Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
11th Jan 2013 from Twitlonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #Outin2013 #asmallgiftinhonorofmybirthday #thanks
He straightened and I put a hand on his chest. It was damp and warm, and the ruddy hairs prickled into gooseflesh at my touch. I could smell the hot, eager scent of him, even over the lingering smell of cabbage.
“Not so fast,” I whispered.
He made a Scottish sound of interrogation, reaching for me, and I dug my fingers into the muscle of his breast.
“I want a kiss, first.”
He put his mouth against my ear, and both hands firmly on my bottom.
“Are ye in a position to make demands, d’ye think?” he whispered, tightening his grasp. I caught the faint barb in _that_.
“Yes, I bloody am,” I said, and adjusted my own grip somewhat lower. _He_ wouldn’t be attracting any bats, I thought.
We were eyeball to eyeball, clasped and breathing each other’s breath, close enough to see the smallest nuance of expression, even in the dimness. I saw the seriousness that underlay the laughter…and the doubt beneath the bravado.
“I _am_ your wife,” I whispered, my lips brushing his.
“I ken that,” he said, very softly, and kissed me. Softly. Then closed his eyes, and brushed his lips across my face, not so much kissing, as feeling the contours of cheekbone and brow, of jaw and the tender skin below the ear, seeking to know me again past skin and breath, to know me to the blood and bone, to the heart that beat beneath.