A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel

by Laura Trentham

  No embarrassment, only urgency surfaced. “No chastity belt. But I should warn you, it’s been so long I might have re-virginized.”

  He dropped his head to her shoulder on a sputtering laugh. Needing reinforcements in his battle with her bra strap, his other hand snaked around her back. Finally, he vanquished the hooks and her bra loosened. A first rush of shyness had her closing her eyes as he slipped the straps down her arms and whisked her bra off.

  An animalistic sound between a hum and growl emerged from him. She peeked. His expression settled her spate of nerves. She was a sheep to his wolf and couldn’t wait to be devoured.

  This time when he cupped her breast, nothing separated skin from skin. His thumb glanced over her nipple, budded and aching. She shimmied her hips and pushed her bunched dress to her ankles, leaving her in panties. While there was nothing lacy or particularly sexy about them, they were, thank all that was holy, not holey.

  The hand not squeezing and molding and otherwise wreaking pleasure on her breasts dropped to skim along her hipbone to grab her buttock. “Based on your bra, I was expecting some ghastly knickers. These are hot.”

  “I have some thongs and some lacy see-through ones stashed in the back of my drawer—if they haven’t been eaten by moths.”

  “Hmmm … sexy.” Chesty laughter rumbled against her. She only had a moment to worry that making a soon-to-be lover laugh in the middle of foreplay wasn’t sexy in the least.

  He took her nipple between his lips and flicked it with his tongue before pulling it deep. She fisted his hair in one hand and slid the other underneath his kilt to tug the waistband of his boxer briefs down.

  Highlanders should be naked under their kilts.

  “Who am I to argue?” It was only at his teasing response that she realized she’d stated her opinion aloud. Moving his mouth to work over her other breast, he dispensed with his underwear. Her fingers skimmed a taut male bare bottom. The soft wool added an unexpected tactile pleasure.

  He wrapped his arm around her waist, lifted her until her toes brushed the carpet, and whirled her away from the door. Her world spun and tilted into a new orbit, and she found herself on her back at the foot of her bed, Alasdair standing between her legs in all his half-naked kilted glory.

  She propped herself up on an elbow and ran her hand down his chest, stopping at the top of his kilt. The tartan fabric tented toward her.

  “I get now why men don’t go commando underneath.” She touched the end of his erection. “It makes quite the display.”

  His laugh was rueful. “I look silly.”

  “No, you look … lickable.” She slipped a hand underneath the fabric and grasped him.

  A primal sound vibrated from him, inciting her to squeeze him. “You’re making me daft, woman.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  He put his knee on the bed and hovered partway over her. “Better than good. Exciting.” Lowering himself to his elbows, his bare chest pressed on hers, inciting a sweet friction, he added in a whisper. “Scary.”

  Why was he scared? His departure for another country would simplify the ending of whatever this was. She made it clear downstairs that she expected nothing. Yet when his lips claimed hers in an all-consuming and arousing kiss, her toes curled and a swarm of butterflies attacked her stomach. Why was she scared too?

  His mouth trailed across her jaw, and she arched her neck to offer a welcome he accepted, nipping and sucking and driving her into an ever-increasing frenzy of sensation. While he continued the assault by biting her earlobe, he glided his hand up her rib cage to cup her breast and give it a squeeze.

  “How’d you get so good at this?” Warm breath wafted over her ear inciting another round of shivers. “Oh wait, I almost forgot about the double-decker busload of practice you’ve had.”

  His thumb glided over her nipple. Along with the undeniable pleasure was a signal growing in amplitude from between her legs that demanded more, and the faster the better. He must have possessed an antenna to receive her signals because his mouth moved south. But not far enough.

  With his hand still playing with one breast, his tongue and lips played with the other. Closing her eyes, she speared a hand through his hair and fisted the strands, her back arching and her hips undulating.

  “I might die. Can someone die from pleasure?”

  “We haven’t even made it to the good stuff yet.” His warm breath made her nipple pull even tighter.

  She wasn’t sure she would survive the “good stuff” with her wits intact. Her body felt ready to splinter into infinite pieces, never to be reassembled again. He moved farther south, his skin rasping along hers. She wanted him to slow down. No, she needed him to go faster.

  He tugged her panties over her hips and any response was erased like a shaken Etch a Sketch. Urgency overrode modesty. She propped her heels on the edge of the bed and made room between her knees for his broad shoulders.

  He scooped his hands under her butt and traced the most intimate part of her with his tongue. His touch was light but incredibly thorough. Not that she was surprised. He was a detail-orientated guy who strived for success.

  Fisting her hands in his hair, she rotated her hips to encourage a firmer touch. He was kind enough to take the hint. His fingers teased her entrance as his tongue and lips worked magic. He pressed his finger inside of her, and an orgasm swamped her like a tsunami.

  Bucking and squirming beneath him, she felt possessed. Words flew from her mouth, incomprehensible to her ears. Was she speaking in tongues? It certainly felt like a transcendent religious experience.

  Finally, the tide ebbed and her heels slipped off the bed. Like a ragdoll, she lay there, fitting her fragmented thoughts back together. One overriding desire emerged. She wanted to drive him just as wild and crazy. Wanted to make him feel special and wanted.

  He stood between her knees at the foot of the bed. She sat up, slipped her right hand under his kilt and stroked the length of him.

  His hips jerked and he grunted. Not in a “give me more” way but like he’d been stung by a wasp. “Ow. Your plasters pinched me.”

  She snatched her injured hand back and stuck her left hand under his kilt, fumbling to grasp him. “Sorry about that. Fair warning, not only am I out of practice, but I’m right-handed, so this might not be my best performance.”

  A gruff laugh had her tilting her head up to see him. He cupped her face and leaned down to kiss her, their smiling lips meeting and sending a shock through her. Not because it was the sweetest or the sexiest kiss, they’d shared, but because it was … fun. Being with him, in bed and out, was fun.

  Nuzzling his nose next to hers, he said, “While I appreciate the effort, it won’t be necessary tonight. In fact, I’m so blasted eager to be inside of you, I can’t stand it another minute.”

  With little effort expended on his part, he scooted her up the bed, the soft wool of his kilt doing nothing to disguise his erection. He sat back on his heels, his hands going to the leather clasps of the kilt. “Let me—”

  “No. Leave it on.” She propped herself up on her elbows, hit by a bolt of insecurity. “Is that weird? You’d think living in Highland would give me immunity to men in kilts, but this is different.”

  “Different is good?”

  “The best.”

  “After this I’ll have to buy it, huh?”

  A laugh stuttered out of her, but she didn’t look away from where he stroked himself, the kilt hiked up. “If you don’t buy it, I will.”

  He shifted closer and she tilted her pelvis toward him, reaching over her head to clutch the bedspread. He paused, and she wanted to cry. Or yell.

  “We need protection. Do you have any?”

  “I don’t keep condoms around for all the imaginary men I bring home.” She popped to her elbows. “Wait. Actually, I do have condoms in my purse.”

  “Where’s your purse?”

  “Bottom of the stairs. Should we rock-paper-scissors to figure out who should retri
eve it?”

  “Never accuse me of not being a gentleman.” He dropped a kiss on her nose and levered himself off the bed.

  She held out a hand and said in a falsely dramatic, breathless voice, “You’re my hero, Alasdair Blackmoor.”

  In the short time he was gone, Izzy tried to find the sexiest position and ended up with one leg bent and the opposite arm thrown over her head. He walked through the door and halted a few feet from the bed, his gazed fixed on her.

  “Ach, you’re driving me mad, Isabel.”

  She shivered, craving his warmth over her, under her, between her legs. “Grab one. Hurry.” She sat up, dropping the affectation of trying to be sexy, and made a “gimme more” gesture with her hands.

  He unzipped her purse and pulled out one, but the rest followed like her purse was a condom clown car. “I’m impressed.”

  “My friend Anna had a feeling we might need them.”

  “‘We’ as in you and me or you and Holt?”

  “You and me. Only you and me.”

  He stood at the side of the bed and tossed the condoms between them like throwing a gauntlet. “Do you think we can use them all?”

  “Tonight?” her voice had gone squeaky.

  “Shall we try to demolish them before the games?”

  She rolled to her stomach, tore one square from the rest, and removed the rolled-up latex. While she had never been directly involved in the application process, the mechanics didn’t require an engineering degree.

  Propping herself up on her elbow, face to penis, she wrapped her good left hand around the base of his erection. The condom was forgotten in the desire to prove to him how lickable he was. She closed her eyes and twirled her tongue around the flanged head before sucking him into her mouth.

  “You’re turning me into a dobber, lass.” He plucked the condom from her fingers and made quick work of rolling it on. “Are you ready?”

  “I was born ready.” She lay back and pulled him down with her. “Actually, that would be super icky and strange. Forget I said that.” The last words ended on a moan as he positioned himself at her entrance and pushed inside of her without a preamble.

  He made her forget everyone who’d come before. No one had lit her on fire like a sparkler, crackling with pleasure. His slow slide seemed neverending, filling and stretching her until he was buried.

  “’S good, Isabel?” His words sounded like they’d been sent through a shredder, and it took her a second too long to reconstruct the meaning. He started to withdraw on a groan.

  “No.” She sank her nails into one of his buttocks. “I mean, yes. You feel absolutely glorious.”

  His sigh left his body curved over hers, his weight on his forearms. Like he couldn’t bear to lose contact with her, he withdrew only an inch before pushing deep again. But with each thrust, his hips gained in speed and amplitude and demanded an answer. Her body responded by kindling another orgasm.

  She touched every part of him she could reach. While the kilt hampered her explorations, the feel of the fabric pooled against her skin aroused her in its own special way. Sensations streaked through her body and she clung to his back, the only solid, real thing in her universe.

  She wasn’t sure which of them fell apart first, but as her inner muscles clenched with another climax, he buried his face in her neck and shuddered his release. Dreamy and satiated, she made a slow return to reality and wondered when they could deploy condom number two.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alasdair lay beside Isabel in the aftermath. They’d crossed a line. No, they’d leapt across. Or maybe sped across in a Porsche. The line was so far behind them, they could never get back within sight of it. Yet, he didn’t regret taking her to bed.

  What he did regret was the looming crisis he’d accidently set in motion at Wellington. But he’d fix it. As soon as he figured out how. Isabel and Rose need never know. The more immediate dilemma was whether he stayed at her side or sidled through the connecting bathroom into his room.

  He very much wanted to stay, but didn’t want to overstep his welcome. Indecision kept him on edge but unmoving.

  Isabel heaved a sigh and flopped to her back, one arm thrown up over her head. She had maneuvered her way under the sheet, much to his disappointment. Returning after retrieving her purse to the sight of her laid out naked on the bed like a personal sensual buffet had been startling in the best, most arousing way. He flipped his kilt down to cover his nakedness.

  “I’m glad we didn’t end up in the loft of the barn,” she said on a yawn. “It’s secluded, but I don’t think it would have been all that comfortable. Forget ants. Can you imagine coming face to face with the beady eyes of a possum in the middle of the good stuff? It might have put me off sex for the rest of my life.”

  His body relaxed the longer she talked. “That would be a shame because you’re so good at it.”

  She turned to punch his arm playfully then resumed her position. “You did all the hard work. In fact, if I had one, I’d give you a gold star.”

  “Where would you put it?” He propped his head up on his hand and grinned down at her.

  The moon had risen over the horizon and shone through the window, turning her pale skin luminescent. Skin he had caressed and kissed mere moments ago. Her hair was tousled from his hands and her thrashing while she’d been in the throes of her orgasm. He did feel rather proud of himself.

  “I’d put it on your very talented mouth.” She ran her finger over his bottom lip, her eyes shadowed and mysterious. The corner of her mouth quirked. “Or maybe right on the tip of your magnificent erection.”

  His gasp morphed into a laugh.

  She covered her eyes. “I swear, I usually don’t say what I’m actually thinking. Just around you.”

  “I love it.” The L-word hovered in the air like an interloper.

  To cover his discomfiture, he kissed her. What was meant to provide cover for his slip of the tongue turned into a kiss so sweet and sexy, his growing erection longed to earn a second gold star. Their lips parted, their quickened breathing mingling. He couldn’t seem to get close enough.

  “I wasn’t sure I even liked you when you showed up,” she said. “I was convinced you and Gareth were here to scam us like Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.”

  Although, neither he nor Gareth were attempting to bilk the Buchanans of money or possessions, the morass of what he was hiding shadowed the moment. He attempted a light tone. “I was sure your mother was using Gareth.”

  “For what? Mom said even his cottage is owned by the earl.” Isabel misread his disquiet, stroking his cheek and adding. “Don’t worry. Mom doesn’t care if he doesn’t even have two cents to rub together. I think she might even be in love with him.”

  As if on cue, footsteps and whispers echoed from the foyer. “They’re back,” Isabel said in her best horror move voiceover imitation. She added in a normal voice. “Do you think they know?”

  “They would have known if they’d been in the house. We weren’t playing quiet mouse, still mouse, that’s for certain.”

  “I think I lost consciousness for a hot second when I … Am I loud? Oh my God, am I a screamer?”

  “You’re a talker, not a screamer.”

  Laughter sparkled in her eyes. “Don’t even think about repeating anything I said. My bed is like Vegas.”

  “A slot machine?”

  “No, you crazy man. The slogan. What happens in bed, stays in bed.” Their combined laughter faded into silence, which Isabel broke in a casual voice. “Speaking of what happens … What happens now?”

  He linked his hands on his chest. “My bed is too far away. I hope you’ll let me stay tonight. Tomorrow, how about I use my not-inconsiderable skills to help you with the festival?”

  “What are your specialties?” Her smile was magic and moonlight.

  He ticked off on his fingers. “Moral support. Brute strength. Stress relief.”

  “What kind of stress relief?”

  He slipped
his hand under the sheet to her bare hip. “I have the next hour available for a job interview.”

  “Wow, an hour seems pretty optimistic.”

  “That sounds like a challenge if I ever heard one.” He stripped the sheet away from her body to the accompaniment of her breathless giggles.

  A crash from downstairs cracked their cocoon. Ears straining, Alasdair froze. Quick footsteps passed down the hallway followed by the slam of a door.

  Isabel sat up, grabbed the sheet, and whispered, “Oh, dear.”

  “A lover’s spat, do you think?” He wanted nothing more than to ignore the brewing trouble and remain in her bed. Isabel’s hair fell over one shoulder, her back luring him closer. Without being able to help himself, he trailed his fingers down her spine and dropped a kiss on her shoulder.

  She shoved his shoulder. “Go check on your friend.”

  He sighed, but rolled off the bed. His shirt was nowhere to be found. Padding through the bathroom, he retrieved another and pulled it on, exchanging the kilt with worn athletic shorts. He could hear Isabel rustling for clothes in her wardrobe as well, but when he returned to her room and stopped short, she was still in bed.

  “Aren’t you going to check on your mother?”

  “Are you crazy? If I ask Mom about her and Gareth, she’ll ask me about you, and I’d rather maintain a don’t ask, don’t tell policy where s-e-x is concerned.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper at the end.

  “Are you embarrassed we had s-e-x?” If he had to quantify the emotion roiling him, it would be something akin to hurt feelings. He was self-aware enough to see the irony of not wanting to be her secret when he was keeping secrets from her.

  “Super embarrassed to talk to my mom about it, yes.” At his silence, she rose to her knees. The sheet fell away and left her in a tank top and short-shorts. Blast and damn. If he could keep her naked in bed twenty-four hours a day, he’d be a happy man. She crooked her finger. “Come here, Alasdair.”

  Alasdair obeyed. When the heat of her body pressed into his, his hands automatically found her bottom. “What?”