by Lisa Torquay
Her arched spine offered him more access to her breast, at which he ate with unbridled avidity.
“Fingal,” she pleaded as their friction built tension in her, her hips accelerating in a frantic rhythm.
“Yes, Emily,” he rasped on her chemise. “Yell my name and lose that nonsense of mister.”
And she did, after he pressed his hardness tighter to her, and she went up in shards of pleasure, screaming up to the canopies. His muscled hips rode her quivering flesh in the aftermath, holding her to him the whole time.
He walked to the shore with her still wrapped around him and lay with her on his tartan, the sun warming their dripping skin. Strong arms braced at her sides, his head lowered to catch her lips once again with a deeper, more carnal kiss. Their wide mouths devoured each other with urgency.
They came up for air, their gazes meshing. An expression of undiluted greed on his rugged features, he plucked the pins from her hair, making the midnight strands spread over the green, white, and black plaid.
“I should forbid you to hide this beautiful hair from me,” he drawled.
And she thought she should forbid him to wear any clothes. But she said nothing because his strong fingers grabbed the neckline of her undergarment and, in a determined move, tore it from her. A ripple of intense arousal bloomed in her centre, melting it all over again. It was exactly as she knew he would do as soon as her eyes had found him on that first day. The flimsy clothing fell to her sides while his heated scrutiny looked his fill, only for him to ravish one breast with a hungry mouth. His stubble rasped on the sensitive mound, multiplying the sensation a thousand times. She pressed it on him at the same time her hands bunched his luxuriant hair, asking for more.
When he lavished her other breast, his erection twitched close to her swollen centre, igniting such a famished ache as she moved her pelvis in search of relief. But the blasted man paid no heed. His sculpted lips trailed down her dewed body, through the dark triangle, to clasp unceremoniously to the drenching, slippery inner lips with gusto.
His tongue opened all of her, followed by his mouth full on the spot, licking, suckling, the movement abrading his stubble in her sensitised flesh. Causing an eruption worthy of a volcano, he did not relent, the torment making her see stars in broad daylight.
Her strained fingers grabbed his hair. “Fingal, come fill me.” Feminine pelvis seeking his wicked caress. “Please!”
Who cared about the rest? Her conscience had just shut down. That punishing emptiness he was mining her with filled her mind with thousands of images of how devastatingly delicious it would be if he used his body to bring her the so coveted relief.
“You know we cannot,” he growled on her, the vibration driving her to desperation.
His denial filled her with despair. The undiluted lust claimed satisfaction; his refusal made the ache unforgiving, her body roaring for his aid.
“Take me, Fingal,” she pleaded.
But he merely used an unsatisfactory finger, the merciless scoundrel! On the brink of exploding, she yanked him by his hair, only he never budged from his calamitous task.
And then it was too late, because the explosion he conflagrated was a veritable earthquake, more poignant, more acute than anything that came before in her life. Her screams echoed for the second time that afternoon. The whole world quieted when he came to lie by her side, wrapping her as her head rested on a bunched shoulder.
A long time passed before she could exact her revenge. Without warning, her head lowered to where his erect member rested on his belly, her dark strands waving around her.
Cinnamon eyes looked down at her. “Sassenach,” the rumble alerted. “Don’t even think—" Her lips closed around the reddened glans. “Blasted, bluidy hell!” With a hiss, his head fell back, revelling in her tongue exploring the tip. “Hold the stem,” he instructed. She did, and his breath faltered. “Suck me deep.” As she followed the directive, that obscene expletive escaped from him again. “Move your hand up and down.” He groaned, panting and moving his pelvis to enjoy her suckling to full extent.
He allowed her to work on his distended penis as she registered the spicy scent of him, the steel hardness covered in smooth skin until he got harder and bigger.
“Emily,” he grated, his hand trying to pull her off him. “Let go.” She paid no heed to him as he had done to her. “I’m going to—” Something undulated in his member, his hips erratic now. “Ah!” he rasped at the same time her mouth filled with his release, and she had the chance to taste it, salty and creamy, at last.
They lay entwined in the sun, Fingal rasping his stubble on her nape, her hair all over him. A sense of peace, of rightness, invaded him. It could be the warm weather, the still surroundings, the aftermath of the most blinding, mindless release that had ever wrenched out of him. But it was the woman.
Any rational thought he might have had evaporated the minute he saw her in the water. Dusky breasts showing through the soaked fabric of her chemise that now heaped like rags not far from the tartan. Savage starvation dominated him. The way her pupils dilated as he undressed had rocketed his temperature sky high.
And he sent the whole damned thing to the devil.
He would have sold his very soul for this moment. And did, naturally. He had no idea of the price his conscience would extract from him for this. And he did not care a bit.
Only for everything to turn tragic at her pleading. Damn it all! He had been an inch from granting it and plunging in her wet, hot channel. The unbearable pleasure would have torn him in so many pieces, he would have forgotten his own name.
He resisted with a dark resolve hard to explain, so she would leave at least with that intact, if nothing else. She had bestowed her reward soon enough, though, with a mouth that was a fantasy come true. And she tore him to pieces all the same with her willingness to give as much as to receive and single-minded fast learning.
It was getting hard again, for pity’s sake.
“Hm,” she moaned, wriggling her delectable backside. “Shall we do it again?”
The insatiable lass! He jumped up before things became serious. “Time to go,” he commanded.
The sun tilted to the west anyway.
His woman turned to look up at him, languid and inviting on his tartan. He hardened. The wretched flesh had a mind of its own.
Talk about insatiable.
Would he ever stop wanting her?
Probably not.
She got up too and stood before him in her dazzling beauty, full breasts, tiny waist, shapely hips and legs.
Call him weak, call him a scoundrel, call him mad, but he grabbed her by the waist once more and kissed her as if this afternoon had never existed. Her lithe shape clutched to his arms and legs, hair flying in the breeze, unreserved.
Clawing to a shred of self-control, he untangled their bodies. “We’re playing with fire, Sassenach,” he said and put distance between them.
“It does feel rather hot, yes.” Those molten dark eyes travelled over him.
It was a challenge to rip his gaze from her but he did, picking up his tartan and dressing before they headed back to the manor in the day’s waning light.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She must tell him her full name. Catriona sat on the back-entrance steps late that night, unable to conjure sleep. It was only fair to do it.
This afternoon in the loch had been delectable, although she had no business allowing it. She held no regrets about the…interlude itself. But he would be the man her sister must marry and she, well, would do the same with another man, now with a full education on what might transpire in the chamber. Or wherever the mood took it, for that matter.
Darn it! She had gone far, too far. Had he granted her wish, she would be completely initiated in the arts of the, say, alcove. And still she would have no regrets about the occurrence itself, unless it brought consequences, then she would be out of her depth.
Having gone to this length, she got a clear idea she owed him
an explanation. She did not know him that well yet, but there remained no doubt that, should he sniff out knowledge of her parentage, he would waste no time in talking to her father. Fingal would take her to the McTavish manor in chains if she refused to go. The entire Highland would get word of it, her reputation torn and thrashed. She would break her mother’s heart and make her father bitter.
You should have thought of this before you travelled, you ninny! The admonishment served for nothing. Who would have thought she would get these ragged feelings for the very man her father had designated for her sister? All she had wanted was to see her beloved Highlands after being away for so long.
On the other hand, if she continued incognito, the whole thing would remain a secret that would probably lose importance in time. No one would get hurt and everything would go to plan. Naturally, she would have to count on her ability to keep it quiet.
She tightened the wrap she had thrown over her nightgown. Despite the day’s warm temperature, the night became cool. Inhaling the fresh air, her dark gaze lifted up to the limpid night and its waning crescent moon.
Perhaps, at this point, less damage would befall everyone involved if she did not come clean at all. Her sister would take time to get married. The blasted laird had taken no interest in his intended, had not written, visited, or started any form of communication. This lack of communication was readily mimicked by Anne, who did not relish the idea of leaving London. It might be a few years before this came to fruition. Until then, he would become a yellowed memory for Catriona. And he would surely not even remember her name. She got a fair notion of how men went about collecting trysts. They said Lachlan was the clan’s Casanova, but every man kept skeletons in his closet. Or former paramours, in this case.
Why should she not? Have one skeleton in her closet, that is. At the very least, she would not dread her wedding night. Though she would dearly lament the groom. The washed-down, pale-in-comparison groom.
Steps sounded behind her, then a tall figure sat at her back, one strong leg at each of her sides. The scent of green woods and man was already familiar. He wrapped powerful arms around her, and she leaned on his broad chest.
“Can’t sleep either?” he rasped in her ear as he traced the organ with feathery lips.
She sighed with the pleasure of his presence. “No.” Her head fell back on his shoulder, the long midnight tresses appearing from under the wrap.
The dark sky blinked with billions of stars she had not taken notice of until that moment.
“We may as well sit here and watch the planets journey the universe.”
For years and years, she contemplated.
“In London, it’s impossible to see this sky, with the fog and light,” she commented.
“Dreadful place, I’d say.” The deep voice was a caress to her ears.
Catriona merely nodded in agreement.
“Did you know we can see the Aurora Borealis here?” He asked, referring to the Northern Lights.
Of course she did; she had seen them countless times. “Can we?” she replied.
“They are the most beautiful in autumn, though.”
“Pity I won’t be here to see them.” This was true.
“Once, I sat here and suddenly the sky tinted with green, purple, yellow. A feast of colours.”
“Waxing poetic, Mr McKendrick?” she teased.
He rumbled a chuckle. “Call me this one more time and see what happens.”
“What?” she challenged. The idea evoked all kinds of wicked thoughts in her; she shivered, imagining the delight.
He must have thought she was cold because he rolled his tartan around them, cocooning both.
“Wait and see.” His arms tightened around her.
The heat of him, his scent, the strength emanating from his frame lulled her and infiltrated that traitorous wish for longer with him. It felt as if they had formed a bond of some sort, or she held a connection with him that had no chance to go any further. She forced her mind to dispel the notion.
“You like it here,” he murmured, lips just below her lobe.
It was more statement than question. “Nobody in their right mind wouldn’t.”
“Maybe you could stay,” he said.
Her eyes snapped to him at a loss of what to answer. She did not need to be a genius to understand what he meant—for her to stay as his paramour. Work together and…sleep together. And the worst was, she could not even feel offended, for she would grab the opportunity with both her hands, had she the chance. The possibility of letting herself be consumed by him and this yearning caused a ripple of heat to bloom in her middle.
“There’s always a place for a good horse trainer,” he continued.
Dark gaze flew farther than the galaxies out there. “I can’t. I need to go back to my family.”
“Go, then come back,” he insisted.
Her lips breathed a little laugh. “If it were that easy...” Under the tartan, their hands entwined without even noticing. “A woman is not so free as a man.”
“Hm,” he acknowledged. “Should you change your mind, you’ll have a place here.”
“I’ll remember that.” She would, with sorrow and more longing than when she arrived, for the man and for the land. Another sigh escaped her as she burrowed further against him.
They stayed like this for long minutes, letting the night envelop them as if they were celestial bodies, too.
“Come here,” he murmured, turning her to him.
Her shoulder met his chest as he placed her legs over one of his, a strong arm supporting her spine. Their gazes interlaced in the dim light before he kissed her. It was not a kiss of passion; he made this one a sea of tenderness, containing more unspoken words than the stars. Cradled in his arms, hers lifted to circle his neck. They clung on and on for what seemed hours, hands roaming each other’s torsos.
Coming up for air, he looked at her. “I can’t keep my hands off you, Sassenach.”
A faint smile came to her swollen lips. “Same here, Highlander.”
His brow lowered to touch hers, one of his thumbs appreciated her cheek, their eyes meshed.
Warm, soft feelings bloomed in her, spreading their light inside like a torch. Something in his expression made every pore glow with a sense of closeness so intense, she just wanted to sit there the whole night, the whole year, the entire eternity. Holding him, absorbing his heat, his scent, and all those words they did not say but swelled so clear in the narrow space between their bodies. Her heart filled with these bright emotions. So much, she ached with the need for him, his proximity, to never let go.
They had known each other for such a short time. They had strong personalities, fierce points of views, but all of it composed those emotions. Because in these short—too short—weeks, she came to admire his care for animals, his integrity, the commitment he showed for his clan, the bond with his brothers and father. Her admiration and respect for him only grew. Dangerous, so dangerous. Coupled with the sizzling attraction, these emotions announced something deep and consistent she should not acknowledge for the life of her. This awareness almost brought tears to her eyes. To hide what coursed within, she pressed her nose to the wool of his tartan and inhaled his manly essence as if to engrave it in her sensorial memory. If only she could engrave more, everything.
If she did not leave now, they would end up somewhere improper, like his bed. Or hers. Her insides gathered the utmost courage. “I’d better go.” Her voice meant anything but sensible.
His nostrils sucked in air as he took long moments to finally jerk a nod and release her.
Her voice was enough only to mumble a good night and go into the manor before she faltered, weakened, gave in, threw everything into the wind.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Fingal asked days later in the stockyard.
The memory of the night under the stars would not leave him. It lingered, and lingered. Then lingered some more, with that insidious wish to do the same countless ti
mes, have her here indefinitely. That she refused his proposal did nothing to weaken such a wish.
He would like to think he was a good man, that he would follow through with his marriage arrangement. Become a staid husband, and carry on with his life in the clan. But he realised he was not that good man, and he could not care less. He wanted her despite everything, and it grew increasingly difficult to bear in mind his duties to his clan. Because her presence here took all his energies to deflect what she provoked in him, body, mind, and soul. And he was going out of his mind. With the added exasperation that he did not have the slightest idea of what to do about it.
“Mounting him,” she said and moved to vault up Fiadhaich, who stayed put, against all expectation.
Astride, by the looks of it. He nearly burst up in flames at the images that stormed in his head of her riding him astride. Devil take his sorry hide, but there was no avoiding these thoughts when he came near her.
In these last training sessions, they had been using the bridle and the saddle, to which the stallion got progressively used. He had not displayed signs of rebellion since the day they put the saddle on him. It should be only sensible to conclude the horse was ready for a rider.
“No, you’re not,” he answered.
The mere possibility that the horse might throw and hurt her made nausea curl in him. Never mind a lass mounting a stallion that large and unsuitable for her. She had to be either too bold or too daft. Since her intelligence seemed alright, it left him with her temerity. And his own awe at her skill and single-mindedness in carrying this out without hesitation.
“I got my foot on the stirrup and he hasn’t moved.” Her coiled midnight hair evoked in him the desire to go there and loose every pin that held it. Destroy them, destroy each pin in the world so she would not keep her beautiful mane from him. “He seems to be letting me upon him.”
“Get down, Sassenach.” The Arab beast had protested every new element they introduced to him; the chance of him rebelling now loomed too high.
