and manly, but, by Amergin, he wanted those words. He’d passed a lifetime believing a woman might never say them to him.

“Drustan!” she cried. “Please.”

I love you, he thought, willing her to hear it. Willing her to say it. He traced a finger over her taut nub before slipping it inside her. He closed his eyes and groaned as she clenched around him. When she bucked back against him wildly, the last vestige of his control snapped. He became mindless with need. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he thrust into her in one sleek motion.

She sobbed with pleasure, begged him not to stop, then murmured something so raggedly that he nearly missed it.

But nay, he would not let such words slip by him!

Trembling, he stopped mid-stroke and whispered hoarsely, “What did you just say?”

“I said ‘don’t stop,’” Gwen whimpered, pressing back against him.

“Not that—the other thing you just said,” he demanded.

Gwen went still. It had slipped out without conscious thought—an impassioned declaration of her feelings—God, how she loved him! She, Gwen Cassidy, was utterly and deliriously in love. She spoke quietly, savoring the warmth of her feelings, putting every ounce of her heart and soul into the words. “I love you, Drustan.”

Braced on his elbows, Drustan swayed, the words hit him with such impact. “Say it again,” he breathed.

“I love you,” she repeated softly.

He sucked in a harsh breath and was silent a long while, relishing her words. “Ah, Gwen, my lovely wee Gwen, I thought I might ne’er hear such words.” He lifted her hair away from her face and kissed her temple tenderly. “I love you. I adore you. I will cherish you all the days of my life,” he vowed. “I knew even back in your century that you were the one for me, the one I’d longed for all my life.”

Gwen closed her eyes, treasuring the moment, hugging his words to her.

When he moved again, thrusting into her yielding warmth, she arched back to meet him. Moving his hips, entering her slow and deep, he tipped her face to the side and kissed her with the same tempo. Increasing the pace, never breaking the kiss…

It was a mating of raw need and mindless melding. As if they could somehow crawl inside each other if they got close enough.

He thrust; she screamed. She clenched; he roared.

He slid his hands up her body and cupped her breasts, pulling her back against him as he drove inside her. The buttery was filled with sounds of passion, scented with the erotic musk of man and woman and sex.

When she peaked again, he exploded, crying her name.

He kept her in the buttery nigh as long as she’d kept him in the garderobe. Unable to stop touching her, loving her. Unable to believe that it had all worked out, that she’d indeed cared for him in her century, that she’d given him back the binding vows, that even though he’d failed to give her full instructions, she’d tenaciously persevered. Unable to comprehend that Gwen loved him for exactly what he was. Needing to roll it over and over in his mind as if savoring the finest brandy.