Notorious in a Kilt

by Anna Durand

  "Don't you need your pajamas or whatever you sleep in?"

  He leaned a little closer and said, in a husky voice, "I sleep in the nude."

  And there was an image I did not need flashing through my mind right now. Naked Iain. Nothing but a sheet concealing all that lickable flesh. I could sneak in here in the dead of night, crawl under the covers with him, and —

  For heaven's sake, I'd not only reverted to my college self, but I'd regressed all the way back to teenage lust.

  "Good night, Iain."

  I tugged my arm free of his hand, heading for the doorway. When I reached the threshold, he stopped me with a single, earnest question.

  "May I kiss you good night?" he asked.

  Kiss me? Yes, yes, please, yes, screamed my hormones. My rational brain urged me to consider the consequences, but I was getting damn sick of thinking. What the hell? He'd be gone soon, anyway.

  I leaned back against the doorjamb. "Okay."

  His brows flew up like he couldn't believe I'd said yes, but then a sensual smile curved his lips. He sauntered up to me, planted a hand on the jamb above my head, and slanted in until his mouth hovered a breath away from mine. Ice-blue eyes captured my focus, their glacial color a contrast to the heat of his hooded gaze. I stopped breathing. He grazed his lips over mine, the barest hint of contact, like the touch of a feather skating over my skin again and again, soft and yet wickedly arousing. The steam of his breaths tickled my skin. My eyes drifted shut, and I sagged against the jamb. He skimmed his lips over mine again, tormenting me with a promise of what I craved, more of him, all of him. When his free hand closed around my hip, I couldn't resist tipping my head up, exposing my throat to him, all but begging for him to take me in a ravenous kiss.

  "Rae," he purred, his lips ghosting over mine, "yer bloody perfect. The way I remember, only better."

  I couldn't speak, move, breathe, think.

  His hand on my hip grasped me more firmly, and he pressed his mouth to mine. We hung there in a suspended moment, lips to lips, neither of us moving for what felt like forever. I hungered for him to thrust his tongue inside my mouth, to haul me into his hard body, to consume me in every way imaginable.

  With a groan, Iain stepped back, the distance between us measured in inches but gaping like a giant crack had opened up in the house between us.

  "Good night, Rae."

  I stared at him. "Don't you want to kiss me deeper?"

  "Yes, but not tonight."

  My mouth opened, but I clapped it shut again. He was doing this on purpose, and I didn't care. Maybe just for a few days …

  "Good night, Iain," I said, and walked out the door.

  Only when I'd reached my room on the first floor and shut the door did I permit myself to consider that kiss. I must've lost my mind. Twice today, I'd let Iain kiss me. He showed up on my doorstep after more than a decade and acted like nothing had changed, like we could pick up right where we'd left off.

  I slumped against the closed door. We'd left off with catastrophe. After our one and only night together, he'd kissed me goodbye and walked out of my apartment and out of my life. I'd never seen him again. Never heard from him. I tried to find him, but I'd had no idea where in Scotland he lived. Maybe if I could've afforded a good private investigator, I could have tracked him down. Maybe I'd waited too long to try. For the first two months, I'd been in shock over the catastrophic scandal that had erupted around me, too stunned and ashamed and in grief over losing the only man I'd ever loved to think about trying to find him. Besides, I'd been certain he left willingly. Why would a thirty-seven-year-old professor, a worldly man who'd dug up relics all over the world, fall for a college senior? It was a dream, and I'd finally woken up.

  Two months after Iain vanished, I'd found out I was pregnant. I had hired a cut-rate private investigator, the only kind I could afford, to hunt for him. Nothing came of it. I searched the Internet but found nothing. I'd even searched online white pages to get the phone numbers of MacTaggarts in Scotland and called several of them before the international phone charges got too expensive. I'd had to give up, having found no trace of Iain.

  But here he was. In my house. Sleeping upstairs.

  In the nude.

  Maybe if I slept with him, I'd realize it hadn't been as good as my memory insisted it had been. One roll in the hay, nothing more. Satisfy my curiosity and get him out of my system for good.

  "Ugh," I moaned, shuffling to the bed and flumping onto it. "I am insane."

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek for a minute, my gaze nailed to the dresser. The bottom drawer. My secret hiding place.

  Not going there.

  Without glancing at the bottom drawer again, I retrieved my nightie from another drawer and changed into it.

  My gaze wandered to my secret hiding place.

  With a heavy sigh, I gave in to the impulse. I retrieved two items from the bottom drawer, sat down on the bed cross-legged with my back to the headboard, and allowed myself two minutes to wallow. First, I picked up the plaid scarf. The fabric was blue and green with orange lines threaded through it. I held the scarf to my chest, petting the soft fabric, indulging in a memory.

  "It's the MacTaggart clan tartan," Iain had told me on the day when I invited him into my apartment for pizza and pop. I'd expected him to say no, but he'd agreed with a subdued smile that represented excitement in the language of Iain. He'd explained, "My mother made the scarf for me. I want you to have it."

  "Me? Why?" I took the scarf he held out to me, fingering the smooth plaid and the fringe at either end. "Won't your mother be upset you gave it away?"

  "No." He plucked the scarf from my hands and draped it around my neck. "Please accept this as a token of … friendship."

  Right. Friendship. Back then, I'd been naïve enough to believe that.

  I hugged the scarf to my chest, dipping my head to inhale the dusty scent of the garment I'd kept in a drawer for thirteen years. The day my daughter had been born, I'd asked my mom to bring me the scarf so I could wrap it around Malina's little body. I'd held her like that for a long time, tears streaming down my cheeks. Tears of joy for my daughter's birth. Tears of grief for the father she would never know.

  But she could know him now.

  Setting down the scarf, I picked up the other item I'd retrieved. The four-by-six photo album had a plain white cover. I flipped it open, thumbing through the pictures I'd taken over the years. No one knew about this album. I made it for a secret purpose, spurred by a stupid and hopeless need to document the moments in Malina's life.

  For Iain.

  I closed the album, running my hand over the smooth cover. Why had I taken these pictures and preserved them for him if I didn't have the nerve to tell him he had a daughter? I couldn't tell him. Yes, I worried he'd take off again and leave Malina heartbroken like I'd been. But I had another obstacle too. I'd told Malina her father died before she was born.

  Yep, I'd done that.

  When she got old enough to start asking questions about her father, I'd panicked. How could I tell her about Iain without admitting he'd abandoned me? That would lead to more questions about things I could never confess to my child.

  So, I lied. I said her father died and refused to discuss it any further. Parental prerogative.

  A coward, that's what I was. I'd dug myself in too deep to explain my way out of it now. Iain could not be here when Malina got home. End of story.

  I wriggled forward until I could lay back on the bed and roll onto my side with my head on the pillow. A powerful urge gripped me, and I flipped through the photo album.

  A long, skinny piece of thick paper tumbled out.

  My fingers caught the paper on instinct, and I turned it over to see the glossy surface. It was a strip of pictures from one of those photo booths in malls. The images showed me and Iain smiling and laughing, his arm around me, our cheeks pressed against each other. My God, I'd forgotten he actually smile
d that day. An honest-to-goodness grin. Suddenly, I remembered that he'd smiled a lot on our one perfect day together, so much so I'd been shocked by his exuberance. Shocked and exhilarated.

  How could I have forgotten? I supposed it had been easier to downplay how wonderful that day had been instead of remembering it, reliving it, pining for it, pining for him. I'd moved on, yes, but my heart had clearly clung to the memories.

  In the last photo, Iain was kissing me.

  That moment. I remembered it like yesterday, as vivid and clear as when he'd kissed me good night a little while ago. The photo I held preserved the moment of our very first kiss. The day everything changed. The day before the disaster.

  Holding the photo strip to my chest, I closed my eyes and indulged in the memories. That day with Iain had been perfect. We'd done all the silly romantic things we hadn't allowed ourselves to enjoy before because I'd still been a student. That morning, I'd informed Iain I had received my grades and had passed all my classes. I was no longer a student, technically.

  All it took was "technically." He'd swept away for a day of romance. A picnic. The photo booth. Our first kiss. More kissing in the back row of a movie theater. Lots more kissing in the car, at a smokily lit restaurant, in the car again. Eventually, he'd taken me back to his apartment.

  There on his sofa, we'd made out for half an hour. Still, he didn't touch me in any sexual way. I'd begun to worry he had no interest in making love to me, that after ten months of waiting he would push me out the door.

  When he lifted his head, tearing his lips away from mine, I'd grunted my displeasure.

  Oh, the look on his face. Tender and hungry at the same time. He'd brushed his fingers through my hair, his thumb tracing circles on my cheek, and then he had spoken the words that forever altered both our lives.

  "Stay with me, Rae."

  How else would a lovestruck girl answer? "I'd love to."

  Iain swept me up in his arms and carried me into the bedroom, like a knight straight out of a fairy tale transporting his bride to the nuptial bed. We weren't married. I worshiped Iain, but he'd never suggested he felt anything but friendship for me — until this day when he'd revealed his lust. I had no idea if he loved me the way I loved him.

  The way he'd undressed me had left me boneless in his arms. Slowly. Sensually. His hands always on me, his fingers always exploring. He laid me on the bed, stripped himself, and lay down beside me to run his hands over me from head to toe. His mouth followed, kissing and licking and nibbling until I was squirming and panting, and God, so wet for him. When he drew my nipple into his mouth, I clutched his head and arched my back.

  When he kissed me, it was wild and deep and intoxicating.

  He settled his body on top of me, the weight and heat of him so delicious I could've died from the sheer pleasure of it. The sensation of his lips on mine, his hands sliding up and down my sides, his firm chest rasping against my nipples, and oh, the pressure of his cock filling me, his hips pumping, his —

  I flopped onto my back and groaned. The memory had seduced me, drawing me back to the past and the most incredible night of my life. But indulging in a reverie of Iain had made me yearn for the real thing. My nipples had puckered, the tips swollen and achy. With every little movement, the slick softness of my nightie tormented my skin and made my nipples ache even more. My clitoris had gone stiff. My sex, drenched with wetness, pulsated deep inside.

  Shit. I would never get to sleep in this state.

  I would trot upstairs to the guest bedroom. No, absolutely no. Bad, bad, bad idea.

  A few hours in Iain's presence had thrown me backward in time and transformed me into my college self again. He might have afflicted me with this thirst for pleasure, but I did not need him to quench it for me.

  I flung out a hand to the bedside table, yanked the drawer open, and fumbled inside until I located the tool I needed. With the vibrator in my hand, I settled the other palm over my breast, kneading it in the slow and sensuous way Iain had done that night. I skimmed the vibrator along my inner thigh. Iain had moved his hand that way, up my skin until he found my slick flesh. Biting down on my bottom lip, I flicked my finger over my nipple and pinched it, mimicking the sensation of Iain's teeth nipping me there. Oh, the way his erection had scraped over my belly. I slid my nightie higher until it mounded against my breasts and raked my nails over my belly, then I switched the vibrator on.

  The sound seemed loud in the silence of my bedroom, but I was beyond caring.

  Visions of Iain consumed me, his naked body hovering above me, his expression tight with need. I played out the memory, slipping the length of the vibrator between my folds the way Iain had glided his cock up and down, the pace slow and relentless, driving me mad. Just as I had that night, I bucked my hips into the movements, but instead of gripping Iain's shoulders, I gripped the headboard with one hand. The leverage let me lift my hips higher. Though Iain had made love to me at a leisurely pace, the more I succumbed to the fantasy of that night the faster I moved the vibrator and the harder I panted. Couldn't wait. Couldn't stop.

  I plunged the vibrator inside me.

  My back arched, my mouth flew open on a silent cry. I thrust faster, deeper, harder.

  "Oh fuck," I breathed, hardly able to speak at all.

  My fingers clenched the headboard tighter, my nails scraping the wood. Iain thrusting. Iain gripping my hips to raise them and plow into me so deep I'd been certain our bodies became one for that single instant.

  "Rae? Are ye all right?"

  I froze, teetering on the verge of orgasm. Breathless, on fire from head to toe, I blinked rapidly and struggled to puzzle out what I'd heard. Iain? Was this part of the memory? No, he hadn't asked if I was okay while he was fucking me.

  A tentative knock on the door at last evaporated the haze of lust.

  Well, it at least thinned the fog a bit.

  "Iain?" I called. "Is that you?"

  "Ye have another man sleeping in your house tonight?" he said with amusement tinging his voice. "Aye, it's me. I came down to the bathroom and heard an odd noise in your room."

  Oh, holy fucking shit. He'd heard the vibrator.

  And with a jolt, I realized I still had the thing wedged inside me, vibrating away.

  "I'm okay," I said, but my voice came out strained.

  "Ye donnae sound fine."

  My heart racing, my head growing light, I tore the vibrator out of my body, switched it off, and dumped the thing on the bed beside me. Then, I fought to regain enough equilibrium to speak to Iain. I damn sure couldn't go over there, open the door, and look him in the eye.

  A couple slow, deep breaths helped — but only a smidgen.

  "Really, Iain," I said, "everything's fine."

  He said nothing for a moment, and my heart raced faster as I wondered what the hell he was thinking. I got my answer when he cleared his throat and spoke again, his voice huskier.

  "I have heard a sound like that before," he said. "Were you by any chance self-pleasuring with a sexual wellness device?"

  The blasted man was teasing me. Sexual wellness device, my ass. He knew exactly what kind of "device" I'd been using.

  "Go to bed, Iain."

  He chuckled. "Wouldn't ye rather I come in there and —"

  "No thank you." Yes, I absolutely wanted that, but it was far too dangerous.

  "Have it your way." He sighed with no small amount of sarcasm. "At least finish yourself off so you can get a decent night's sleep. The sheep need you well rested."

  "Thank you for the concern," I said with my own dollop of sarcasm. "Now scram."

  His footfalls pounded up the stairs.

  My body throbbed and tingled and burned. He was right, of course. I'd never get to sleep unless I dealt with this … situation.

  I grabbed the vibrator, switched it on, and pressed the tip against my clit.

  The orgasm hit so fast I gasped. My entire body went stiff, frozen in th
at moment of pure pleasure when the first spasm gripped me. My free hand clenched the sheets. I caught one breath before the pleasure seized me again, convulsing my body until my ears rang and my abdominal muscles ached from the intensity of the spasms.

  I lay there, limp and satiated, for ten minutes before I could summon the energy to move. I stashed the vibrator in the drawer.

  My phone rang, making me jump and yelp.

  I fumbled for the phone and mumbled, "Hello?"

  "Oh no, did I wake you? Sorry, baby, sometimes I still forget you're two hours ahead."

  "Mom?" I hadn't even noticed the caller ID on my phone. Pushing up on one elbow, I said, "No, I'm awake."

  The big yawn interrupting my words belied my claim. Rather than sleepiness, however, this was the languor following a major orgasm.

  "I won't keep you long," Mom said. "Just wanted to give you the daily update. Malina is fine. Ty gave her a surfing lesson today, and she's currently watching Beauty and the Beast with Zoey."

  "Glad she's having fun." Malina had always gotten along with my stepbrother and stepsister, and so did I.

  My mother paused, then said in a suspicious tone, "Aren't you going to quiz me on what she ate and what her state of mind is?"

  "You said Malina's fine." I bolted upright. "Unless there's something you're not telling me."

  She laughed. "There's my suspicious girl. No, I was testing you. What's got you distracted, Rae? There's obviously something going on out there."

  A big, tall, sizzling-hot something.

  Lying to my mother had never worked for me. She seemed to have a sixth sense about it, which had stopped me from sneaking out to meet my boyfriend in high school. Recognizing the futility of keeping any secrets from Cheryl Raines, I confessed. "I have someone staying with me."

  "A man?" she asked with more enthusiasm than a mother should show upon learning her daughter was shacking up with a virtual stranger. But then, Iain wasn't exactly a stranger.

  "Yes, a man." I fingered the photo strip where it still lay on the bed, my gaze shifting to the last image where Iain was kissing me. A pang ached in my chest. "It's Iain MacTaggart."