Some Like it Scot

by Suzanne Enoch

  The realization was heady, considering he could haul her about as easily as if she weighed no more than a feather. Freeing her hand from his, she slid her arms over his broad shoulders. Only then did he grip her waist, pulling her closer. If she’d had any doubt that he truly did want her, the growing hardness pressing against her hip answered it. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get close enough to him, couldn’t—

  “Hello, the house!” a gravelly voice called from below. “I’ve brought ye luncheon, Laird Bear, courtesy of Laird Glengask!”

  Panting for breath, Catriona broke the kiss. “Who—”

  “Owen,” Munro growled, setting her away from him. “The head footman at Glengask. Stay up here a minute.”

  She nodded, trying to force her mind to work again. So that was what it felt like simply to give in and enjoy a kiss. Good Saint Andrew and all the heavenly angels. “The—the blankets are in the corner beside the chimney.”

  “I threw a sack over ’em already, just as a precaution.”

  And he continued to protect her, even if he didn’t know why or from what. She started to thank him, then glanced down. A grin curved her mouth before she could catch it. “Bear, ye’ve a tent in yer kilt.”

  He chuckled, trying to push the stubborn thing down only to have it spring up again. “Ye’re a saucy minx, ye are,” he told her. “Now dunnae distract me. I have to think of ugly, warty old men fer a bit.”

  Somewhat relieved not to have to carry on a conversation, she turned half away only to watch from the corner of her eye, fascinated, as the tent slowly smoothed out again. Abruptly he caught her arm and pulled her around for a quick, hard kiss.

  “I’d tell ye to stop driving me mad, wildcat, but ye do that just by breathing.”

  That was quite possibly the most romantic thing she’d ever heard, much less had spoken to her. Now she wanted to kiss him again, whether he claimed that she already belonged to him, or not. “Go,” she whispered instead, pushing him toward the stairs. “Before he comes up here looking for ye.”

  “Aye. Dunnae go anywhere. I’m nae finished with ye, yet.”

  An unaccustomed giggle broke from her chest. “Go, ye brute.”

  He hopped over the fallen mound of ceiling. “I’m going, woman,” he muttered back, and vanished down the staircase.

  No, he didn’t own her. No one owned her. She’d left her home to make certain of that. But she’d been around men before—even handsome men, if not as handsome as Munro—and she’d never felt like this. It was all trouble, but for once she thought a bit of trouble might be welcome.

  Chapter Eleven

  Catriona sat down on the stack of lumber, listening as Bear greeted the Owen fellow. If this footman was anything like Peter Gilling, he would be far more than a lad in livery expected to deliver tea on command. The male staff of a clan chief’s household, if he held to the old ways as Glengask did, would be trained warriors, ready to lay down their lives to protect the family.

  Munro was a trained warrior as well, lethal when he needed to be, and casually dangerous by virtue of his size and strength. For some reason she still couldn’t quite grasp, he’d decided to use that power to aid her. And to seduce her. It all seemed fantastical enough that she couldn’t resist the opportunity.

  From what she could make out, he gave Peter and Owen—and himself—a sandwich, then sent both men on an errand to the village for plaster and mortar and more tarps. She knew precisely why he wanted the other men gone, and the thought of what would happen next both terrified and excited her.

  To him, this would likely be a hopefully pleasant interlude, just one of many. With his looks and his family connections, how could he not have lovers scattered all across the countryside? Experienced, pretty lasses who knew how to please a man. He’d as much as said he did. As for her, well, she knew how to take down a twelve-point buck from a hundred yards away. Being unclothed with a man, though, was an entirely new experience.

  “Ye can come doon now, Cat,” Munro called from the base of the stairs. “We’ve a beef stew and mutton sandwiches.”

  Rubbing her hands against her thighs, she stood up. At least if she made a mess of things, he would realize he’d made a mistake in kissing her, and he would leave her be. And she would know that fleeing Islay had been the absolute correct decision. She would make a terrible wife, a horrible excuse for a lady, and an abysmal peace offering. Squaring her shoulders, she clambered down the stairs and up the hallway—and stopped at the closed door. Her new door.

  She smiled, touching it, then stepped sideways to look through the unfinished wall beside it. “This is bonny,” she said, “but I think ye forgot someaught.”

  He appeared on the other side of the open wall. “Aye, it may have a few flaws. It’s nae finished, though. After yesterday I figured ye should have a bit more protection. I dunnae like the idea of ye spending the night awake with a musket across yer lap.”

  Pushing open the door, she stepped into the kitchen. Rather grateful for the distraction, she swung the door back and forth and then latched it closed. “Even like this, it’ll give me a bit more notice,” she said. “Thank ye.”

  “After we get the tarp set over yer roof, I’ll finish the wall here and get ye that bar ye can put across it.”

  Catriona faced him. “Ye dunnae have to do all this, Bear. Ye’ve already lied to yer own brother, yer clan chief, about me.”

  “Aye. So I have.”

  His direct, unreadable gaze unsettled her a little. “Because ye want to bed me.”

  Bear gave a slow smile. “That’s part of it. Ye stay in my mind, whether my eyes are open or closed. Mostly I lied because I dunnae want ye fleeing into the wilds. Because ye’re a puzzle to me, and I cannae seem to figure ye oot.”

  “Ye like puzzles, then.” Perhaps she should simply tell him everything, and he would stop … tempting her so.

  He shook his head. “Nae. I dunnae. A puzzle’s akin to looking fer the most difficult way to find a simple answer.”

  Well, that didn’t make any sense. “Then why—”

  His mouth closed over hers. She expected him to be rough, to throw her to the floor and smother her. Instead, though, he teased at her lips, nipping at her, tasting her with his tongue. Before she’d even realized it she had her hands tangled into his thick, disheveled midnight hair, heat swirling through her.

  “Show me what to do,” she said huskily, the moment she could draw a breath.

  “Do as pleases ye, my lass,” he returned, lifting her around the waist to set her down on the edge of the table.

  That was better, because her legs felt unsteady as a new fawn’s. She knew they would be wiser to keep their distance from each other, but with one of his big hands gripping her waist and the other cupping the back of her neck, the specific reasons for that eluded her. “That isnae very helpful.”

  “Then stop thinking so hard. This isnae aboot thinking.”

  “Oh. That’s good.” Being reasonable and being kissed by Bear MacLawry simply didn’t fit together. And at this moment she preferred being kissed to thinking.

  “Is it?”

  For a moment she wondered whether he was questioning her response to his statement, or her reaction to his moving his mouth along her throat. In either case, oh, it was very, very good. “Aye,” she whispered.

  With him standing between her knees she couldn’t help becoming aware that the front of his kilt was tented again, and rather impressively so. Because he wanted her. Quick shivers darted through her, tingling between her thighs. She wanted to see him, but that seemed very bold, and not at all something a lady would admit to—much less do. Then again, she wasn’t much of a lady.

  Before she could change her mind, she reached around his waist to unfasten the buckles on his right side. She’d seen men wearing kilts for most of her life, even though the practice had become less common in everyday dress. Even on Islay, trousers had become the norm, with the traditional MacDonald tartan only appearing on holidays and
for weddings and funerals. And that was a damned shame, as far as she was concerned. A man wearing a kilt—especially one who wore it as well as Bear did—was a sight to behold.

  Unwrapping the aprons, she drew open the kilt and then let it go. The material fell to the floor, but abruptly she scarcely noticed. One couldn’t grow up among Highlanders without an occasional glimpse of a cock and balls, but a fit, aroused giant was something new. And very, very impressive.

  “Ye see what ye’ve done to me, Cat?” he murmured, sliding his hands beneath the shoulders of her coat and then pulling it down her arms. A moment later it joined his kilt on the dirty slab floor.

  “Ye’re a magnificent lad, Bear,” she returned, tentatively running a finger along the length of him. Warm, firm, and reactive to her touch, he was. Damp spread between her thighs.

  “And ye leave me breathless, lass, with yer long legs and all those curves ye have on ye. I want to touch every inch of ye. I want to kiss every part of ye. And I want to be inside ye. So if ye’re bound to change yer mind, do it now. Otherwise, kiss me again.”

  She leaned up and took his mouth, nibbling his lower lip as he’d done to her. At the same time she stroked him again, wrapping her fingers around his girth, exploring him the way she’d wanted to nearly since she’d met him.

  With a low moan against her mouth he parted from her again. “Lift yer arms, wildcat; I reckon I’ll have ye naked.”

  The idea made her nervous. For the devil’s sake, she’d avoided wearing gowns for her entire life. Wearing even less, and in front of this magnificent giant of a man, terrified her. But she’d made her decision, and she’d already taken off half his clothes. Fair was fair.

  Sighing unsteadily, she released his cock and did as he bade her. Munro pulled her shirt from her trousers, then took the bottom hem of the rough cotton and lifted, pulling it over her head and then dropping it somewhere behind her. “Well, now,” he breathed, his gaze on her bare breasts.

  “What? I’m nae a lass who goes aboot flaunting her bosom, ye ken.”

  Green eyes touched hers, and then lowered again. “Then I’m honored, my lass, because the sight before me is damned marvelous.”

  Before she could respond to that, as if she had any idea how to do so, Munro put his hands beneath her breasts, as if testing the weight of them. Then his thumbs brushed across her nipples, lightly at first, then more firmly. The sharp, tight sensation had her arching her back, pressing harder against him.

  With a slight grin he leaned in, replacing one hand with his mouth. He flicked his tongue across her, and she gasped. “Ye’re a wicked man, Bear.”

  “Then tell me to stop, Cat,” he returned. Without waiting for her to answer, he lifted her off the table and set her onto her back on the floor—where he’d already spread out her blankets. Of course he knew what he meant for them to be doing, but part of her wished he wasn’t so … confident about it. It only demonstrated that he knew precisely what he was about, while she lay floundering like a fish trying to breathe air.

  Kneeling beside her, Bear stripped off his shirt and dropped it. She’d seen his bare chest and abdomen before, but now, abruptly, she could touch him. Warm, soft skin, with hard muscle beneath—muscle that flexed beneath her touch. Did she affect him, then? Did her touch please him? She wanted to ask, but it seemed a supremely silly question, and one to which she should likely already know the answer.

  “Sit up, lass,” he said, grasping her hands and tugging. “I’m taking that ribbon oot of yer hair.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Nae,” he countered, his voice more firm and quick than she expected. He took a breath. “I reckon I’ll do it.”

  “Fine. Ye do it, then. It’s naught but hair. Hair that never does what I wish it to.”

  Bear moved around behind her, and the gentle tug and pull of his fingers unknotting her hair ribbon made her shiver from her scalp to her toes. Good heavens.

  “They say a redheaded lass has a temper,” he murmured from behind her, his fingers still toying with the long, wavy mass. “They say she’s too full of passion, and more than likely a witch.”

  “I’ve heard all that before,” she returned. “And worse. Is it what ye think of me?”

  “I think ye’d run wild if ye could, keeping yerself away from everyone and everything. Ye think there’s someaught odd aboot yerself, because ye dunnae ken why other lasses act the way they do, and why ye’re the one who’s in the wrong.” Draping a long lock of her hair over her shoulder, he moved around to sit on his backside half facing her. “Ye’re unique, and I reckon that’s nae an easy thing to be. And I’m honored ye trust me enough to be with ye.”

  She scowled, wiping at her abruptly damp cheek. “Stop saying nice things and bed me, ye brute. I didnae come downstairs for conversation.” Even if it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

  “Well, then. Yer wish, wildcat.”

  He pushed her flat again and went to work unfastening her trousers. No one had ever done that for her before, and certainly not a six-and-a-half-foot, very aroused Highland lord. When he fumbled at it she tried to push his hands away to see to it herself, but he only scowled at her and refused to budge.

  When they finally came open, he flashed her a deep grin. “That’s better. Now lift up. I’ve a yen to see ye naked.”

  That was only fair, since he was already nude but for his boots. She lifted her hips, and he pulled her trousers down past her thighs. When she settled again, he lifted her legs, running his palms down from her thighs to her calves, removing the material as he went. One by one he pulled off her boots, then stripped the garment the rest of the way over her feet. His own big boots followed.

  Before she could wonder what she was supposed to do next, he twisted onto one hip and kissed her again, slowly and deeply. Luxuriously, almost. He’d told her to do as she pleased, so she ran her palms down his spine to his backside, felt his muscles clench and relax beneath her touch. When he lowered his face to her breasts, though, she couldn’t seem to do anything but moan and drag her fingers through his thick hair. Nothing had ever felt this good, this sharply pleasurable, before.

  When his fingers drifted down her stomach and then between her legs, she squeezed her knees together before she could command them to be still. “I’m sorry,” she rasped, her breath so uneven she was surprised she hadn’t fainted.

  “Dunnae apologize to me,” he returned, lifting his head briefly before returning his attention to her breasts. “I’ve nae a thing to complain aboot. Just try not to yank all my hair oot.”

  She snorted, loosening her hard grip on his lanky black hair. This time when both of his hands went to her knees, she made herself cooperate. How odd, that her insides wanted him so badly, but her body couldn’t seem to figure out what in the world to do about it. Perhaps he was correct, and she needed to stop thinking so hard.

  He brushed a finger up along her most intimate place, and she shut her eyes, moaning before she could stop herself. For a man with two hands and one mouth, he seemed to be touching her everywhere at the same time, each sensation more pleasurable than the last.

  “Ye want me, lass,” he murmured, parting her folds and slipping inside with one wicked finger. She bucked against him, moaning again.

  “I do,” she managed, “so stop teasing me and get to it.”

  “This is all part of the fun. But, if ye insist…” Munro shifted over her, keeping her knees apart with his own. Resting on his elbows, he brushed hair out of her face. “Look at me, lass.”

  Catriona opened her eyes again. “I dunnae need to see ye to know exactly where ye are.”

  He grinned. “Aye. But I’ve someaught to say to ye. I’m nae accustomed to having virgins, but I’ll be as gentle with ye as I know how to be. It’ll hurt ye, though. I’d give anything if it wouldnae, but that’s the way of it. Nae fer long, but it’ll hurt.”

  She met his gaze, his face a foot from hers, looking down at her with a combination of concern and l
ust that made her ache inside. “Do ye think me a lass who shies away from a bit of pain?”

  “Nae. I’m only being gentlemanly and warning ye.”

  “Then I’m warned. Get on with it, giant.”

  “Say my true name, first.”

  She narrowed her eyes, but he was stubborn enough that he wouldn’t relent until she did as he asked. “Munro,” she uttered, too breathily.

  “That’s more like it.”

  Munro sank down over her, his cock pressing at her entrance and then slowly, ever so slowly, sliding inside of her until she felt pressure. He took a breath that she could feel against her own ribs, then canted his hips forward and pushed deeply. She squeezed one eye shut at the sharp pain of it, and he froze again.

  “Tell me when ye want me to move, wildcat,” he murmured, taking her mouth again.

  Almost immediately the pain began to subside, and she became aware of the indescribable sensation of his big cock filling her, his hips against hers, the hard, controlled weight of him on her. The … intimacy of their connection felt both wicked and madly romantic, in a way that had never touched her before. And he was holding so still, as if he feared she might break beneath him.

  She reached up to grip his shoulders. “I want ye to move.”

  He did so, pulling back, and then entering her so fully she couldn’t do anything but hold on to him, arch her back and groan. Beginning slowly, he entered and retreated so that she could feel every inch of him moving inside her. The heated tightness across her abdomen suddenly shattered into spasms of pleasure.

  “Christ, lass,” he groaned, his pace increasing as she continued to shiver around him.

  If that was the “little death” the poets wrote about, she could see why they seemed so obsessed with it. “More,” she ordered breathlessly.

  “Aye.”

  After that, she couldn’t conjure a coherent thought to save her life. Instead all she could do was feel—feel him entering her again and again, hard, faster, his harsh breathing against her neck, his hands at her breasts, squeezing and tugging in rhythm with his lovemaking.