Drop It Like It's Scot (The Hots for Scots Book 5)

by Caroline Lee

  He was still distracted by how good her massage felt and was only able to manage an interested, “Hmm?”

  She peeked at him, her lips tugging farther up. “Give up control.”

  “Aye, ye said that before,” he mentioned speculatively. “But what does that mean?”

  Shrugging, she focused on the muscles in his hand once more. “ ’Tis verra freeing to ken ye dinnae have to do everything all the time, and ye can allow someone else to take command for a little while.”

  “If I did that, ‘tis possible the clan would collapse.”

  “Would it?” she asked quietly.

  And he had to think about it. “Well, I’ve been the one in charge of correspondence and schedules and harvest and—” He sighed. “Finn handles our trade, thank St. Elzear, and Rocque handles the training of our warriors, but everything else…”

  “Have ye considered turning some of yer duties over to yer other brothers?”

  “Dunc is busy in his forge, and Malcolm is my resource, the problem solver. He handles the things I dinnae understand.”

  “And Kiergan?”

  He snorted softly and closed his eyes. “What about him?” He loved his twin brother, aye, but the man avoided responsibility like…like something you’d arduously avoid. A pile of cow shite? Nagging mothers-in-law? The priest after a night of debauchery?

  Avoided responsibility like a pile of cow shite.

  Aye, as colloquialisms went, that one could work.

  “Kiergan is a smart man, Alistair. He’s a charmer, the same as Finn.”

  “Finn uses his charm to work out trade agreements to better the clan’s future. Kiergan uses his to woo women into bed.”

  There’d been a time when he’d thought Lara was one of his twin’s conquests. St. Elzear knew that Kiergan often teased Lara and Nessa, making them both laugh. But at Malcolm’s wedding celebration, Alistair had been surprised to discover that what the two of them felt for one another was merely friendship, and that Lara’s heart lay elsewhere.

  She was in love with another man, yet she stood here, rubbing Alistair’s hand and worrying about his happiness.

  When she spoke, her words were cautious. “Yer twin brother is kind and generous, and aye, a charmer. He’s funny and—”

  “He lacks responsibility.”

  “Because he’s never been given any,” she was quick to return. “He also has a fair hand and a gift for phrases, if ye’ve never noticed. Ye could turn the clan correspondence over to him and save yer hand for more important things.”

  Slowly, Alistair sat up, his eyes opening to see that same twinkle in hers once more. “More important things, lass?”

  With a smirk, she gently placed his hand down in his lap. Mayhap ‘twas just her way of signaling the massage was done, but in doing so, she covered his erection. And he was left with his palm only an inch from his aching member.

  It took all his willpower not to touch himself, to clench his hand into a fist instead.

  “Giving up control doesnae have to be painful, Alistair,” she said with a smirk, stepping away from him.

  He felt a momentary spike of disappointment, but she didn’t go far; Lara grasped her hands in front of her and leaned her hip against his desk.

  “Giving more responsibility to Kiergan…” He let the thought trail off.

  “Just consider it.”

  ‘Twas a command, and his brows rose at the realization. Give up control.

  “I confess,” he ventured, “there seem to be benefits to giving up some control.” He never considered asking Kiergan to help, or delegating, but if he did, then once this bloody celebration was over, he might have a bit more time for himself. Assuming Kiergan accepted.

  She smiled softly. “Think of it this way, Alistair: One of yer brothers might verra well end up as laird. What will happen if ye’re still the one running everything? Ye need to allow them some control as well.”

  He frowned. “That is…a verra good point.”

  “See?” Her smile grew. “Giving up control can feel good.”

  Snorting, he shook his head and sat forward in the chair. “I dinnae ken about that, lass.”

  “I do. Women have to do it all the time.”

  “Give up control?” He thought for a moment. “I suppose ye’re right.”

  “Aye, it can be frustrating, especially if the man who controls us willnae listen to our thoughts or feelings. But if ‘tis something we choose to do, it can be verra freeing. Liberating, almost.”

  Alistair shook his head. “I’m sorry, lass. I dinnae understand.”

  She cocked her head to one side, studying him. Finally, she nodded. “Give me a command.”

  “What?”

  “I will give ye control over me for a moment. Give me a command for something I wouldnae normally do.”

  Scenarios flashed in his mind, one after another. Lara, feeding him slices of an apple. Lara, sitting on his lap. Lara, on her knees in front of him, her hands gliding under his kilt, her lovely lips parted in desire…

  ‘Twas that image which caused him to croak out the command, “Get on yer knees.”

  Something new flared in her eyes.

  ‘Twas desire, aye, but also anger. The anger flashed for a moment, then was gone as she bowed her head.

  “Aye, milord,” she murmured, as she grabbed her skirts and sunk to her knees.

  St. Elzear’s left nostril! She was kneeling behind his desk, only inches from his knees. The fantasy of her smiling as she lifted his kilt and reached for him had his cock going rock-solid.

  But…

  But the memory of that anger was impossible to ignore. She’d been angry at his command, yet had followed it anyway.

  Was that what she’d meant about choosing to give up control?

  Nay. Nay, instinctively he knew giving up control to someone he trusted wouldn’t result in anger. And he hated the thought of her being forced to do anything she didn’t want to.

  Suddenly disgusted by himself, he reached for her shoulders. “Nay, lass,” he croaked, standing and pulling her up as well. “Nay, I dinnae want that kind of control over ye.”

  She was standing now and was close enough she had to tilt her blonde head back so she could look him in the eyes.

  “Do ye no’?” she murmured.

  “I dinnae.” He was firm. “I dinnae need that kind of control over anyone.”

  “Then why do ye want to become laird?”

  The question struck him like a blow, and his hands dropped from her shoulders. In fact, he even took a step back, staring at her. His expression was likely a mixture of horror and surprise, but he couldn’t hide it.

  He’d spent the last few years working for the Oliphants. When Da had announced that ridiculous race in order to become the next laird, Alistair had been genuinely angry. Angry that his contributions and sacrifices were being ignored like this; angry, because the position, which should be his, was now being left up to fate.

  He’d been angry all summer, ever since Da’s ultimatum. But now…?

  Fook.

  She hadn’t touched him when she’d delivered the question, but she’d rocked him just the same. Staring up at him with those changeable eyes, Lara’s beautiful lips parted. “If wielding power over me makes ye uncomfortable, Alistair, why do ye want more of it?”

  And the truth suddenly struck him. “I dinnae,” he gasped, and when he staggered back, his legs struck the chair. He sank down into it, his eyes wide. “I dinnae want more power. I want…”

  I want to give up responsibilities to my brothers. I want to be able to relax. I want to be happy.

  “Ye want to give up control.”

  Aye.

  But he shook his head, trying to clear the jumble of thoughts in his mind. “I…I dinnae ken how, Lara.”

  Her lips curled enigmatically. “I do.”

  “Show me,” he whispered. And he heard the pleading in his own voice.

  Her nod was firm, then she whirled and strode to
ward his cot. He was surprised to see her scoop up the stool he kept beside his bed and carry it back toward him.

  He watched her place the stool so that, with his chair angled the way ‘twas, he could face either the desk or her, and the desk stood between them and the door. Not that anyone would barge in on Alistair when the door was closed, but he appreciated the privacy at that moment, not knowing what she had in mind.

  She sat on the stool, folded her hands in her lap, and studied him.

  This wasn’t what he’d expected. But for some reason, his cock was throbbing in anticipation.

  One of his brows rose—in question? In challenge?—and her lips curled upward.

  “Are ye wearing braies under yer kilt?”

  St. Elzear’s nipples! Was she going out of her way to try to surprise him? He couldn’t understand how her mind worked, and his other brow joined the first. “Nay.”

  “Excellent.” She cocked her head and dragged her gaze down his torso to his lap, then further down his legs. “I came here today to discuss the celebration, and what I could do to make it easier for ye. But I think I’m going to like this kind of helping better.”

  Something told Alistair that he would too.

  “Ye told me ye’d show me how to give up control,” he reminded her.

  “Do ye trust me?”

  He’d known her since she was a wee lassie. He’d watched her grow up, but until recently, he hadn’t seen her as more than just his sister’s best friend. He knew Lara was a force to be reckoned with, and did an excellent job helping her mother run the household, but he also knew she was a good woman, level-headed and kind, with a sharp wit and a lovely smile.

  Until recently, he’d seen that, but hadn’t really understood it. Now, though? Now he was seeing Lara as a woman, and he liked what he saw.

  So he nodded. “I do, lass.”

  When she smiled, it wasn’t blinding, it wasn’t adoring. Her smile was approving, and the Devil take his eyes, but that realization made him much prouder than the others would have.

  “Alistair, touch yerself.”

  Damnation, she was doing it again—surprising him.

  “What?” he managed to ask blandly; sure he’d misheard.

  “Ye trust me, and ye’re willing to give up control. Give control to me, Alistair.” She held his gaze, her eyes serious, something like hope lurking deep within. “Let me show ye.”

  “By touching myself?”

  One of her hands rose off her lap; the movement slow, deliberate. And entirely too sensual.

  His eyes followed her fingertips as they rested against the smooth skin of her throat, then brushed upward to caress her own cheek. She touched her lower lip, then stroked both lips with her fingertips, and when his eyes jerked to hers, she held his gaze.

  “I’m touching myself, Alistair,” she whispered against her fingers. “It feels nice. Can ye picture yer hands here?” She traced her lower lip with her index finger. “Or here?” Her fingertips fell to the hollow at the base of her throat.

  His hands? Alistair knew he groaned out loud, picturing his lips there instead.

  “Or here?” she whispered, as she languidly circled her breast with her hand.

  When she—still holding his gaze—squeezed, he sucked in a breath.

  Had he thought himself rock-hard before? Nay. Nay, that was merely a pebble, a piece of hardened clay. What he was now was rock-hard. Boulder-hard. Mountain range-hard.

  Jesu Christo.

  “Alistair?” she prompted. “I asked ye a question.”

  “Aye,” he croaked, then shifted uncomfortably on the chair. “I can picture myself touching ye, lass.”

  “Good,” she crooned, and she sounded proud of him again. “Now, can ye picture me touching ye?”

  “St. Elzear’s tits, Lara, aye!” He groaned, and as his eyes closed, his hand dropped—of its own free will—to the tent in his lap.

  “Can ye imagine me grasping yer cock, Alistair?” she whispered, the sound seeming to echo around the empty room, or mayhap ‘twas because his entire body was straining to hear her next words. “Can ye picture me tugging up yer kilt and running my hands along yer thighs? Wrapping my fingers around yer hard length?”

  God help him, he could. “Aye,” he rasped.

  “Then do it,” she commanded. “Show me what ye’re imagining.”

  And there was no way he could deny that demand, not when he so badly—desperately, achingly—needed to obey.

  Eyes still closed, he yanked up the bottom of his kilt and swore he heard her suck in a breath when his cock sprang free of its confines. He knew he was big—his brothers had ribbed him often enough about it—but that was just because he was so tall. Right now, he wanted to revel in her admiration of his size, but he couldn’t wait.

  He groaned when his hand closed around the shaft, and his cock jumped in anticipation.

  “Aye, Alistair,” he heard her whisper. “Now stroke yerself.”

  He would’ve done it without her command; he was too far gone to step back at this point. As he dragged his palm up his cock, he encountered the moisture at the tip, which was enough to spread down its length.

  St. Elzear bless me!

  He sucked in a breath and began to pump his hand up and down his cock.

  “Now open yer eyes.”

  Command or nay, he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. He opened his eyes to find her eagerly watching him, her eyes locked on his long shaft, her hand still clenching her own breast. Her breaths were coming faster, and her tongue darted out to lick her lower lip.

  That, more than anything, sent him so close to the edge.

  Crudely, still staring at her, he spat into his hand and lowered it to his cock, the liquid lubricating his grip even more. His buttocks clenched, and he found himself trying to lift off the chair.

  To get closer to her?

  God help him, but he was so close to spilling his seed, like an untried youth, just because she’d told him to imagine it as her hands. Her lips.

  Lara was panting now, as she dragged her eyes back up to his. Her free hand rose to cup her other breast, and she squeezed them both through the wool of her kirtle. Then, holding his gaze, she pinched her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, desire clouding her gaze.

  “Now…” she panted, “finish for me.”

  So he did.

  With a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh, Alistair spilled his seed across his thigh in one explosive burst.

  In the moment directly after, everything in the room became alarmingly, wonderfully clear. The way the sunlight caught the gold in her hair, the faint smell of parchment and leather and ink, and whatever flower she used in her soap. The sounds from the distant courtyard filtering up through the open window. The light and shadows dancing across the desk.

  But then…it all left him. Everything. The clarity, aye, but also the stress. The tension, the bitterness. ‘Twas gone, and he slumped, exhausted and sated, against the back of his chair. And he watched her with bemusement.

  She was still breathing heavily, but she nodded approvingly and brushed her hands down the front of her kirtle, smoothing out whatever wrinkles had been caused by her own touch. She licked her lips once more, then nodded again and stood.

  “Thank ye, Alistair.” He wasn’t sure why she was thanking him, and mayhap it showed in his expression, because she clarified, “For trusting me enough to give up control to me.”

  Is that what had happened?

  She’d told him to touch himself, and he had.

  She’d given ye a command, and ye followed it. Ye gave her control over ye and look where it got ye.

  Sated and relaxed, in a way fooking his own hand didn’t usually leave him.

  He didn’t respond—he didn’t know how to respond.

  So he watched her as she pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve—Who the fook keeps a handkerchief up their sleeve?—and placed it gently on the desk beside him.

  Then she glanc
ed up and met his eyes, just briefly, before glancing away and offering him a shy smile.

  Shyness? Now? After what she’d just done to him?

  After what ye allowed her to do to ye? For ye?

  “Lara.” His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears, and he couldn’t seem to make himself lift his head off the back of the chair.

  But she stepped away from him, out of his reach, even if he’d tried to reach for her.

  And she didn’t meet his eyes again.

  “Have a good afternoon, milord,” she murmured, as she curtseyed. Curtseyed! As If she hadn’t just—just…

  Given ye the best orgasm of yer life?

  He licked his lips and lifted his head. “Lara,” he tried again.

  But she just backed away. “I’ll start working on the menu for yer da’s celebration. Please let me ken how else I can help.”

  Ye can rub my shoulders again. Ye can demand I give up control.

  Ye can touch me.

  Not once, not since she’d placed his hand in his own lap, had she touched him. He’d touched himself, and St. Elzear’s tits, it had felt good!

  But before he could tell her that, she’d slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her, leaving him confused.

  With a sigh, he forced himself upright and reached for the handkerchief she’d left. He cleaned himself with it, tossed his kilt down over his thighs, then crumpled the white linen in his fist.

  Staring at the door, he remembered the way she’d cajoled him, explaining things so reasonably. Then she’d commanded, and she’d been right; it had felt good to give up control.

  How in damnation had she known? How had she known exactly what he’d needed?

  Shaking his head, Alistair had to admit something to himself: His little sister’s best friend was not the lass he’d thought she was. Nay, he was coming to suspect she was verra much a woman who knew her own mind, and her own body.

  And now he knew that about her, there was no way he could forget it.

  Chapter 4

  Thyme! She needed more thyme!