Page 132 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

He’s careful not to touch my skin as he pulls up my dress, leaving only the thin fabric of my shift between his hand and my center.

His touch is fire, even through the wind-chilled linen. “Brennen,” I pant his name, arching into him.

“Mo chreach,” he rasps, my ruin, pulling my legs apart.

He begins to rub, rough, greedy circles, and any thoughts forming from his words dash from my mind.

I lean my head back as his fingers work, warmth flooding my entire body.

“You can stop— You don’t have to—” I can’t even finish the sentence, the words shifting into a moan as bright colors dance behind my eyelids.

“No. I cannae stop,” he growls, his other hand gripping my hip tight enough to bruise, and I do not have the strength to try to convince him he’ll regret this. I groan as he changes his rhythm, his thick, hard length digging into my backside as he rolls himself against me. I groan at his evident desire, pushing back against the proof of what I am somehow doing to him.

He presses harder, a rumble leaving his chest as I grind against him.

I moan his name, and he curses, his hand coming up to cup my breast as pressure unlike anything I’ve ever felt before coils deep inside me. I don’t have time to think of what this means or why Brennen gave in as his other hand slides from my hip to my belly, pinning me against him like I might slip away if he eases his pressure at all. It is my undoing, the feeling of his desire against my back, the rumbles in his chest as his fingers work in delicious circles. I cry out as release slams through me, violent and sudden.

But Brennen doesn’t stop. He continues to swirl his fingers over the soaked fabric until I still, breathless.

His breaths are ragged against my neck, and I twist in his arms to look at him. I need to see what he’s thinking. How he’s feeling.

His eyes are dark, and he leans forward as if to press his forehead against mine, but stops just short.

“Brennen—”

“No,” he stops me, closing his eyes. His nostrils flare as he takes several deep breaths, as if searching for a single scrap of control. “Sleep now, Bea.” He tucks my hair behind my ear tenderly, so careful to avoid my skin.

“But—”

“Please. I have far less restraint than you realize.” There’s pain in his voice. A tension I don’t understand.

My ruin, he’d called me.

I think he just might be mine, too.

I roll over, my body tired, but Brennen is restless. He shifts back and forth, and I’m just about to ask if he regrets what happened when he stands, softly stepping over me so as to not wake me.

“Where are you going?” I ask, and he pauses.

“I need to take a walk,” he rumbles. “Sleep. I’ll be back.” But as he disappears through the tent flaps, I cannot help but notice the stiffness of his movements and his fingers flexing at his sides. I sit and listen, pulling a tartan around me.

Has it happened already? Has shame settled onto his shoulders, his conscience revolting against what he chose to do, and now he needs a moment away from me to process it all? I don’t like how the idea makes me feel. I’m not something to be ashamed of, nor does he deserve that guilt.

I know what just transpired between us didn’t change anything about his orders, and I won’t let him wallow in self-depreciation because of it.

Pulling the tartan tighter, I slide outside the tent. Brennen is standing to the side, close to the river, one arm braced against the trunk of a pine. His head is bowed, and sadness tugs at my heart.

“Mo chreach,” he says, rough and uninhibited, and I freeze. It doesn’t sound like he’s processing his guilt at all. It sounds like…

For a second, I consider turning around, but my body doesn’t allow it. Quietly, I make my way to his side. My heart pounds, my mind racing and my mouth going dry when I see exactly how wrong I was.

A mixture of stunned amazement and recklessness floods my entire body. His kilt is lifted, and he holds himself in his hand, thick and heavy, pumping furiously, his eyes closed tight. I suck in a sharp breath.

He stops, his gaze shooting to mine.

“Bea,” he pauses, but he doesn’t let himself go.

I watch his ragged breathing. The wildness in his eyes, and it makes me feel bold. Beautiful and wanted.