by Anna Durand
"This," he said, licking and nibbling his way down my neck, "requires another celebration."
"You mean sex."
"Would ye rather drink champagne?"
"Oh no. I want sex, right now."
He pushed up onto his knees. "I'd wager we made a bairn that day under the apple tree."
"The magic fertility tree? I think so too." My eyes fluttered shut as he skimmed his hands up and down my body, exploring every curve and dip, worshiping me with his rough but tender hands. "This might sound weird, but I'm looking forward to coming back after the honeymoon and getting to work. Cataloging your uncle's piles and piles of family papers and historical books is like catnip to a librarian."
"I'm looking forward to working with my new partner." He dipped his tongue into my belly button, swirling it there. "The best partner a man could want. My bonnie, clever wife."
He lay down beside me and settled his head on my belly, his ear to my womb and a blissful smile lighting up his beautiful face. "I was right again. Said you could give me everything I wanted, and you have."
"Don't get arrogant about it. You may be wrong at some point."
"Maybe." He kissed my belly and smirked. "Donnae hold your breath, though."
I grabbed a pillow and whapped him on the head with it.
He peppered kisses over my skin, up between my breasts, to the hollow of my throat. There, he breathed his words against the sensitive flesh. "I want you, but only if it willnae hurt the wee one."
Wee one? I needed a second to figure that one out. "If you mean the itty-bitty fetus growing inside me, nothing you do is going to hurt it."
"Good." He rolled us both over, with me on top. "But to be safe, you should take the reins this time."
"Oh, I see. This is for safety." I placed my hands on his chest and pushed up into a half-sitting position, my breasts dangling. "I thought you just liked watching my boobs bounce."
He waggled his eyebrows. "That I do."
I raised onto my knees, took hold of his shaft, and positioned the head at my opening. "You ready for hot, married sex?"
"We've already done that, mo leannan."
"But this time it's hot, married, we're-having-a-baby sex."
"Ah, that is different."
His crooked smile was the most wonderful thing I'd ever seen. He looked like a man overjoyed at the prospect of raising a bairn. With me. Our family.
"Aidan," I said, my hand still around his cock, "you've given me everything I didn't know I wanted. Let me show you how grateful I am."
I slid onto his cock, inch by velvety inch, until he was seated snug inside me.
He grasped my hips, that naughty gleam in his eyes. "I'm grateful I found a wife who's such a great fuck."
I slapped his chest. "Arrogant Scot."
"Cheeky American."
For the rest of the night, we demonstrated our gratitude and devotion to each other in more ways than I'd ever imagined, even in my wildest fantasies. Not only had I met a man who treated me with respect, one who appreciated my quirks and made all my fantasies come true, I'd also found the one man in the world who accomplished a feat I'd believed impossible.
He set me free — in every way.
And for that, I would be grateful for the rest of my life.
Aidan's Version
Wicked in a Kilt, Chapter One
I, Aidan MacTaggart, had a plan. Find a wife, but not just any wife, an American. If Lachlan, my bossy oldest brother, could accidentally meet a woman who would become his wife and his soul mate, then the actions that led him to happiness ought to work for me. I was "Don Juan" MacTaggart, after all. I had more skills in attracting lasses than my workaholic brothers. So, this was how I wound up inside Dance Ardor, a dimly lit club in Chicago far from my home in the Scottish Highlands, determined to get myself an American girl.
My plan might have a few… flaws.
Aye, Lachlan met Erica here. And they were blissfully happy. But I wondered if my brother may have pulled a joke on me when he said every night was kilt night at Dance Ardor because I seemed to be the only human in this place who wore the plaid. Bloody Lachlan. I knew he'd wanted revenge ever since I almost tricked his new bride into saying a slightly naughty Gaelic phrase. If he thought this would humiliate me, my brother didn't know me as well as he thought.
The lasses in the club looked at me. Smiling. Batting their lashes at me.
I'd been here for a few minutes, and already I'd learned an important lesson. American women loved a man in a kilt.
Must've been my legs they found intriguing.
I wandered around the edge of the dance floor, past tables occupied by couples and groups. Ladies cast their appreciative gazes in my direction, but none of them interested me. I wanted a woman with substance and heart and —
My thoughts and my feet stumbled to a halt. I'd seen her. The woman of my dreams.
A redheaded girl had just exited double doors that accessed some deeper region of the club. Her emerald-green dress matched her eyes, and its hem stopped well above her charming little knees. The daringly low neckline drew my focus to the smooth slopes of her plump breasts. As I watched, she stopped to glance around as if looking for someone.
Please, don't let her have a man waiting for her.
Every sweep of the multicolored strobe lights ignited stunning highlights in her fiery red hair and her green eyes. Bod an Donais, those eyes were hypnotizing. Even from this distance, their color reminded me of jewels, and her lips… I wanted to taste the delicate bow of her mouth. Catch those lips between my teeth. Delve deep into her mouth.
I rushed toward her.
Aye, Lachlan and Rory would never have done this. My brothers thought things through, but I acted on impulse. If they'd seen this woman… I would've shoved them out of the way to get to her. She was the most enticing lass I'd ever laid eyes on, and I had to know her.
The beauty's gaze traveled the club, everywhere but in my direction.
Just as I reached her, she turned and bumped into me.
The wee lass yelped and threw her hands up. They landed on my chest, the delicate weight of them begging me to clasp them in my bigger hands. I couldn't stop my gaze from flying to her cleavage, to the half-exposed mounds of her breasts that begged to be fondled. Since she was much shorter than I was, I had a perfect view down the neckline of her dress.
The lovely curve of her throat caught my attention. And those perfect earlobes, I fought the urge to lunge down and take one in my mouth.
She stared at my chest, the bit of it visible where the top buttons of my shirt were undone.
I couldn't resist anymore. I settled my hands over hers on my chest. Her skin was soft and silken, her hands small beneath mine.
"Well now," I said, "I've been looking for a bonnie lass, but I didn't expect to literally run into one."
She stumbled backward a step, blinking rapidly as if dazed. Her gaze swept over me, from my leather boots, up my legs and over my hips to my arms, and finally, to my face. She angled her head back and blinked again, slowly this time, as our eyes met.
Desire simmered to life inside me. I wanted her — in my bed, in my life, and maybe as my wife. Only one way to know if she was the woman I'd been looking for.
A lock of her flame-red hair had fallen over her eyes.
I brushed the lock away from her face. "Your dress brings out the green of your eyes. But this lighting can't do justice to your beautiful red hair."
She swept her heated gaze over me again, and her tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip. With a tiny shake of her head, she seemed to rouse herself from a fantasy — of me, I hoped — and a faint blush dappled her cheeks.
Bonnie, adorable lass.
I tilted my head to study her face. "You're the one I've been looking for, I think."
My future wife smoothed out her dress, cleared her throat, and lifted her chin. Whether it was defiance or a simple need to look up t
o meet my gaze, I didn't care. She was so luscious and cute, I wanted to drag her into my arms just to feel her soft, warm body against me.
"Are you looking for the party?" she asked.
Party? No, I hadn't been looking for one. If this lass wanted to take me to a party, though, I'd go along. Anything to spend more time in her presence.
I let my lips slide into my best wicked smirk, the one the ladies always appreciated. "Aye."
One word was all I could speak. Her eyes, aimed straight at mine, glimmered with an emerald fire that transfixed me.
"You're not a firefighter," she said.
Was she barmy or simply fixated on firemen? Made no difference to me, because she entranced me like no other woman I'd ever seen. "I didn't realize American women are so specific about what they want."
"As long as you look good without your clothes, you'll do."
No clothes? What sort of party had she come from? I would've preferred a private session involving nudity, but I could be flexible.
"You're direct, aren't you?" I said. "Yes, I've been told I look quite good naked."
"Naked?" Her brows lifted, and she glanced down at my kilt. "Please tell me you're wearing a G-string under that thing. That's the protocol, isn't it?"
"A G-string protocol?" I couldn't keep from laughing as I shook my head, confused and enchanted at the same time. "You're adorable, but I'm beginning to think you're off your head."
"Are you calling me crazy?" Before I could respond, she raised a hand to silence me. "Never mind. Come with me."
The bonnie, wee bampot turned away, crooking a finger to beckon me to follow.
How could I not? This girl was a mystery, an enticing one, and I planned on examining every clue she offered me. All night. Naked. In a back room of this club if necessary. I had to have her, one way or another.
"Ah, lass," I purred, "I'll follow ye anywhere, even if ye are a bampot."
"Whatever, just hurry up."
She led me toward the double doors. I drank in view of her round little erse shimmying with every swing of her full hips. Dear God, but she had curves in all the right places. The sort of curves that made a man want to explore every one of them with his hands, his mouth, and aye, his cock sunk into her sweet flesh.
The woman I intended to marry glanced over her shoulder at me.
I hit her with my signature smile, a slow and sensual expression that left no doubts about my desire for her. "After the party, may I buy you a drink?"
"I don't drink. Not morally opposed or anything, but I've never tasted an alcoholic beverage I liked."
"Water is a drink, you know." I would've offered her a glass of mud-puddle water if it kept her close by, but instead, I peered down the hallway past her. "Where are we headed?"
"The party, of course." She scrunched her eyebrows in the sweetest way, then waved for me to pick up speed as she did the same. "Come on, they're waiting."
"They?" Although she had mentioned a party, I still had no bloody idea what I was walking into, but I'd meant it when I said I'd follow her anywhere. Especially if I got to admire that beautiful erse along the way.
"It's a party," she said, sounding a bit peeved at me. "Just come along, will you?"
"Aye." As we pushed through the swinging doors, I moved up alongside her. Gazing down at her smooth shoulder, I couldn't resist gliding a hand up her arm. The silken feel of her skin made the desire flickering inside me flare into a bonfire. "I'm yours to command."
"Um… "
She stumbled to a halt, her glossy gaze poring over me. Her breathing had grown heavier, and she loosely bit her lower lip. She cleared her throat, shaking off my hand. "Where were you, anyway? I've been looking everywhere."
She'd been looking for me? Well, I'd been searching for a woman like her all my adult life. Could she have felt the same attraction I had?
Please, merciful heaven, make it true.
"Have ye, then?" I asked.
"Yes." She seized my arm, hesitating for the briefest moment as her eyes flared wide for a heartbeat, and then tugged. "Get a move on."
"Lead on, lass. Lead on."
She hauled me straight to a room inside which women's voices laughed and shouted. My future wife released my arm and hesitated with her hand on the knob. "I hope they're not too disappointed you aren't a firefighter."
"Is it really that important to every American woman?" Lachlan hadn't mentioned this trait of American lasses. Had Erica been so specific? Did women in this country make lists of the exact qualities they wanted in a man, including desirable professions?
Bloody hell, I hoped not. That would remind me of Rory, my older brother who made rules for every fucking thing.
"Never mind," she said, and flung the door open, gesturing for me to go inside.
Women's voices erupted in whoops.
Something about their shouts made me freeze. They sounded… ravenous.
Mhac na galla. What sort of orgy was this lassie dragging me into?
"He's here!" someone hollered, and louder whoops erupted.
I staggered backward half a step.
The siren who'd lured me here laid a hand on my back and pushed.
I staggered across the threshold.
Women screamed and whooped and whistled.
Holy heaven. My eyes flew so wide I felt a breeze drying them out. Across the room, a blindfolded woman held a paper shaped like a penis — and painted like one too — while she stumbled toward a board that held a cartoon-like image of a man without a penis. The woman stabbed her paper cock onto the image, pinning the appendage to the man's groin.
I winced. The lad may have been made of paper, but I sympathized with what this mob of lunatic women had done to him.
The woman whipped off her blindfold, pumped her fists in the air, and shouted, "Wooo! Time to get the party started!"
A mob of screaming women barreled toward me.
"Take it off, baby," one said. "Show us what you got."
I flailed backward, smacking into the redhead behind me.
"Shit!" she yelled as she tumbled to the floor.
Faced with a throng of crazed women, I lost all my masculine pride and hurried backward out of the room. Hercules himself would've fled from this onslaught. I tripped over the redhead's legs and hopped sideways to avoid falling onto her. My weight would crush the little siren. I flung out a hand to halt my own fall, my palm slapping onto the wall.
Inside the room, someone shrieked. A tiny woman rushed to the doorway, eyes wide, face blanched, her attention on the redhead. "Calli, are you okay? What happened?"
The woman of my dreams pushed up onto her elbows and blew hair out of her face. "The exotic dancer trampled me."
Exotic dancer? I felt my brows cinch together, tightening my forehead.
The tiny lass offered a hand to the redhead — Calli, the other one had called her — and helped lever her off the floor. When my dream girl's foot contacted the linoleum, she winced and hissed, grabbing the doorjamb for support.
She frowned at me. "What's wrong with you? A stripper ought to be used to being pawed by salivating women."
The other girl aimed a chastising look at me and slipped an arm around Calli's waist. "Yeah. What's your damage, Kilt Boy?"
My palm still flat on the wall, I gaped at these women. I might've been horribly confused, but I knew one thing for certain. I'd hurt Calli, and though it had been an accident, I worried I'd ruined my chances with her.
"I'm getting a refund," the tiny one said. "I don't want a nutso stripper, even if he is wicked hot."
"Refund for what?" I asked, glancing from one bampot to the other. "Did you call me — You women are cracked. Ahmno a stripper."
Book 3 Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Rory's Version of Chapter One
Chapter One
Soft piano music drifted through the room to surround me where I slouched at the bar, my butt parked on a scuffed wooden stool. I took a sip of my drink — a rum-based concoction known as a Hurricane — wriggled on my seat cushion, and clasped both hands around the tall, curvy glass. I twirled the twin straws, watching the ice cubes dance within the red liquid. The drink had been garnished with a lemon slice and a cherry, but both lay on my napkin. All that remained of the cherry was the stem. I took one more sip of my Hurricane, leaning back in my stool to savor the sweet, fruity flavor of the drink, eyes closed. As the cool cocktail slid down my throat, I opened my eyes to survey the room.
I'd come to the piano bar at Pat O'Brien's, one of the most famous bars in New Orleans, in search of relaxation after a long flight from Colorado Springs. The brick walls and aged-wood ceiling lent the place a historical feel, while the beer mugs hanging on the wall behind the bar made it clear this was a place for imbibing. Giant mirrors hung from the far wall, projecting images of the room. People occupied every one of the thirty or so tables behind me as well as every bar stool, save for the one between me and the wall.
