Bitterness stung the back of his throat, and his gut started to burn.
Ailean had sailed through life. He’d returned from fighting the English with barely a scratch upon him. He’d one day inherit all of this, would wed a fine lady, and rule. They were friends, yet there had always been a part of Rowan that resented Ailean for the luck he lived by.
He was a smug prick.
Not for much longer.
Rowan stepped out of the shadows and moved toward the tower house.
Maclean shall hear about this.
19: IN YER THRALL
BACK AGAINST rough wood, Fiona bit down on her lower lip to stop herself from crying out.
This was folly. Madness.
And yet, she didn’t want him to stop.
Ailean was taking her up against the wall, grinding his hips against her with each stroke. And the sensations he was rousing—the way he made her tremble and shudder against him—were slowly making her forget her own name.
He’d followed her in here and closed the door behind him.
She’d straightened up from stacking the last of the pails and turned to face him.
They’d stared at each other for a few long moments, and then both had moved at the same time. They’d flown at each other, mouths colliding.
He was already half-naked. His skin was sticky with cooled sweat. He tasted of smoke; she likely did too.
Christ … this feels good.
Gasping, Fiona bucked up against him, urging him on.
“I can’t get enough of ye, woman,” His voice was gravelly with lust in her ear. “Ye are sweeter than honey.”
She whimpered, resting her head back on the wall as pleasure pulsed through her loins. She couldn’t get enough of him either.
She should have been outraged at him cornering her in here, taking such liberties. Instead, giddy excitement had unfurled, like flames quickened by a dry wind.
“I can’t keep my mind from ye,” he ground out as he circled his hips once more. “All I want is to seek ye out, to sink into ye … lose myself in ye … to come home.”
And with that, he caught hold of her right leg and lifted it high, encouraging her to wrap it around his waist.
She did, clinging on as he rode her even harder against the wall.
And with each thrust, she met him, encouraging him deeper.
Pleasure bloomed, pulsing low in her belly. And all the while, their mouths savaged each other. Hungry. Desperate. Each kiss, each touch—it all stoked this tide of need.
And now, he was plowing her with such vigor that she thought she might lose her wits altogether. This was magic. Surely, it wasn’t like this for all couples? Surely, not everyone was soconsumedby this act?
“Ye have me in yer thrall,” he growled, driving into her once more. “Yer tight quim clutches my prick now … do ye feel it?”
“Aye,” she gasped, inflamed by his lewd words. And she did. She was rising to her peak, the walls of her core fluttering against his strength. “Plow me, Ailean. Hard! Don’t stop!”
He groaned then, the sound almost pained, and then he grabbed her by the hips and started to thrust wildly. It was a beautiful thing to watch the arrogant Ailean Maclean unravel. Until now, he’d always been the one leading, and she following.
But now they were equals. Their difference in rank didn’t matter. Nothing did but this.
