Saving the Scot, page 24
He hissed and took hold of her wrists. Did she hurt him? Maybe his nipples ached as much as hers? Didn’t he know touching them would help with the ache?
“What?”
“We’re going to play a game,” he said.
A game? Why would he want to stop in the middle of all this thrilling business to play a bloody game? But once he explained the rules, the game made a kind of wicked sense. Hadn’t she heard it referred to as bed-sport? Of course. Sex was meant to be fun. And not just for men. Why would women pretend not to like something that was fun?
Without him having to ask her twice, she unfolded her legs and got into position. “On my back?” she asked.
“Aye, and tuck your hands under your bottom. When it’s my turn, I get to touch you, but you cannae touch me.”
She nodded and slid her fingers under her hips.
“Close your eyes and no peeking.”
“Can I talk?”
He chuckled deep in his chest. “You can make all the little sounds you want, love. Just dinnae be too loud, aye?”
“Loud?”
“No screaming.”
That was alarming. “Is it going to hurt?”
“Nae, it’s going to feel so good, you’ll want to cry out.”
“Oh.”
“The next time, I’ll make sure we’re all alone so you can scream as much as ye want, I promise.”
There would be a next time? He straddled her legs and braced himself with a palm on either side of her. She inhaled, surprised at how big and dominating his dark figure looked looming over her.
“Close your eyes, love. The game begins now.”
The first flood of sensation came when he buried his nose in the crook of her neck, and groaned, “God, you smell good.” His full day’s growth of raspy beard prickled her skin and made her turn her face into his silky hair and inhale.
“Mm. So do you.”
She lay in a sort of delirium while he kissed her ears, cheeks, nose, chin, brow. Then opened her mouth for a deep kiss, his tongue dancing in and out, tangling with hers, teasing her lips. He paused, leaving his lips lightly touching hers, and then whispered. “My beautiful green-eyed sorceress, you’ve bewitched me. You are all I think about. All day I pictured you like this, naked, under me, letting me touch you.” He trailed a kiss down her neck and over her shoulder. “In all my fantasies, you never tasted this good, or smelled this good…” He shifted on the bed and his cock grazed her thigh. He growled, “Or felt this damn good.”
He covered her left nipple with his cool wet lips and sucked.
She cried out and her back arched at the shocking sensation.
“Shhh,” he said. “Tell me quietly now, how does that feel, love?”
“Good,” she panted, “so good, too good.”
“Shall I stop?”
“Nae, dinnae stop.”
He chuckled into her breast. “I wonder, does the other one taste as good?”
“Ah.” She arched again. “You are a wicked man, Ian Sinclair.”
He lifted his head. “If I am, you make me so.”
While he sucked and nipped her right nipple, he cupped her left with his hand and squeezed. He pinched the hard nub and rolled it between his fingers. She moaned and pleaded for more, begged him not to stop. Her hips had started to rock and twist and squirm because she needed something—
He hooked his hand under her left knee and pulled her leg up, then snugged his thigh firmly against the spot between her legs. Yes. That’s what she needed. Contact. Pressure. Something to rock against.
His big warm hand skimmed the inside of her thigh all the way up to her— “Oh.”
“Christ, you’re so slick and wet.” He said it as if it was a good thing. Which was fortunate because that wasn’t something she had any control over. In fact, she was losing control by the second.
Her eyes flew open when he slid a finger into the cleft of her womanly part. She lifted her head, but he didn’t notice because he had bent his head to look at her parts. He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip and his tongue slipped out in concentration as he began to stroke her experimentally. He rubbed up and down, then in small circles. “Which feels better?” he asked.
“More,” she gasped. “More. More. More. Oh God.”
He slid one finger inside her and she thought she might fly off the bed and hit the ceiling, it felt so sinfully good.
“Keep your eyes closed,” he whispered in her ear. “Concentrate on that spot, think naughty thoughts, whisper dirty words.”
She did as she was told and concentrated on the burning, tightening, throbbing feel of his finger swirling circles around that wild spot on her body. His private part was the naughtiest thing she could think of. Even naughtier, she pictured her hand wrapped around it. She couldn’t bring herself to utter the dirtiest word she knew out loud, so she mouthed it over and over.
“You’re almost there, love,” he whispered. “Say the word out loud and let yourself go.”
“Please, please, oh,” and then she said the word out loud.
The world splintered into a thousand shards of colored light and her body shuddered.
“That’s it, love. Come for me.” He slid his finger inside and her body pulsed around it.
“Oh, Ian, Ian, I didnae ken it was like that. Oh Lord. That was so wicked.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She felt like sobbing but she was too happy. No one had prepared her for how intimate this would be, sharing something like this, whatever it was called.
She lifted her head. “What was that?”
He settled next to her and stroked her belly with the back of his hand. “You had an orgasm. Did you never touch yourself before?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“When someone isnae in your bed to give you pleasure, you can always give yourself pleasure.”
What an incredible idea. Ian wasn’t nearly as prudish as she had originally thought. In fact, he was a wicked, wicked man. And she loved that.
“There are people who will tell you there is shame in it, but dinnae listen to them. There’s no shame at all.” He kissed her then, a long sweet kiss. A kiss so natural it felt like they’d kissed a thousand times before.
She suddenly remembered her recent wanton behavior and her hand flew to her mouth.
“What is it?”
“I said that word out loud.” The back of her neck burned with embarrassment.
“Aye, ye did.” He nuzzled her ear. “And now I ken your secret word, the word that brings you off.”
…
Ian had brought many women to completion. He’d gotten quite good at it. It was the polite thing to do, after all. An exchange of favors. He’d felt obliged to give the woman pleasure before he took his. The more efficient he was, the quicker he could achieve his own and be on his way.
Never, never in all the years he’d spent swiving as many women as he could coax into his bed had he ever derived as much pleasure as he did watching Miss Green-Eyes open like a flower in his arms. And Christ, when she’d uttered that word—which happened to be his favorite trigger word, too—he’d nearly spent himself on her belly.
“Did I win?” she asked.
“Nae. The object of the game is to please the other. I believe I won.”
“Is it my turn now?”
“I’m no’ done with you.”
She rolled onto her stomach and propped herself on her elbows. “What’s next?”
“My bed’s too small for what I have in mind. Shall we make a dash for your room?”
They semi-dressed and snuck down the hallway one at a time. His heart thundered in his chest with the possibility of being caught, but he doubted Kirby would think poorly of him since he had the same lurid intention of debauching Miss Robertson. Once inside Miss MacQuarie’s chamber, he locked the door behind him and skimmed off his trousers and shirt. His vixen was already lighting candles.
“Wait,” he said. “Take off your night things. I want to watch you walk about the room naked.” He hopped onto her bed, stretched out his legs, and folded his arms behind his head.
She lifted one elegant eyebrow. “Comfortable?”
He smiled. “Very. Begin the performance.”
She swept off her shift and very casually—as if a debauched ex-soldier with a cock as hard as brass wasn’t watching her—draped the item over a chair. She lit a taper off the burning candle, then went about the room lighting six more, just as natural as can be. Not a self-conscious tic or twitch.
She was a performer.
Finished, she looked to him for more. He twirled his finger in the air. Miss MacQuarie gracefully turned full circle and curtsied low for him.
He sat up and mimed clapping his hands, whispering, “Brava, brava.”
She burst into giggles, trotted to the bed with breasts and curls bouncing, and jumped in next to him. He gathered her into his arms and planted kisses on her head, cheeks, ears, neck, anything within reach of his lips. She straddled his hips and sat back on his thighs.
“Do ye ken you have a very fine arse, Miss MacQuarie?”
“I do now.” He reached for one of her breasts and she batted his hand away playfully. “What did you want to do that required a bigger bed?”
“That comes later.”
“Then is it my turn now?”
He pushed himself up to sitting. “Just let me feel them one more time.” She leaned forward and stuck out her chest so that he could cup them with his hands. “These are the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen in my life. I’d insist they should be displayed in an art museum, except I’d have to kill any man who looked at them.” Jee-sus. Where did that come from? He sounded like a jealous lover. He leaned back on the pillow and refolded his arms behind his head. “Right. I’m closing my eyes now. Do your worst. But remember, I’m ticklish.”
She remained still for a long minute until he was compelled to open one eye. As far as he could tell in the dim lighting, she was inspecting his arms and chest. He felt the skin on his body flush. “Eyes closed,” she said. The heat of her body left him and the bed dipped.
“Where are you going?”
“Dinnae move. I have a candle in my hands.”
“Why?”
“I need to see you better.” Her cool hand trailed slowly down his chest and belly, and he tensed with anticipation. No fannying about for her. The lass was going directly for the prize. To his dismay, her hand took a detour down his flank, over his hip and thigh, and paused on the ugly scar. “What happened here?”
“Saber cut. That’s what brought me down at Quatre Bras. Nearly killed me.”
“But my—but General Robertson carried you off the field.”
“Aye.” He opened his right eye enough to see her bend and kiss the angry red ropey-looking thing. Standing at the side of the bed—instead of in it with him as she should be, as he wanted her to be—she continued her close inspection. When her hand reached his foot, he flinched. “I told you. I’m ticklish.”
“Do ye ken you have a very fine pair of feet, Captain?”
His belly bounced with silent laughter. “Feet?” He whispered. “Of all the parts of me, you choose to comment on my feet?”
“But they’re beautiful.”
“Come here, ye daft woman.” He sat up, took the candle from her and set it back down on the table next to the bed. She climbed back in and resumed her straddle. His cock stiffened and jumped between their bellies, drawing her attention.
“Did you do that or does it move on its own?”
He laughed again and wrapped his arms around her back. Ian couldn’t remember having this much fun with a naked woman before. “Most of the time, I can control it, but no’ when it comes to you.”
“Because I’m naked?”
He kissed her quick. “Because you smell like lavender, and you have emerald-green eyes that flash when you’re angry, and you have magic hands that take away my pain.” He licked her neck. “And ye wear trousers under your kirtle, and put loaded guns in your pockets.”
“But I thought those were the things that made you angry.”
“Anger. Desire. My cock doesnae ken the difference.” He cupped one heavy breast in his hand. “And ye have the bonniest chebs I’ve ever seen.” He trailed more kisses down her shoulder.
She arched into his touch with a gasp. “But what about the game?”
He paused between kisses. “I concede the game. You are the winner.” He wrapped one arm tightly around her waist and using his other for leverage, spun them both around so that her back was on the mattress and he was on top of her. She let out a little sound of surprise. He snugged himself between her legs and the thing inside his head—the itch that constantly reminded him when things needed to be straightened, or squared, or counted, or put back into place—calmed. This is where she should be. Under him.
“Is this when our parts go together?” she asked. He detected a hint of trepidation.
“If that is what you want, love. Do you want me inside you?”
“Will it hurt? You’re awfully…big.”
“A quick pinch, but after that, pleasure. And I promise you, I will fit.”
His balls had drawn up so tight they began to ache. Please say yes, please say yes.
“I want you inside me, Ian. Now.”
Thank Christ.
As he had promised, he went slowly, gently, mustering every ounce of control. His cock screamed for him to close his eyes and thrust. But the one corner of his sanity still functioning kept his eyes open, monitoring her for discomfort. Any time she winced, he withdrew an inch. Two steps forward, one step back, until he was halfway—the point of no return.
“Are you all right, love?”
“Aye.”
“Shall I make it quick, then?” She nodded and he buried himself to the hilt. She let out only a little gasp. He stilled until he got himself under control, and her breathing quieted. He moved experimentally, a short withdrawal and back.
“Oh. Is this the pleasure part?” she whispered.
“Aye,” he groaned, on the very edge of losing it. He began a slow incremental rhythm.
She uttered in a high-pitched, surprised, “Oh.” And then a low, “Oh. Oh, Ian, that is nice. That is—oh. I had no idea. Oh.”
Her words encouraged a faster pace, longer thrusts, harder thrusts. The thing inside his head began to uncoil, releasing tension he’d grown so used to, he hadn’t known it was always present. At last. He was in his proper place. This was where he was supposed to be. Inside her.
“Oh, Ian, Ian, it’s happening again.”
It was happening for him, too. He was close, so close. His trigger word formed in his head, traveled to his tongue and he opened his lips to speak it…but instead of his word, it came out as, “I love you, lass. Oh God, I love you.” The first pump of release brought him satisfaction like he’d never known, a glorious, overwhelming sense of peace and joy. The second pulse jolted him back to his senses and he pulled out, finishing himself on her belly.
Dazed from the power of his release, he collapsed in a sweating, heaving heap, completely oblivious to the woman under him.
“Ian, you’re squashing me. I cannae breathe.”
He rolled off, still panting, and draped his forearm over his eyes. Had he really just told Miss MacQuarie he loved her? Had she heard him? Another thought, darker than the first: he’d pulled out too late. Some of his seed was in her. It could be taking root even now.
A sickly sensation overcame him. A soup of guilt, shame, and regret. Bloody hell. Why did he always let his basest desires undo him? Was he doomed to repeat his same mistake?
“Are you all right?” he asked, unable to look at her.
“Yes. Are you?”
He got out of bed, padded to the basin, and dampened a towel. Returning, he said, “Sorry. It’s a bit cold,” and attempted to clean her belly.
She took the towel. “I’ll do it.”
“I should probably go back to my room. God knows what time it is.” He searched for his trousers.
“It’s not late. There’s hours and hours left. Must you go?”
He winced. “We both need sleep, lass.”
“Ian,” she said, sounding grave. “Are you sorry it happened?”
He punched his way into his shirt. “I hope not, lass,” he said, and left her.
Chapter Thirteen
The door latch clicked behind him. Lying on her bed, Louisa wept silently, letting the tears trickle out of the corners of her eyes and pool in her ears. The captain was sorry. Maybe not about the bedding, but he was sorry he’d told her he loved her. He couldn’t even look at her afterward. Why did he have to ruin it? The best, most wonderful, most exciting and erotic night of her life, and he ruined the whole thing for him and for her with that one stupid comment.
I love you, lass. Oh, God, I love you.
Those words had burned their way into her heart—a slow searing pain. She’d never forget the sound, as if it had tortured him to say I love you. Was it true, or was it something he always said at the last…before he reached that ecstatic moment? If he spoke the truth, if he really loved her, Louisa’s betrayal would be all the more devastating for them both. No wonder her father sent her away. How could he love her? She was a horrible, hateful, selfish person. She was truly the General’s Daughter from Hell.
Louisa wished it didn’t hurt her heart to destroy Captain Sinclair’s life. The truth was, she was in love with him. If he weren’t counting on the commission her father would award him, things wouldn’t be so complicated. Instead, they had become a twisted tangle she could never undo. What a fool she was to encourage his attentions, to think that giving herself to him would lessen the blow when he discovered her treachery.
She could imagine what tomorrow would be like. He’d tell her he didn’t mean the words. He wouldn’t look at her when he said it. And he’d probably never touch her again, never call her lass, never laugh for her, never put his head in her lap and beg her to rub his temples. How could she bear it?
