by Lisa Berne
“Beautiful.”
Alasdair’s voice, softly, from behind her.
“Your hair is like silk, lass.”
“My only beauty, so it’s been said,” she murmured.
“That’s nonsense.”
He leaned past her to place the brush back onto her dressing-table, and Fiona’s eyes flew open. Alert again, she watched, repressed a little gasp, as with effortless strength he turned her pretty chair—with her in it—so that she was sitting perpendicular to her dressing-table.
“What are you doing?” she asked nervously.
“This.” He bent down, and lightly touched his lips to hers.
Shocked, dazed, even frightened by this unexpectedly intimate contact between them, Fiona didn’t respond. Her mind was skittering wildly, even as her heart thumped hard within her. Which Fiona was she right now? Oh God, which one?
He pulled away a little, and gravely said:
“Do you not want me to?”
She shrugged, hanging onto her composure for dear life. “You can,” she said, a little raggedly. “If you want to.”
“I do,” he answered with that same gravity. He kissed her again, gently, just to the side of her mouth, and then at the tender pulse-point underneath her chin, and then her cambric-covered shoulder.
Fiona did not resist, but remained very still.
And then—
He sank to his knees before her, and although she was glad to observe that the dark blue sash of his dressing-gown remained firmly belted, the lapels did gap open and she could see quite a bit of his chest, its hard planes, the springy dark hair, so very, very masculine. With my body I thee worship. One of their vows. It was allowed to touch that tempting hardness, but fear held her back. Fear paralyzed her. And then Alasdair reached for her interlaced fingers, took them in his big, warm hands, and turned her palms upward. Although her salve had helped, her wrists were still red, chafed, from the rope that yesterday had bound them.
Alasdair touched his lips to each wrist in turn, gently and deliberately, and Fiona jerked as if an electric current ran through her. His lips were soft and firm all at once, and such was the tenderness of his gesture that she almost felt as if he kissed her body, her self, her soul, entirely and in a way that sparked within her a wild, all-consuming hunger.
“You are courageous, Fiona,” he said, looking into her eyes which she knew were wide, wide open.
“No,” she whispered. “I’m afraid.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t harm you.”
“I know you won’t. But I’m still afraid.”
“Why?”
“This is—different—from before.”
“Aye. Different.”
“Why?”
“Our nights together,” he said, “you didn’t enjoy them, did you?”
She hesitated. Then decided, now, to tell the truth. “No.”
“Of course you didn’t. I was not as I should have been. Would you like to try again?”
“Can we?”
“If you wish it, Fiona. The choice is yours.”
“I—I think I do.” Her mind seemed to drift and glide, like a bird dipping over the water, and then something shifted inside her and she said, “I would like to try. Yes.”
“I’d like that also.” He smiled a little. “I’d like to think the marital duty can be more than what we’ve known so far.”
“When you call it ‘the marital duty,’ it’s hard to believe.”
“Point taken. What shall I call it then?”
“Call it what it is.”
“I think sex can be more than what you and I have known so far.”
“That’s better.”
“Good. Are you still afraid, lass?”
“A little. Yes. Or a lot. I’m not sure.”
“You need not fear. All will be well.” He kissed each palm, first one, then the other, his gaze steadily meeting hers, and then there was a sort of pause, almost, she thought dreamily, like that odd shivery stillness before lightning strikes. She waited for him to bring her roughly against him, to press his lips hard on hers, perhaps, to blatantly push his tongue full and heavy into her mouth, to take one of her hands and press it against his shaft.
Just as Logan had.
But Alasdair did nothing of the sort.
Instead he leaned back a little. He curled his hands around her bare ankles, slid them in a caressing stroke—back and forth, back and forth—across the sensitive tops of her feet; slowly, oh so slowly, underneath her nightgown, his hands slid up her calves, to the back of her knees where the skin was yet more sensitive, where his fingers lightly, confidently lingered, as if relishing the feel of her. How warm it made her feel, how languorous and excited all at once, but when, she wondered, would this slow delicious interlude end and his own needs take over? Instead, he only said:
“Do you like this?”
She thought about it. “Yes,” she answered cautiously. But had to add, “Do you?”
“Very much. Why wouldn’t I?”
There were so many reasons, but she picked the most obvious one and blurted it out. “Well, for one, my legs are like sticks.”
“No. They’re soft and strong. Powerful. Beautiful.” He slid his hands higher, around her thighs, and in the very core of her Fiona felt a giddy flutter of pleasure. Oh, it felt good. He felt good.
He said, “Any other concerns?”
“Yes.” She was a little breathless now. “Isn’t this boring for you?”
He laughed. Not mockingly, but softly, kindly. “No.” Then he grasped her hips with that same gentle, deliberate touch, and tugged her forward on her seat, slowly pushing up her voluminous nightgown as if he was unwrapping the nicest, most wonderful gift in the world, exposing all the length of her legs, bunching the fabric up around her waist—but not as before, there was nothing brisk or businesslike about Alasdair now. He drew his fingers up along the soft inside of her thighs and Fiona quivered.
He had used the word beautiful twice. And about her. And he seemed sincere. She wanted to believe that he found her beautiful, wanted to trust his words and the messages conveyed by his caresses.
But trust did not come easily for her. Life—and by this she meant Logan Munro, of course—had taught her that a man could say something, but then do something which contradicted his soft, beguiling words.
Yet …
Here before her, on his knees, as a man might genuflect before some higher being, was Alasdair, his hands, like a sorcerer’s, conjuring from out of her cool composure a carnal fire that made the saliva pool in her mouth and her breath come heavily between parted lips.
“Open for me,” he said quietly.
“What—what are you going to do?”
“I’ll show you. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes.”
Fear warred with curiosity.
After several moments ticked by, each and every one an eternity, curiosity won.
Or maybe she was more courageous than she knew.
Carefully, Fiona brought her legs apart. She had only a few moments in which to feel dreadfully vulnerable, exposed, nervous, before Alasdair slid his hands around her hips, brought his mouth to the white, soft skin of her thigh, and—
He licked it, in a long, warm, wet stroke of his tongue.
Did it in a way that seemed to her he liked it.
Fiona made a choked sound deep in her throat. Reached down and gripped his forearms, hard.
“Should I stop?” he asked. His face was calm, serene, but there was a kind of eager intentness in his expression also, as if she had interrupted him from doing something he very much wanted to do.
“N-no.”
“All right.”
Starting from the inside of her knee, all the way to the juncture where her leg ended and the soft intricate folds of tender flesh began, his warm tongue traced a path, slowly, lazily, without any hurry
at all, then went—there. Oh my God, Fiona thought, oh my God, as he licked at her very center, found concealed like a sweet pearl amidst the soft skin, soft hair, an exquisitely sensitive nubbin of flesh, and with an appetite, an assurance, that she thought might stop her hard-beating heart, with wet, sure strokes of his tongue he made pleasure begin, and build, and heighten, like a grace note that went on and on, as an angel might sing, once and forever.
She hadn’t known.
Hadn’t known her body, her spirit, was capable of this.
This joy made incarnate, flowing from the sweet primal core of her, out and down her legs, up through her torso, blazing along her arms, her neck, and for all she knew creating an ecstatic halo around her head. Joy and bliss and pure sensation.
Vaguely Fiona realized that from her throat issued soft noises, somewhere between a hum and a gasp. They were moans, really, but quiet ones, because she had to hold back a little, had to hang onto her restraint, her dignity.
Didn’t she?
Did self-control have a place in all this, when she now was having a hard time figuring out where she ended, and where Alasdair began? When he knelt before her, was without haste worshipping her with his clever, kind, knowing tongue, his hands still holding her as if he would never let her go?
Her eyes closed, her head tipped back, and it seemed to Fiona that she was in danger—danger of the best and wildest kind —of flying off a high cliff, soaring without shackles into the ether.
She didn’t know why she stopped him.
All at once she wanted, needed, with a curious ferocity, to be yet closer to him, face to face. So—panting, sweating—she pulled away, sat up a little straighter, sharply aware that much of her was draped, imprisoned, in her prim white nightgown even as the rest of her body was free.
Deliciously free.
Alasdair sat back on his heels. Studied her face. Lifted his dark brows. “Everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you like that?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like me to keep doing it?”
“No.”
“All right.” He said this with easy casualness. He didn’t get up, or yawn, or frown, or look impatient, or grab at her hand to make it do something for him. No, he sat on the soft, dove-gray carpet of her dressing-room like someone who had all the time in the world. For her.
Fiona wanted to laugh out loud, to clap her hands with glee. But that would have been childish. She didn’t feel like a child right now. She felt quite adult. More to the point, she felt very, very womanly. And, she realized, she felt—
Beautiful.
Strong.
Powerful.
Much like, she imagined, a butterfly, transformed, emerging from its cocoon.
So when Alasdair said, casually, “What would you like to do now?” she answered:
“I’ll show you.”
And rapidly she undid the long row of little white buttons at the neck of her nightgown, which she then ripped up and over her head, tossing it aside without a second glance. And she slid off her dainty velvet chair onto his lap, grabbed his face between her two hands, and said, “Kiss me again.”
Chapter 11
A week ago Alasdair had had a vivid dream in which he was making love to Fiona, who sat astride him with her shining hair freed from its braid. In his dream, her pale slim body had glowed as if on fire, set alight by the touch of his hands upon her.
Now, here in her dressing-room of all places, as he received her upon him, felt her hands upon his face, saw the glow in long-lashed eyes gone blue, he wondered for a stunned moment if he was, in fact, dreaming. She seemed real, there was something very reassuring about the weight of her, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the scent of her lemony soap and her rose perfume and her sweat mingling in a rather intoxicating way, but still—
It was easy to imagine that despite their prosaic surroundings, he, they, had been transported to some kind of mystical paradise.
Here they were, here was Fiona, naked as the day she’d been born. With her hair streaming about her like a shimmering silvery-blonde cloak, here was his Eve, he was her Adam, and he had just tasted of the Fruit of Knowledge: the sweet musky taste of her still lingered, but he hadn’t had enough and he wanted nothing more than—why, he wanted more of her.
As he had come to her closed dressing-room door, he’d been confident that their marital relations—sex—could be improved, but never in a million years would he have guessed this would happen. That the nice little flame he’d expected had instead exploded into a roaring conflagration of desire: a bonfire of absolute, devouring, splendid lust that took them both, remaking them anew. Had he really once thought her too thin, unappealing? Christ, but he’d been blind. She was magnificent. And with that same ravenous longing he wanted to run his hands along the long slim line of her torso, devour her beautifully rounded little breasts, and more, so much more, but she had said firmly to him:
Kiss me again.
Who was he to disobey?
Especially with that pretty mouth, the color of pink spring roses, so temptingly close, revealing between parted lips a glimpse of white straight teeth. Maybe she wanted to devour him too. Alasdair knew a strong impulse to ravage her mouth with his own, but instead, acting on a kind of deep instinct, he remained still, meeting her eyes with his own, and didn’t even pull her against him.
“You,” he said, quietly, calmly, affably, “kiss me.”
He could feel her react. The indrawn breath, her fingers tightening against his face.
“Do you want me to?” she asked.
“My God, yes.”
She seemed to be satisfied then. She smiled slightly. Leaned closer, and closer still, until there was only the merest hairsbreadth between their mouths. A kiss without a kiss. How could such a thing be so erotic? But it was: he was hard now, ragingly hard, she had to know it and feel it, his shaft beneath his robe pressed insistently between her legs as she sat with wonderful abandon on him, the silken barrier between them damp with the wetness of her desire, her readiness. Hurry, hurry, clamored his body, but with a supreme effort of will, guided by instinct, he did not hurry. Instead, he waited. His breath came faster and his own lips parted; expectancy surged through him like a storm.
But he waited.
She did not kiss him, though their mouths were so close and he could feel the warmth of her breath like a siren’s song. No, she slid her fingers down along the column of his throat, to the muscles of his shoulders, slid caressingly around his biceps, and then up again, to travel across his chest, lingering, dipping into the hollows of his collarbone and trailing down his chest.
He couldn’t prevent himself from groaning a little.
“You’re torturing me, lass.”
“Am I?” She didn’t sound at all sorry. She sounded rather pleased. And she shifted herself upon his lap a little, in a very purposeful, very cruel way.
He groaned again.
“You,” he said, “are not a nice person.”
“No,” she agreed, in a pleased voice. “I’m really not, am I?”
But she did touch her lips to his, just a little, a whisper-light touch, and Alasdair broke out in a sweat.
“More?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Very well.” She tilted her head, kissed his upper lip, licked it. Pleasure shot through him, keen and exquisite.
“Again?” she asked.
“Aye.”
She licked his lip again, boldly now, then brought her lips more fully upon his, and when she gave a long, soft, satisfied sort of sigh, he judged the time was right, and he deepened the kiss, touched his tongue to hers, explored her, tasted her, but with a slow approach, without haste, sensitive to her response, and savoring—relishing—experiencing every second of it. Yielding, returning, she was all wetness and heat here, too; Alasdair groaned again, a raw, rough sound which seemed to give her considerable enjoyment, for she gave a little purring noise, broke th
e kiss, and pressed herself against him, whispering against his ear, “You do like this, don’t you?”
“You know I do.”
“Good.” She bit his earlobe, just sharply enough to make him twitch with surprise and excitement.
“No, you’re not a nice person at all,” growled Alasdair, and took his revenge at once by wrapping his hands around her shoulders, creating a distance between them, and taking one pink, hard tip of her sweet little breast into his mouth, suckling at her and enjoying very much the spasmodic way she twitched. Two could play at that game, after all. After a while he went to her other breast, glorying in the way she clutched at him, murmured feverishly, “Oh, Alasdair, oh my God …”
He could have gone on like this forever, yet did not object when her hands found the silk sash at his waist, fumbled at it. Her face was flushed, her expression one of intense urgency.
In a lazy, leisurely way he leaned back from her, bracing his hands behind him, amazed at his own self-control. It seemed possible that he’d never been quite so racked with lust, but here he was, not even assisting her one tiny bit to speed things along.
“Your hands are trembling,” he remarked.
“Help me, you awful man,” she hissed.
He smiled. “If you insist.” He lay back onto the soft carpet, Fiona shifting to straddle his thighs. He undid the knot she had created in his sash, but did not open the robe, only folded his crossed arms behind his head. “There.”
Fiona sat back a little, breathing deeply, and said, politely, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, just as courteously, then commented, “You’ve stopped trembling.”
“For now.”
There was a pause. Alasdair wondered what was going to happen next. He hoped his body wouldn’t disintegrate into a million little pieces of unfulfilled desire. He gazed up at Fiona, slim and strong and naked and with her magnificent hair all about her.
“You look like Belisama, lass.” The mystical goddess of light and fire.
“That’s a lovely thing to say.”
“I mean it. You’re beautiful.”
“When you say it like that, I almost believe you.”
