Served ye well

The whole Scene from Outlander

“I’m sor­ry; I didn’t mean to be noisy.”
He laughed, the deep sound echo­ing soft­ly in the columns of the roof.
“I said I like it. And I do. It’s one of the things I like the best about bed­ding ye, Sasse­nach, the small nois­es that ye make.”
He pulled me clos­er, so my fore­head rest­ed against his neck. Mois­ture sprang up at once between us, slick as the sul­fur-laden water. He made a slight move­ment with his hips, and I drew in my breath in a half-sti­fled gasp.
“Yes, like that,” he said soft­ly. “Or…like that?”
“Urk,” I said. He laughed again, but kept doing it.
“That’s what I thought most about,” he said, draw­ing his hands slow­ly up and down my back, cup­ping, curv­ing, trac­ing the swell of my hips. “In prison at night, chained in a room with a dozen oth­er men, lis­ten­ing to the snor­ing and fart­ing and groan­ing. I thought of those small ten­der sounds that ye make when I love you, and I could feel ye there next to me in the dark, breath­ing soft and then faster, and the lit­tle grunt that ye give when I first take you, as though ye were set­tling your­self to your job.”My breath­ing was def­i­nite­ly com­ing faster. Sup­port­ed by the dense, min­er­al-sat­u­rat­ed water, I was buoy­ant as an oiled feath­er, kept from float­ing away only by my grip on the curved mus­cles of his shoul­ders, and the snug, firm clasp I kept of him low­er down.
“Even bet­ter,” his voice was a hot mur­mur in my ear, “when I come to ye fierce and want­i­ng, and ye whim­per under me, and strug­gle as though you want­ed to get away, and I know it’s only that you’re strug­gling to come clos­er, and I’m fight­ing the same fight.”
His hands were explor­ing, gen­tly, slow­ly as tick­ling a trout, slid­ing deep into the rift of my but­tocks, glid­ing low­er, grop­ing, caress­ing the stretched and yearn­ing point of our join­ing. I quiv­ered and the breath went from me in an unwilled gasp.“Or when I come to you need­ing, and ye take me into you with a sigh and that qui­et hum like a hive of bees in the sun, and ye car­ry me wi’ you into peace with a lit­tle moan­ing sound.”
“Jamie,” I said hoarse­ly, my voice echo­ing off the water. “Jamie, please.”
“Not yet, mo duinne.” His hands came hard around my waist, set­tling and slow­ing me, press­ing me down until I did groan.
“Not yet. We’ve time. And I mean to hear ye groan like that again. And to moan and sob, even though you din­na wish to, for ye can­na help it. I mean to make you sigh as though your heart would break, and scream with the want­i­ng, and at last to cry out in my arms, and I shall know that I’ve served ye well.”

All rights for the Pic­ture go to the right­ful owner Starz
Excert and Quo­te by Diana Gabal­don from “Outlander”
I own not­hing but the editing