Wide-eyed, smiling in clear anticipation, she sank down over him. He wanted to meet her there, take her, claim her, empty himself into her so she would be his forever. Instead he waited, unable to stifle a moan as she took in the length of him, tight and hot and for tonight, at least, his.
“Oh,” she breathed, bouncing experimentally. “This is… Oh.”
Christ. Aden took her breasts again, pinching her nipples as she moved on him. With a gasp she came, pulsing around him, digging her fingers into his shoulders. He held her as she trembled, using every ounce of willpower not to succumb, as well.
When her fingers loosened a little and she raised her head, he kissed her. “Wicked, bonny lass,” he breathed.
She shifted again, nearly sending him over the edge. “But you’re—”
“Aye. Ye make me feel like a green boy, Miranda, but are ye ready for a bit more?”
The grin she gave him was something he would remember forever. “Oh, yes.”
Holding her where she was, still impaled, he slid to the edge of the chair and then onto the expensive-looking rug spread before the hearth. Putting her on her back he withdrew and then entered her deeply, holding her gaze as he took her over and over again.
He’d never wished more that he was the barbarian the Sassenach thought him, so that he could put her over a horse and ride off with her, take her into the Highlands where no one else would be able to harm her or frighten her or take her away from him.
With every stroke he claimed her body, memorizingevery gasp and moan and deep sigh, every motion and the warm, soft feel of her skin against his. She tightened around him again, and as she came, he let himself ride over the edge with her, emptying himself deep inside her.
When he could breathe again he rose, sweeping her up into his arms, and carried her over to his bed. She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, her hands wrapped around his arm. Aden had never been one for praying, but as he watched her sleep, a slight smile on her sweet face, he did so, praying that he was the man she’d declared him to be, and that he’d done enough good in his life to perhaps deserve her.
Miranda woke to the sound of papers rustling. Stretching, she reached down toward the foot of the bed, feeling Aden sitting there. “It’s not morning already, is it?” she asked.
“Barely. Seven o’clock, maybe,” he returned. “How did ye sleep?”
“Better than I have in quite a long while,” she admitted, pushing aside the heavy covers and sitting up.
Aden sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed, dozens of small stacks of papers around him. From the look of it, he’d been at it for a while. Hours, more than likely. “How many people did he do this to?”
“I made a list,” he said, nudging a paper toward her. “Thirty-seven, by my count. He’s writtendeceasedon five of them, but he has addresses for the rest. Nae doubt he kept track of them so he could keep making use of them, but his diligence makes yer plan to let ’em know they’re free a whole acre easier.”
She watched him for a few moments as he read each of the half a dozen papers left in his hand and then sorted them into the existing piles. “You didn’t need to read them,” she said as he shoved all but a single stack of them back into the sack. “We know how horrible he is.”
“I reckon I did need to read every one of them. Somebody should know exactly who he is.”
It wasn’t how she’d wanted to begin the day, especially after such a spectacular, invigorating night, but she did understand it. Last night they’d taken away Robert Vale’s means of supporting himself, and she was glad of it. But she knew Aden saw some parallels between himself and Vale—to her regret, she’d pointed out some of them to him, herself. “You like to wager. That doesn’t make you his twin, you know.”
He looked up at her, the intensity of his gaze reminding her all over again of last night, not that it would ever drift far from her thoughts. Heavens, she’d begun to feel like two separate people, almost. One who smiled and curtsied and played charades at parties, and another who delighted in having sex with a poetical-haired Highlander and found nothing more entertaining than bantering words with him.
“It doesn’t,” she repeated firmly.
“There are similarities,” he said finally. “Icouldhave made my way through life by gambling. Coll’s suggested it a few times, to break us free of Francesca. To keep the three of us—or two of us, anyway—from being obligated to follow her orders.”
“Obligated? And unwilling to do as she says?” Miranda prompted.
“Willing or unwilling, my… Any lass I ask would know I’d been ordered to domesticate myself.”
Stubborn, impossible man.“So yes, youcouldhave become a gambler, and Icouldhave become a nun, but knowing what I know now, I certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”
“Och, lass.” Grinning, he leaned over and kissed her.
Miranda wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissing him back. “Forget about the odious things he wrote,”she murmured, resting her forehead against his. “Just write down the rest of the addresses and burn them. All of them.”
“Aye.”
He hesitated, the second time he’d done so in the past four minutes. This time it made her heart shiver a little. “What is it?”
“Ye should know, he bought other debts, too. Or won them, more likely.”
