“Tell me what to do,” she whispered in his ear, her voice a husky purr. “Teach me.”
It was like throwing cold water on a fire. He let her go at once and stepped back.
She was unsteady on her feet, breathing hard, her breasts heaving. Two more buttons were open—missing, actually. Had he done that? He swallowed a groan. Her eyes were wide, but not with fear. With desire. “Don’t stop. I didn’t ask you to stop, Dair.”
He turned away, bent with his hands on his knees, his teeth gritted, his eyes closed, willing away the cockstand, the barbaric desire to toss her on her back, take her here in the heather, ease himself upon her like a pirate.
But she wasn’t a tavern wench or a knowing courtesan. She was a laird’s daughter, and a virgin.
“You don’t understand what you’re asking, lass.”
He heard a rush of sound, recognized the sibilant hiss of silk. Heaven help him. She’d pulled her gown over her head, stood wearing nothing but her thin muslin shift and her stays. The bright summer sun shone through the delicate fabric, illuminated the slim shape of her limbs, the dark V between her thighs, the rosy nipples peaking the cloth. He stared at the pink ribbon between her breasts, the tie that bound her stays. How easy it would be to reach up, take the trailing end of the silk, and tug . . . His erection jerked hopefully.
“Lass,” he said softly, making it a plea. “You don’t know what you’re asking. I may not be chief for very long. I’m mad, haunted, broken.”
She blushed, turning as pink as the damned ribbon. “I do know what I’m asking, Dair. I want to know what it’s like to be loved by a man. I don’t expect marriage, if that’s what you fear. I will probably never—” She bit her lip.
“What would your father say? Your sister?”
She raised her chin to a stubborn little point. “They aren’t here. I’m a grown woman, Dair. No man ever called me beautiful, or wanted to kiss me, before you.”
He read the desire in her eyes, clear and honest. She was most definitely a grown woman. She held out her hand, and this time he took it. She pulled him back into her arms and fell into the soft grass with him atop her. The heather closed around them like a secret bower, and only the sky was visible above them. “Aye,” she said. “Oh, aye.” She wrapped her arms around him, held him, and her kisses were as ardent as his own.
He trailed openmouthed kisses down her throat as he grasped the end of the pink ribbon after all, and pulled. Her stays parted, revealed her to his hungry gaze.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and ran his fingertips over her breasts, cupped them in his hands, watched the nipples ruche as her head fell back and her lips parted. He drew her nipple into his mouth, and she moaned softly and tangled her hands in his hair, holding him to her. Her hips moved restively, her body unschooled but eager.
Fia could feel his arousal against her belly, knew what it meant. He desiredher,Fia MacLeod. She felt a thrill of power go through her. She pushed his plaid and shirt off his shoulders. The scars were there, raw and new, but she’d seen them before, in the night, and they held no power to shock her. She ran her fingertips over them gently, learning them because they were part of him. The scent of his skin poured over her, sharp and masculine, intoxicating. She pressed her mouth to his chest. Boldly, she found his nipple and bit gently, swirled her tongue over the hard pebble, just as he’d done with hers. He gasped for breath. “Oh, Fia, lass,” he said, “Mo leannain,sweetheart.”
He’d raised her skirts, and now he pushed aside the thin muslin of her shift and smoothed a hand over her bare skin, setting her on fire everywhere his fingers brushed. She arched against him, restless, desperate, wanting what came next. “Please,” she said softly.
But he continued to take his time, made a slow exploration of her body with his hands, lips, and tongue. She writhed as his palm caressed her with infuriating slowness. She bucked against his hand as it dipped low over her belly, let her thighs part for him, wanting more. It was within his power to grant it, but he held back, made her wait. He brought his mouth back to hers, and she opened, biting and sucking his tongue and lips. She heard his breath turn into grunts of suppressed desire, and his erection ground into her hip. She reached down to caress it through his plaid. He panted, murmuring in Gaelic.
His hand still hovered over the delicate lips of her sex, and then his fingers dipped between and found the place she needed him most. She cried out, and he began to stroke and circle and tease, taking her beyond anything she’d ever even imagined was possible, to a place of such exquisite pleasure she feared she would die of it. Her hand fluttered over his, half afraid of what was to come, half afraid he’d stop. The sensation burst over her, flames and sparks, stars, and all that was holy. She clung to him, blinded by the sun above her, feeling like the light had entered her veins to sing through her blood, lift her high above the earth.
He held her close, kissed her until she could breathe again. She turned to look at him. “And now?” she said, breathless.
He grinned. “Relentless wench.” He bent to kiss her, but she didn’t want mere kisses. There was more, much more—the thing poets sang of and lasses swooned for. She wanted that. Boldly, she reached under his plaid, touched the hot, silken, unfamiliar hardness. He grunted as she closed her hand around it, thrust against her palm. She squeezed, and his eyes popped. He swore and clamped his hand over hers. “It’ll be over before it’s begun if you do that. Slowly—”
“Dair? Where the devil are you?” His head came up at the sound of Angus’s voice. It brought them out of the erotic mist instantly. Dair stayed still for a moment, his eyes clenched shut as if he was in pain.
“Dair?” the call came again.
“It’s Angus,” he whispered to Fia.
Fia gasped, fumbled to find her gown, hugged it to her chest. He gently pressed her back into the heather when she tried to sit up. “Stay still, lass. I’ll go and see what he wants.” He pulled his shirt back into place and made sure his belt was still buckled before he rose, stepped away from her. Fia shut her eyes and waited.
“Here,” Dair said, a short distance away.
“Och, there you are. I thought you’d vanished. Ye’re needed. Logan rode in with one of the men who killed the chief.”
Fia’s heart leaped. “Is he alive?” Dair asked, his voice dark.
“No. Logan killed him. It’s Lulach Murray, Dair. Daniel’s da.”
There was silence for a moment, and Fia waited for Dair to reply. “Let’s go,” he said.
Fia lay in the heather, her body still burning, tingling, and stared up at the sky, waited for the sound of their footsteps to fade. She wished . . . What?
