“Lass?” he’d said. Not her name. Not, “What’s the matter?” Just a dazed word that could apply to any girl, and a cock so big it thrust up his kilt like a thick stick.
It was awful, and yet her heart had been beating, her breasts were still tender, and part of her wanted him to go back to them. Tease her nipples again, and her legs would spread. She was sure of it because she’d already started.
And damn her for still wanting it now. For looking at the thrust of his cock then and wanting to see it revealed.
“No!” she’d bellowed. The word was meant for herself. It was defiance against the emotions that seemed to tear through her. She wanted him, and she did not. She wanted those feelings, and she did not. She wanted to know, and she already did. Hadn’t she seen women screaming in childbirth? Wasn’t that enough to tell her to flee?
It was then. She’d run like the wind, the blackberries forgotten. He’d followed sometime later. She knew because he’d filled up her basket with blackberries and brought them to the kitchen. She’d spent the rest of the day and the next by the glass furnace using heat and sweat to keep her feelings at bay. And she’d always worn her stays after that.
Sometime in the decade since that disaster, Connall had learned how to kiss. And damn him for that because his terrible kiss had been the only thing that saved her last time. But now, lying in the dark of her bedroom, she relived every slow caress of his mouth on hers. The way he’d made her lips tingle and how he’d stroked against her teeth until she’d opened for him. In her imagination, he thrust and parried with her tongue, and her breath grew short again, her body boneless.
Lying in her bed, her hands stroked her breasts and down by her sides. He’d never done this in reality, but in her imagination, they’d done what all passionate Scots do. They’d gotten carried away and damn the consequences. She could do that in the privacy of her own bed. Here, she could feel everything and never fear that feelings would tear her apart.
She touched herself between her thighs where she was slick and open. She thrust her fingers inside and pretended it was Connall’s cock, thick and hard. She beat a tempo there and rolled her thumb over her nub. In her mind’s eye, it was Connall on top of her pressing her hard into the mattress. Connall inside her, ramming her with powerful thrusts. Connall lost in his need for her while she tightened around him.
Her abdomen tensed and her breasts jerked with her breath. She knew better than to cry out, but she heard the rasp of her need. And then she thought of him everywhere at once. Cock pounding inside her. Hands on her breasts. Tongue in her mouth.
He filled her and consumed her. And she rode him as she might a stallion, straight to her peak.
She came with a muted cry then flopped back on the bed as she bonelessly rode the waves of fulfillment. And in her mind’s eye, Connall gathered her to him, curled against her back, and together they slept in perfect, peaceful contentment.
She could do that because none of it was real. Whatever emotions possessed her now, they could be safely put away by morning.
