Highland Obsession (23 page)

Clenching his jaw, he directed her movements until his balls tightened and pressure built at the base of his shaft. As if she felt his imminent release, she peppered kisses down the length of him. Taking his sac in her hands, she rolled it gently, tickling the root of his cock with the tip of her tongue.

No one, whore or lady, had ever touched him with such abandon. His shock at her actions was short-lived, however, because her gasps of pleasure combined with the mere thought of her sucking his balls was enough to make him come again.

In a matter of seconds it would be over. With a low growl, he reached down and lifted her over him. Her mouth glistened from her uninhibited actions, and she stared down at him with a feral glint in her eyes. She reminded him of a black and white cat he had seen once, with slanted, feline eyes full of some internal wisdom it refused to share.

By the look on her face, he knew, beyond a doubt, Sorcha was ready for him.

He lifted her, positioning her over him. As she spread her thighs, settling her legs on either side of his hips, the shiny pink of her center flashed in the line of his vision.

She rubbed herself wantonly over him, and the silky heat between her legs slid up and down his swollen shaft.

Bonnie, soft Sorcha. He didn’t know what to think of this wanton side she was showing him for the first time.

She gazed down at him, and he stared up at the haze of lust radiating from her eyes. She stilled, and in a blink, the feral expression disappeared from her face. “What is it?” she whispered.

Holding her waist in his hands, he shifted his hips, continuing her wet glide over his cock. “Is this you, Sorcha?” he asked in a low voice. “The real you? Or do you merely pretend?”

“Do I displease you?” A hint of despair colored her voice.

He knew she could hardly be playacting—her peaked nipples and slick cunny were evidence enough of her lust for him.

Perhaps that was the question: Clearly she was lustful . . . but was it for
him
? Him alone? He thought perhaps not.

“No. Your ardor doesn’t displease me. It pleases me very much.”
But only if it is for me.

“No pretense.” Lowering her lids so he couldn’t see the expression in her eyes, she slid forward then back in a hot stroke. “This is me.”

His whole body tightened. There was no way he could last long once inside her. “But who is it you want?” he ground out.

Opening her eyes, she speared him with her green gaze. She paused in midmotion, her entrance hovering over the blunt head of his cock. “You, Alan MacDonald. Only you.”

In a slow, deliberate move, she pushed her body down over him.

“You,” she whispered again, beginning to move in a long, slow glide. “I want you. So . . . much.”

She closed over him, hot and clenching, and he tightened his fingers on her waist, trying to hold back. Leaning down, she wrapped her arms around the outside of his head, resting on her forearms on the bed as she ground her body into him, the jeweled tips of her breasts scraping his chest.

It felt so good. So wet and warm and tight. His seed strained for release as her silk gripped his granite length. Hell, he was about to burst. Explode like a dam weakened by a torrential flood.

He heaved her off of him and in a smooth motion, flipped her over, landing on top of her. Before she could move, he slid downward, closing his mouth over a taut nipple. Below him, she whimpered. “Alan.”

He didn’t respond, instead moved to the other side, laving it, worshipping it with his mouth. She smelled of sweet lusty woman, and her skin tasted of heather and wheat.

When her steady breaths degenerated into gasps of pleasure each time he nipped at her skin, he traveled farther down, blazing a trail with his tongue. He kissed her soft belly before settling himself between her legs.

Pushing her thighs more widely apart, he simply stared at her for a long moment. Black curls hid her quim, and using his thumbs, he opened her outer lips. Her clitoris was swollen, glistening pink, and he blew softly before touching the tip of his tongue to it.

She gasped and jerked, but he held her still as he tasted her. Here, her taste was more concentrated, more musky and feminine, but yet with that underlying sunshine sweetness he had secretly craved since their wedding night.

He pulled his mouth away from her. “Touch yourself, Sorcha.”

“W-what?” she gasped.

Her hand clutched at the blanket. Gently, he unfurled her fingers, opened her palm, and pressed her hand over her mound. “Touch yourself.”

She didn’t move. He propped himself on his elbow to give himself a clear view of her face. “Don’t tell me you’ve never made yourself come.”

A pretty flush crept up her neck. “Oh . . . I—”

“Have you, then?”

“In the cave I told you about,” she admitted.

The image flickered through his mind. Sorcha nestled in the cliff behind Camdonn Castle, facing the dark waters of the loch, her skirts lifted past her waist, showing off her garters and pale thighs, her fingers diving into the curls between her legs and rubbing furiously. He took a measured breath in an attempt to control the heat that surged through him at the thought.

“But never with anyone else watching.”

“Good.” Perhaps it was one of the few things he could enjoy with her that Cam hadn’t already.

He ground his teeth. It was a mistake to think of Cam now. Best to thrust away any thought of the man he conjured.

He focused on Sorcha’s plump, pink nether lips just beneath her fingertips.

“Do it,” he gritted out.

“Why, Alan?” she asked, her voice tentative.

“Because it will please me.”

With a deep breath, she slipped her fingers between her moist lips, pushing downward until they brushed over her clitoris. She gasped.

“That’s it,” he coaxed. Her slick juices coated her fingers as she slid even lower. “Touch yourself for me. Show me what feels good to you.”

She touched the tiny pearl again, then circled it, arching her hips upward, pressing more firmly.

“I’ll help,” he murmured. He brushed her opening, rimming it, then slipping two fingers deep into her, pushing against the resistance of her channel. She cried out.

He began to stroke her inner walls, using his fingertips to find the most sensitive areas inside her.

“Ah!”

“Does that feel good,
ceisd mo chridhe
?”

There was an infinitesimal pause as they both registered the endearment; then Alan pushed his fingers deeper and Sorcha rubbed herself harder, arching up in a rhythm that matched his thrusts.

He felt the ripples against the flesh of his digits first, and then her thighs stiffened under his shoulders. He raised his head to see her beautiful face. She was staring down at him, witnessing firsthand the erotic tableau, her eyes alight with passion, her lips parted. Spots of red flamed high on her cheeks. “Oh, Alan,” she whispered, “I’m going to come. Please—”

“Yes,
mo chridhe
,” he murmured. He moved his free fingers to the puckered rosette of her arse, painting soft little circles around it. “It’s all right. Beautiful Sorcha. Come for me.”

Her hands clenched and her body shuddered all around him. Her channel tightened over his fingers, then spasmed like a clenching fist.

His cock throbbed as her cream dribbled to the base of his fingers. Slowly, she relaxed. He kissed the top of her hand, stroked her thigh, and finally pulled away from her body.

He crawled up beside her to look in her face. Her eyes squeezed shut, she tried to turn away from him, but he held her pinned to the bed.

 

Sorcha wanted to curl away, but his hand tightened over her shoulder, and she couldn’t fight him. Alan did something unique to her. The way he’d walked inside, tall and muscular, with water droplets glistening all over his hard body, and then the way he’d looked at her with those deep, blazing blue eyes . . . It had made her leap right out of the demure shell she’d hidden behind when she believed Alan wanted her to be innocent.

“Look at me.” The command was quiet, forceful, and Sorcha couldn’t do anything but obey.

She opened her eyes and faced him. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t cower.

“Why do you turn away from me?” he asked, his voice low and rumbling.

“I am . . . embarrassed.”

“Why?”

“You said I was shameless, and you’re right. I haven’t behaved as I should. As a lady. As a—a wife.” Her lower lip began to tremble, so she closed her teeth over it. Hard.

His eyes widened minutely. “And how is it do you think a lady and a wife should behave, Sorcha?”

“With more reserve.”

“Do you think I’d prefer a cold fish beneath me in bed?”

“I don’t know. Seeing you walk inside like that—I got carried away . . .” And now he would undoubtedly think she was so wanton she’d jump into any man’s bed without a qualm. No doubt he’d think that was why she’d done so with Cam.

A smile curved Alan’s handsome lips. “I asked you to touch yourself, remember? I don’t fault you for your enthusiasm.”

“No?”

“No.”

Still, she eyed him warily. She couldn’t shake the feeling her enthusiasm had gone too far.

“Here,
mo chridhe
, let me show you.”

My heart
. He called her “my heart.” And he had before as well, in the heat of it.

His hand skimmed down her arm, his fingers entwining with hers. He brought her hand between his legs. His shaft burned her fingertips, so heavy and hot and hard, she gasped.

“Do you see? This is what you do to me,” he said in a low voice.

She curled her hand around the steely length. She stroked it as he guided her movements.

His face twisted with pleasure. “That’s what I want, Sorcha. Touch me. Squeeze hard.”

She tightened her fingers and increased the length of her stroke. He groaned.

“You don’t believe I am too wanton?” she murmured into his ear.

“No.”

This was what she’d dreamed of ever since she’d escaped Cam to return to Alan. To touch and be touched by him. To make love to him again. To have him show her things Cam never could, because she hadn’t loved him. Now, perhaps, Alan was on the road to forgiving her, and in time they might achieve that closeness she craved.

She wanted to kiss him again, down there, as she had before. To run her tongue over the silken length, trace the outline of his veins as they traveled up, then swirl over his foreskin, lightly grazing the swollen crown she knew was so sensitive. As she began to slide downward over the bedsheet, though, Alan stopped her.

“Turn over,” he said, his eyes deep as a fathomless ocean. “On your hands and knees.”

A bolt of lust sped directly to her center. Trembling, Sorcha rolled and drew her legs beneath her as Alan positioned himself behind her. For a long moment, he didn’t touch her. She finally looked back at him to see him stroking his shaft lightly as he stared at her backside.

He didn’t look at her face; instead he reached his free hand to stroke down the crease between her cheeks. He paused at her most private place, and she lowered her head, shivering, as he lightly applied pressure there.

“Did Cam take you here?” His voice was gruff.

“No,” she whispered, though her mouth was so dry she was surprised she was able to gasp out the word.

Did men really take women there? Though she’d never thought about such a thing until this moment, she wished Alan would. She wanted to feel what it would be like to have his cock invade her and to feel that connection with him in her most secret of places.

She drew in a shaky breath.

“Good.”

She could tell by his tone he was pleased. Alan was so reserved and respectable, it seemed a mad thought that he would even conceive of such a thing. And yet the fingertip pushed inexorably against the taut ring of resisting muscle.

“Alan!” It came out as a half cough, half groan. She fisted the bedclothes and dropped her forehead to the blanket.

“Not tonight,” he whispered gruffly. But his tone promised soon, very soon, and she shuddered as he pushed in a fraction of an inch deeper. Below his questing fingertip, her sex trembled and hummed with need.

He pulled away and within a few seconds the head of his cock pressed against her arse, traveling the same course as his fingers had moments ago, from the top of her crack, then lower, until it hesitated at that forbidden entrance. After the slightest pause, it descended again until it was lodged in the welcoming notch of her sex.

In one smooth-as-satin motion, he thrust in. Sorcha groaned, arching her back. Almost beyond her control, she balanced her weight on one forearm while she reached to touch her needy, aching, sensitive nub.

Alan thrust again, just as Sorcha found what she was looking for. She exploded like a gunshot, her body tightening and releasing in a glorious, powerful explosion. Alan’s hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her tight against his body as she came down, whimpering.

He followed close behind. Moments later, he tensed around her and, with a low groan, he yanked out of her. Thick, warm semen landed on her lower back and slid down into the crack of her bottom as he came.

Pushing her knees from under her, Sorcha dropped to her stomach, then turned to face Alan, who had lowered himself at her side. His arm came up to her waist, stroking idly.

“I’ll get you a cloth to wash.” He turned away, but Sorcha caught his arm.

“No. I want to leave your seed on me.”

Alan’s eyes flared—but she could not read into why. She hoped it was a flare of possession. He’d marked her like some primitive creature, and the last thing she wanted to do was wash it away.

She wanted to be his.