Bad Boys In Kilts (24 page)

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Authors: Donna Kauffman

BOOK: Bad Boys In Kilts
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Chapter 8
I
ndeed
, Tristan thought. What was he waiting for? He’d given her every opportunity, hadn’t he? She was correct—they were consenting adults. So why wasn’t he carrying her off to his lair to have his wicked way with her?
He was so rock-hard with need he was in pain. He should be ecstatic to have such a delightful surprise drop literally into his lap. After all, she was just passing through. And more than willing to while away a little of her time with him. What wasn’t to like? He couldn’t have dreamed up a better scenario.
He looked down into Bree’s eyes, alive now with desire. So thoroughly filled with trust.
It was that last part that was hanging him up.
Not that he couldn’t be trusted. He was dependable and fair to a fault. And they’d clearly made no claim on each other beyond this storm-filled night ... and whatever additional nights they chose to share beyond it. So why he looked into her eyes and felt ... not guilt, exactly—he wasn’t taking advantage of the situation any more or less than she was, after all. But ... something. Something more, or perhaps different, than he should be feeling if this were nothing more than a simple roll in the hay.
There was that word again.
Simple
.
And that, right there, was the crux of it. She wouldn’t be simple. He already knew her life was being lived on a far grander stage than some rocky, highland acreage dotted with nothing more than heather and sheep. Which was fine by him, as he couldn’t care less where life took her once she left here. Right?
Right.
Except she was smiling up at him, and he felt something shift inside his chest, in a spot very close to his heart. There was something about Bree Sullivan, something about the combination of her warrior spirit and her wounded soul, that reached a place deep inside of him. It made no sense—he hardly knew anything of her, really. But what he did know of her made him want to draw, made him want to create. It had been a very long time since he’d felt so moved, so truly inspired.
Och, he thought ruefully, knowing why he hesitated in carrying her off to his bed. She’d captured his muse’s fancy, that was a certainty. But ... the fear was, what if she went beyond that? What if she did what no one else ever had ... and captured his fancy as well? Not that he was opposed to such a thing ever happening ... he’d always assumed it would at some point. But as he was tied to this land, to his family’s heritage here, and to the way of life he’d carved out for himself, he’d also supposed it would be with a local lass, someone well suited to highland life.
Not a Yank with no intention of hanging about.
And yet here she stood, tempting parts of him never before tempted. She was a dangerous one, if his clamoring instincts were to be listened to. He was borrowing trouble by just allowing her to stay under his roof... much less in his own bed. She’d hardly warmed his arms, and he already felt the pull. He’d yet to even taste her. It made no sense. And much as he wanted to blame it on long-overdue physical need, he knew the difference between wanting to rut for the sake of it, and wanting ... something more.
It was his muse talking. Or that is what he tried to make himself believe. He was feeling a connection of spirit, but that didn’t mean he had to take it further. Like as not, they’d both have their fill of each other and be perfectly sated and more than happy to move on, leaving their time shared together as nothing more than a lovely reminiscence, something to be pulled out and remembered fondly at some future moment in time. His muse had been properly titillated, but his memory was the good and detailed one of an artist ... he didn’t need to keep her around for constant inspiration.
So stop being such a knobknock
, he told himself.
Take her to bed. Bury yourself in her sweet, welcoming body, and dinnae think of naught else but her pleasure and yours. She wants it the same as you ... what in God’s name are ye waiting for?
With perhaps a wee bit more intensity than intended, he tipped her head back and took her mouth with his. Mostly, initially, to get a move on before he could stupidly talk himself out of this amazingly fortunate set of circumstances. Any other man would have had her naked by now.
But the instant he tasted her, the instant he felt her body go soft in his arms ... the intensity became quite real. Need for more of her, all of her, right this instant, roared to life inside of him with such ferocity, that that alone should have been warning enough. But he was all done waging battle with himself. He was committed to it now, and the only thing that would or could stop him would be her.
She was pliant in his arms, her mouth opening willingly beneath his, accepting him with a fervor almost as greedy as his. Stopping him was clearly something she had no interest in doing. So, have her he would. Thoroughly and well, until neither could catch their breath. And once they did ... he’d have her again. The hunger she roused inside of him was that voracious a beast. Consenting adults, she’d said. And consent they both had.
She was a lithe, slender bit of a thing, he noted, as he hauled her body up against his. He buried one hand in that tangled mane of hair, keeping her mouth tipped perfectly to his so he could take it at his own will, his own pace. He wrapped his free arm around her hips, lifting her to the tips of her toes so he could fit himself where his body so badly ached to be. She moaned against his mouth, and he thought he might shoot off like a rocket right then and there. No, that is no’ how this eve would play out. Not if he had a say about it.
Eliciting a surprised squeal, he bent slightly and scooped her up high against his body. “Wrap your legs,” he murmured against her lips, lips that, in that moment, he thought he could explore for the remainder of his days and be perfectly content to do so.
She gripped his shoulders, digging into his skin as she hooked her heels around his lower back, grappling to stay up against him even as she continued to kiss him with everything she had. Something about that visceral need, the bite of her nails into his flesh, the simultaneous way she bit gently into his bottom lip, sent him stumbling blindly through the living room toward his bedroom, almost tripping badly over Jinty, who sprang to life behind them.
He managed to send her a hand signal, holding her where she stood. He heard her little whine of disappointment, but would gladly make it up to her later. At the moment, there was only one female he wanted in his bed, and she didn’t possess four legs. Only two. And dear sweet Lord, the way they were squeezing his waist so tightly, he wasn’t certain if perhaps he hadn’t really died out there, after all. He certainly felt thunderstruck.
He kicked the door shut behind him, then turned and pressed her up against it, holding her there with his weight against hers ... so he could bury his hands once again in all that hair. She made these soft, needy little whimpers that drove him wild. She let her fingers skim along from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, toying with strands of his own hair as she nibbled once again on his lower lip.
“You’re making me mad,” he murmured.
She pulled away slightly. “I’m sorry.”
He laughed. “No’ mad as in angry. Mad as in crazy.” He nipped at her bottom lip—fair was fair, after all. “Wrap yourself tight,” he instructed.
She hooked her arms around his neck and he spun them both around, and down onto his bed, so that she landed sprawled beneath him. His feather down duvet swallowed her up and she sighed in pleasure, then groaned in approval as he lowered himself fully onto her. He started to shift his weight off a bit, not wanting to smother her, but she immediately pulled him down and locked her ankles around his calves.
He grinned, gazing down into her beautiful, desire-filled eyes. “I like a lass who knows what she wants.”
“Good,” she responded tartly, tightening her hold, though her flushed cheeks and overbright eyes made it obvious to anyone paying attention that her bravado was hard-earned, that the journey she’d begun with him wasn’t a path she’d taken often, if at all. And Lord knew, she had his full attention.
He wanted to devour her whole, to bury himself to the hilt inside of her petite, limber body, and piston himself into sweet oblivion. Given the way her hips were already moving beneath his, he was fairly certain this was her plan as well. So why he propped himself up on his elbows and slowed things down, he had no idea. Except rushing this just seemed a crime of sorts. There was so much to enjoy ... and he knew better than to trust there would be time for that later. Later was unpredictable. Right now she was all his. And he wanted all of her he could have.
She reached for him, but he pinned her hands next to her head. Her eyes widened slightly, but in interest, not alarm. Her smile was both guileless and a wee bit challenging. How was it she could be both worldly and so sweetly naïve?
Pinning her arms with his, he framed her face with his palms, brushing his thumbs over the stark relief of her cheekbones. She’d been through an ordeal, that much was clear. Even if, on the surface, her life had seemed a fairy tale, he doubted the hollows beneath her eyes, the tautness of the skin stretched over her cheeks, was typical of the content Midwestern lass she’d been a scant few years ago. It made him want to care for her, see to it that she did right by herself, to provide safe haven for her and help her defend against those who would swallow her whole with thought only for their own gain. Insanity, perhaps, to feel such depth for what amounted to a total stranger. And yet she didn’t feel like a stranger to him. It made little sense, but perhaps it wasn’t intended to. It was as if she’d finally found her way here. To him. And he finally felt at peace, with her in his arms.
“Bree Sullivan,” he murmured, thinking perhaps he
was
the deranged lunatic she’d initially feared him to be, after all. Had she but a single clue as to where his thoughts were at the moment, she’d be perfectly within her rights to run screaming right back out into the storm. And he wouldn’t blame her. The very idea of her vanishing as suddenly as she’d appeared had him settling his weight more directly onto her, holding her beneath him, keeping her there, until ...
“Yes, Tristan Chisholm?” she responded, interrupting his thoughts.
His body twitched—hard—at the sound of his name on her lips. It had nothing to do with her flat, American accent, and everything to do with the way the corner of her mouth kicked up as she said it, like she knew some highly amusing secret that she might share if properly convinced.
He wanted to know all of her secrets. Wanted to be in on every amusing thought that crossed her mind. Wanted to inspire a few of his own. “What is it you’re doing to me?” he whispered, not realizing he’d given voice to the words until she wiggled her eyebrows and hips at the same time.
“I thought that was rather obvious.” Her half-smile became a crooked grin. “Just how long have you been out here with your sheep, anyway?”
Her unexpected comeback elicited a quick snort of laughter from him. “Too long, to be certain.” He pushed her hair away from her face, then traced her eyebrows with the sides of his thumbs before framing her face with his palms once again. So fragile, yet so sturdy. She’d let the world in, let them take too much, but she’d fought back, too. Her self-preservation instinct might have slipped a little, but it was there. She was strong, his Bree. At least for the moment, she was his. “Is that all it is, then? Accumulated need?”
“Is that all what is?” she asked, her eyes darkening with need when their hips continued with a rhythm neither could seem to control.
“This,” he said, his own voice going hoarse as he moved between her thighs and pressed into her, as much as their clothing would allow. “It’s insanity, really, the hunger you’ve unleashed in me. I’ve never all but dragged a woman to my bed.”
“I don’t recall you having to do much dragging. What with me clinging to your hips and all.”
He grinned, loving her quick mind, her sharp mouth. “True.”
“And I have a hard time believing you’ve ever had to coerce anyone out of their clothes and into your bed.”
“You think so, do you?”
“An educated guess.”
She was right—he’d never coerced anyone. But he’d never cared enough to, either. He’d always let things happen. . . or not. Never much caring, really. Tonight, however, he was fairly certain that he’d have done whatever was necessary to get her to at least give him a chance. “One could say the same of you,” he parried.
She laughed. “One could. If one was seriously delusional.”
“Come now.” He gently raked his fingers through her hair so it fanned across his bed. It was a vision he’d take a long time to forget, if ever.
“I’m trying,” she quipped, her cheeks going bright pink even as she grinned and pumped her hips again, making them both groan a little.
“You’re quite cute when you blush,” he said, stroking his thumbs across her cheeks, then across her mouth, pressing against the fullness of her bottom lip until she parted them and bit at the tips of his fingers. His body leapt in response and he tried desperately to keep himself in check. “A saucy wench with a heart of gold, is what ye are.”
Her face lit up. “Really? Saucy? Hmm ... I rather like that description.” She slid her ankle down the back of his calf. “Something about you makes it easy to be playful.”

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