Some Like it Plaid

by Angela Quarles

“And I need to get back to hunting suitable river stone.” She grinned, and her heart gave an unsettling lurch when he returned her smile.

  Since that evening up on the keep, he hadn’t tried to make any more moves. While that should have made her new-found resolve easier to keep, it just worked her up even more.

  The robotic tones of the Borg sounded in her mind—Resistance is futile.

  God help her, she furtively eyed his muscles. Those biceps. And how he cared for and interacted with his tribe.

  “Let’s be off, then.” He stepped into her space, giving her a delicious gulp of his rugged scent—leather-spiked musk—and gripped her waist with his strong hands, lifting her back onto her horse. He swung onto his mount with a deftness that still amazed her, and together they carefully picked their way down the shallower slope of the hill until they were along the flat ground running between the hills and the open sea. They were able to move faster here, because the ground was solid. To her left the narrow strip of ground dropped sharply to the water below, and on her right rose craggy stretches of granite walls pocked with weathered shrubs. It was hard to tell how much time had passed on their way out here, but she guessed they had about an hour or so ride ahead. As he did earlier on their journey, he rode behind her to act as guard.

  They were about halfway to Dunadd when the wind picked up, whipping the folds of her tunic and skirts against her and spraying her with drops of sea water. She glanced to the western sea, jerking her head to clear away stray hairs—storm clouds, bruised purple and blue, crowded the horizon.

  Dayum. That came out of nowhere.

  Connall pulled up alongside, his black hair whipping and swirling toward her, his horse’s ears twitching back and forth. “There’s a cave ahead.” He raised his voice to be heard over the wind. “Your horse will follow mine, but let it find its own path for there are holes he’ll know to avoid. If we hurry, we can make it before the storm breaks.”

  With that, he hugged his horse’s neck and shot forward, his mount zigzagging along the ground, dark sand and grass kicking up behind. She did the same, and her horse needed no prompting before it broke into a canter. The wind rushed over her face, the cold stinging her cheeks. Her eyes watered, but she trusted her horse, relaxing her grip on the reins. Up ahead, Connall reached a break in the cliff and leaped off his mount. He disappeared into a crevice and then emerged. She reined in alongside.

  “All is clear inside.” He lifted his arms, and she readily fell into them. She was kind of disappointed that he didn’t do the whole let-her-body-slide-down-him move, but then again, they were in a hurry.

  Before he let her go, he did give her hips a quick squeeze. He grabbed both reins and led their horses inside. She held her leather-lined palm to her forehead to keep the hair from her eyes—the rain was now only a half a mile away, almost to the shoreline. A solid curtain of gray suspended from black clouds, obscuring the horizon.

  She hadn’t known it rained so much in Scotland until she’d come here. Connall dashed back out. “Collect what wood and tinder you can find.”

  Gathering firewood was tough with the mittens, but she made a quick pile on the ground and then raked them all onto her skirt and, carefully standing, managed to keep most of it balanced in the folds.

  Connall, who was inside the cave when she arrived, threw down his load and scooped up hers just as the first drops of chilled rain hit her back. She hunched over and followed him into the oblong space, shivering. The smell of wet stone and decayed leaves struck her, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

  He fished flint from his belt pouch. Soon he had a fire blazing and was pulling saddles off the horses. He removed the saddle blankets and arranged them by the fire, facing the entrance.

  He held out a hand, and she readily placed her mittened-fingers with his, enjoying his solid strength. His eyes darkened, and he reached up and stroked his knuckles across her cheeks. The gentle touch—it made her tremble.

  “You’re cold.” He snatched his hand away and tugged her to the ground. He unfurled the top half of his kilt and arranged her until she was sitting between his legs, snug up against him with her back to his chest, the kilt draped tight around her shoulders and his knees on either side of her.

  “Draw your legs up,” he murmured in her ear.

  She pulled her knees up to her chest, and he wrapped his legs and arms around her, draping the cloth around them. She hadn’t really been that cold, but hell if she was going to protest. The man was like a furnace, and she was never quite warm enough here.

  She relaxed into his arms and sighed.

  “Better?” he whispered.

  She nodded against his chest, feeling treasured.

  Outside, the rain beat down, but they were far enough inside that the wind didn’t spray droplets onto them or the fire. It looked as if it would keep them trapped for some time. Enough time to…

  She’d told him she couldn’t be his wife, but damn, she wanted him. And she was tired of resisting the inevitable. She tilted her head, exposing her neck. She would’ve done more to signal her interest, but he had her wrapped up snug, her arms trapped by his encircling body.

  As the fire crackled before them, his chest rose against her back on a deep inhale, and she’d swear she heard a slight rumble. His soft hair brushed her neck, and she held herself very still, careful to not stiffen or shiver, in case he misinterpreted their cause.

  Sensual awareness sizzled in the air. Ages seemed to pass before his temple brushed hers. His warm breath fanned her skin, and she hummed her appreciation, since sound was about her only option left. Other than just shouting: “Take me now, dammit.”

  She held that option in reserve.

  Against the small of her back, he stirred and grew hard, and heat flashed through her. He wanted her as much as she did him.

  His head shifted, bringing his mouth to juuuust brush against her cheek.

  Then his voice, low and raspy, his breath tickling her ear, increasing the sizzle going all up and down her skin and flashing her blood hot. “Are ye still cold?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Are ye scared, then?” She was still trembling, she realized.

  “No. Not when I’m with you.”

  He groaned and tightened his hold. Then his soft lips dragged across the shell of her ear to the pulse along her neck. The kiss—when it came—was so light, she almost didn’t feel it. She arched her neck to show him that yes, she wanted him.

  He skimmed the tip of his tongue down her neck, and she groaned. Where his kilt covered her shoulder, he stopped. He clasped the edge with his teeth and dragged it an inch or so.

  Her belly tightened and her breaths came in pants.

  God, how could this feel erotic, him exposing just her shoulder like this?

  She didn’t dare move.

  He nuzzled his nose along the exposed skin and inhaled slowly. With alternating licks and kisses, he trailed his mouth back up to her ear.

  “I want you.” His voice—gruff, gravelly, and oh-so-appealing—sent heat storming through her.

  He nipped her earlobe. “I want you very much.”

  Her body shook. “I…I want you, too,” she managed to say, her heart beating so fast she worried she’d die before they had sex.

  His sharp inhale rang through the cave, blending with the pelting beats of the rain. He brushed his lips along her ear. “Say it again.”

  The growled words amped up her desire. No effin’ way could she deny him. “God, yes, I want you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Honest to God, she thought her words would have him whipping her around and getting down to business, but no. He placed another kiss on her neck. Slowly, he stretched his legs out, and then his hands unwound from holding her tight to him until they gripped her waist.

  Here we go.

  How did guys in the 100s get it on? E
ven though doggy-style was not usually her favorite position, the idea of him just picking her up and entering her from behind had liquid heat shooting from her chest down to her sex. It fit with the whole alpha-warrior thing he had going on.

  But his hands pressed up from her waist, slowly mapping her sides and back down.

  No. No-no-no.

  This was bad.

  A quick fuck she could rationalize—she would just somehow force it into that little item on her checklist. Highland fling, done. In a cave. Bonus!

  But this?

  Each drag of his mouth across her exposed shoulder, the stubble from his cheek and jaw scraping lightly, deliciously, betrayed his intentions. Just like their kiss at the keep hadn’t been just a kiss, this—despite their primitive surroundings—wouldn’t just be sex. As his mouth traced tantalizing paths all over her neck and shoulders, she trembled—with need and with this new realization settling in.

  Oh, she could stop him.

  She was sure he would if she asked.

  But what had her trembling was a different betrayal—her own effing body and her own effing desire.

  She didn’t want to stop him.

  Maybe—she pulled in a sharp breath—maybe she could still come out unscathed.

  He gripped her braid, and she gasped and let her legs drop open, stroking her hands down his thighs and earning a groan near her ear, though she couldn’t feel anything with her dang mittens on. His mouth and hands roamed, sucked, and licked until she was panting, and every bit of her skin along her shoulder, neck, and breasts was aflame.

  Under her skirts, she grew wet, begging for his touch. He stroked back up her waist, and this time when he feathered his fingers across her breasts, he brushed the peaked tips of her nipples. Even through the fabric of her tunic, it felt like a brand, and she jerked against him.

  Holy shit. She’d never been this turned on by a man’s touch. Her skin was like one big live wire—he could touch her anywhere and she would jump.

  God, she wanted to touch him, too. Explore all of his muscles. See what made him shiver. What made him gasp. She pushed her hands up out of the cocoon of his kilt and held them up. “Can you untie me?”

  Whoa. Without even doing it on purpose, her voice had come out smoky-low, like some sex-kitten.

  Instead of stopping the gentle stroking of her breasts, he leaned forward. From the corner of her eye, his profile came into view, with his lust-laden eyes and aquiline nose.

  His hair and braid fell forward on the far side. “Give them here,” he grunted, pinching the aching tips of her breasts.

  At his order, she brought both up to his face, and he captured one loose end of string with his teeth and pulled. Slowly, every pull and tug echoing the desire building within. All the while, he continued teasing her nipples.

  Spellbound, she caught her breath as he did the same to the other mitten. Instead of using his teeth to loosen the final knot on them, he brought his hands up to hers. She closed her eyes in anticipation and clenched her fingers into a fist inside the warm mittens.

  When the tugging stopped, giddiness suffused her—now her hands would be free. But he pulled her wrists upward, draping them over his head.

  The position pushed her breasts outward. Wha—? She opened her eyes and pulled her arms, but they didn’t budge.

  OMG.

  He’d tied her mittens together.

  Her sex clenched and liquid heat shot through her. Holy shit. Wicked, wicked man.

  Now, with her legs spread wide, her hands captured behind his head, and her chest pushed outward, she felt so vulnerable.

  Despite still having all her clothes on.

  He skimmed down her forearms to the undersides of her arms, and then those strong fingers came into view as they stroked down until he cupped her jutting breasts. Breasts which were pushing forward and back as her breathing increased pace.

  God, just the sight of his strong, capable hands cupping her was enough to make her clench again, but the feel of him holding the heavy weight made her squirm and close her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder.

  He molded his chest against her back, and again his arousal gave a big hello. She pressed her legs onto his thighs, opening herself wider, feeling deliciously exposed. After a quick tweak of her cloth-covered nipples, the natural fibers abrading her, he stroked down her waist and out to the hem of her skirts. Then he dragged the cloth upward, the rough tips of his fingers brushing the bare skin of her calves.

  A soft string of Gaelic burst from him, too low for her to understand, but the cadence threaded into the spell he weaved, quickening her breaths.

  Jesus, he was sexy as fuck.

  She used his neck as leverage to lift her hips, and he moaned and yanked her skirts free from the tangle of their legs. Now her bare ass was sitting on the saddle blanket, her skirt’s fabric pillowed around their legs. His hands disappeared underneath the hem, his fingers skimming down the insides of her thighs. Feeling, but not seeing those fingers brush along her sensitive skin heightened her desire.

  Just before he reached where she ached for him most, he brushed back out to her knees. She bucked in frustration and moaned. His breath chuffed in her ear with a soft laugh.

  He moved his kilt away from between them and cinched her tight against his bare skin. The heat of his cock practically branded against her backside.

  And it was killing her not to touch. Or see.

  But somehow it also thrilled her.

  “Touch me,” she pleaded.

  His lips moved against her skin. “Who’s giving orders?”

  He skimmed up under the edge of her tunic top, and she quivered at the first contact of his warm, warrior-rough palms brushing against the soft skin of her stomach. He cupped the heavy weight of her breasts. Not where she’d meant, but would she complain?

  Heck no.

  He pinched and tweaked her nipples into tight buds, and she brought her legs together, seeking some kind of friction. Heaven help her, she was squirming against him. The longer he stayed away from touching her sex the more antsy she became.

  Um, he could check off “foreplay” as done-done-done.

  Then he scooped an arm under her knees, gathering her legs together. His other hand reached down and splayed against the backs of her thighs, and he lifted her up like she weighed nothing, her feet dangling in the air. Then his silken hot cock swept across the folds of her sex.

  The intimate touch, the promise of pleasure it held, seized and locked her muscles. If she’d felt vulnerable before, it had been nothing on this—poised on the precipice of being taken and unable to move, cradled in his hold, his hard length rubbing against her folds.

  Not enough pressure on her clit to make her come, but—gawd—it was making her wetter with each stroke. Then on the next pass, he oh so slowly brought her down onto the head, using his hand to guide himself inside. She clenched around the tip, a little omg-hello-welcome-welcome hug.

  He lowered her an inch, but the position he held her in prevented him from filling her completely. He eased her up again, and back down, his thrusts slow and shallow. What kind of positi—Oh! Because then he shifted her slightly and on the next shallow thrust, the tip of his cock hit her G-Spot.

  Holy-shit-she-thought-that-was-a-myth.

  She jerked and gasped in his arms, her walls clutching him as sensation zipped all around her veins and along her skin, but concentrating the most where he massaged her G-spot.

  She thrashed her head back as he rocked her shallowly on him, all sensation coalescing in that one spot, tightening and tightening. The feeling of building pressure was different than she’d ever experienced. It was scary and frightening and exhilarating as he kept his relentless pace, and she was completely at his mercy.

  Then heat flash-bombed her muscles, her body locked tight, and an orgasm barreled through h
er so hard she screamed.

  Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

  Next thing she knew, she was falling forward, aftershocks sparking and twitching through her, completely spent, her mind going whatthehellohmyfuckinggod, her body reeling from the aftermath of her very first G-spot orgasm. She braced herself with her hands on the saddle blanket, still trapped in the mittens.

  Her skirts swished over her back as he lifted them, and a hand gripped her hip, the weight of it solid, hot, and very much signaling he was in control. His other hand slipped under her tunic top, the rough skin of his fingers and palms tracing up the back of her spine and down. She trembled, and on the next stroke up his hand pressed against her, and she followed his lead, leaning her shoulders down.

  So doggie style, then. Instead of feeling used in this position, a primal surge of lust blazed its way through her veins. So male. So take-charge. She had no idea that turned her on. But he’d made sure she’d come first, and she couldn’t say that about her only other sexual partner before this.

  She rested her cheek against her mittened hands. In the flickering firelight, her Highlander was on his knees behind her, his powerful chest lifting and falling in deep, controlled breaths.

  He’d removed his shirt, and his kilt lay in haphazard spills around his waist. His whole body was tensed as if he were holding himself in check, which meant she could see every line of his muscles and his six-pack abs. Dark eyes veiled, his attention shifted between his hands stroking her back and her hip to her bare ass pointing right at him.

  The erotic sight… Her stomach dipped, and gooseflesh spread across her arms and the back of her neck.

  From this angle, his cock was hidden from view, but just the anticipation of him thrusting inside her had arousal surging through her. She’d swear she grew wetter the longer he drew this out, the cool air of the cave and the storm kissing her bared sex. Then his eyes flicked to hers, and she caught her breath; they flared with heat and longing and barely restrained power. As he held her gaze, he moved his hand by her hip down until his blunt fingers slipped through her short curls and slicked across her folds.