Highland Obsession (29 page)

He discarded his belt and plaid, revealing his cock jutting proudly out, flushed dark. She gasped at the sight of it, knowing it would soon join the two of them together. She wouldn’t be able to stand it if he didn’t take her soon. Every inch of her body ached for his touch.

“I want you,” she murmured.

His fist curled around his shaft and he gave it a hard tug. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes.” She wiggled her backside in invitation. “Yes, please, Alan.”

The callused tips of his fingers traveled down her back, down the crack of her behind until they met the moist heat of her sex.

“Oh,” she murmured as his fingers danced and played between her outer lips, teasing and taunting her.

She tilted her hips even more and spread her stance in a silent plea.

The head of his penis nestled between her plump, blood-filled lips, and she groaned in pleasure at the feel of him, hot and hard, finally touching her, pushing against her.

Slowly, he burrowed in, crowding the air from her lungs.

He bent over her and planted a hard kiss against her neck. “You feel so damned good around me.”

Her channel tightened over him, grasping on to him as he began to pull out, as if to reach for him, to hold him deep. They both moaned as he tunneled back inside. Sorcha reached behind and clasped his thigh, urging him deeper.

His hands rested on her lower back, forcing her down against the bed, and his thumbs played in the upper crack of her arse. He removed his hands, but she barely noticed, lost in the feel of the slow, long glides of his cock.

His fingers returned, slipping between the cheeks of her bottom, and she stiffened at the feel of the cool, creamy substance he smoothed over her skin.

“Do you trust me?”

“Aye,” she choked.

“Then relax,
mo chridhe
.”

He pulled his cock from her body. His fingers moved lower until one cool digit pressed against the rosette of her arse. “Is this what you want?”

She squirmed, but he held her firm, anchored under the weight of his palm.

Oh Lord. He felt so good. It felt so wickedly good.

“Yes,” she groaned. “Yes.”

“Touch yourself, Sorcha. Stroke yourself.”

She obeyed, slipping her hand between her body and the bed and cupping her mound.

He leaned over her again, pinning his hand between them, his weight pushing the tip of the digit into her.

“Grind your body into your palm.”

She complied, gasping at the torrential rush of sensation. Every nerve between her legs was alive, aching, needy.

His body heaved against her, and he rose, simultaneously pressing his finger all the way into the resisting hole.

Sorcha cried out, and her sex spasmed under her hand. She curled two of her fingers, burying them between her slick lips until they brushed over her clitoris.

She felt the prod of a second finger against her backside, and whimpered.

“Too much?” Alan murmured.

“Yes. No,” she gasped. She felt like a skittish animal, unable to keep still.

Alan pushed the second finger inside her, and she pressed her cheek against the rough wool of the blanket.

“Oh. Oh.”

As she lay there, overwhelmed with sensation, he worked her arse with his fingers. Nothing existed but his movements and her own, and the flaring heat curling between her legs.

All of a sudden, he removed his fingers, but just as suddenly, they were replaced by the head of his cock.

Surely it wasn’t possible. Surely he was too big . . .

Slowly, with painstaking care, Alan pushed inside.

Sorcha squeezed her eyes shut and grabbed the blanket in her fist.

“Relax, love.”

“Alan,” she sobbed.

“Relax.” His arm curled beneath her body, lifting her slightly off the bed, and soft lips pressed against her neck. “Let go, Sorcha. You’re so tight. Let go,
mo chridhe
.”

Sorcha focused all her energy into loosening the tight ring of muscle and allowing him entrance, even as he pushed deeper into her. Finally, everything released and he slid home, his balls brushing against her fingertips, which were still buried between her legs.

They hung there for a long moment, perched on the edge of something unfathomable. Alan’s breath brushed in her ear, his exhalations whispering against her lobe.

“Are you all right?” he murmured.

“Aye,” she said on a gulp of air. She was standing on a cliff with one foot poised off the edge. Alan had lit a torch deep in her body, and she leaned back into the heat, not wanting to fall. Not yet.

Slowly, experimentally, he moved out slightly, then pushed back in. Her body undulated beneath him, completely out of her control.

“Oh, Alan . . . I don’t think—” But he moved again, and the words died in her throat.

He slid in and out of her, kneading her breast, his breath hot on her neck. Sorcha’s body shuddered and bowed, but she couldn’t control the spasms, couldn’t contain the sobbing moans that emerged from between her lips, couldn’t stop the furious rubbing of her fingers over her sex. It was absolutely necessary for her to touch herself. Her quim needed to be touched, her sensitive nub required flicking and pinching.

Alan’s breaths turned harsh. He released her, allowing her to sink onto the blanket; then he gripped her shoulders and rode her hard.

Sorcha was being torn apart. It hurt, it was fire, but it was the most exquisite, beautiful pain and the sweetest heat she’d ever experienced. The torch inside her body lit a hot blue blaze to each nerve ending.

She raised her arse to meet every one of Alan’s thrusts, and when his balls slapped against her quim, she ground herself into her hand. It was an instinctive motion, occurring without thought, without effort, and her whole body participated, down to her toes, which dug into the carpet, and her fingers, some of them plunging into her dripping channel, the others curling in the coarse blanket.

Alan began to shake. Even as his movements became jerkier, his thrusts deepened. Sorcha’s mouth opened in a silent scream as she was rent in two by Alan’s thick, long cock.

She twisted and writhed, each movement taking her higher, pushing her closer to the edge. Squeezing her arse tight around Alan, Sorcha ground her body into the bed, into her hand.

Leaning forward now, off the cliff into the crisp Highland breeze. The loch stretched out below her, gleaming a fathomless blue mirrored by the clear blue sky above. Golden heather whispered in the breeze. And Sorcha didn’t plummet to the earth—instead she spread her wings and glided through the air as Alan held her steady, keeping her safe from harm.

As if from far away, she heard his low groan. Gripping her hips, he thrust twice more, then buried himself as deep as he could go.

She flew higher. Air rushed past, rippling and streaming over her body. Alan was with her, and together they reached the heavens and then drifted slowly down, as light and gentle as a pair of feathers twisted in a lover’s embrace.

Sorcha slumped against the bed, all the tightness in her body releasing in a rush. Seconds later, she felt Alan relaxing similarly, but he kept his weight on his forearms so as not to crush her.

Gently, he pulled out of her, as careful as if she were a delicate piece of lace. And then he left her.

With great effort, Sorcha turned her head as he walked over to the basin. She should get up, move, climb into bed, do something. But she couldn’t garner the energy. She simply stayed there, flopped over the edge of the bed.

Alan returned moments later with a damp cloth, and he stroked the cool material between her legs.

“Mmm.” It felt wonderful—the cool contrasting against the blazing inferno she’d felt there just moments ago.

She smiled against the blanket. He’d come inside her for the first time. Not in the way she’d imagined, but it was meaningful, nonetheless.

He left to discard the towel and returned, gathering her in his arms and lifting her up onto the bed, arranging her beneath the covers.

Her eyelids felt like dead weights, her muscles languid and soft. Alan extinguished the single burning lamp on the bedside table, then turned to tuck her against his side.

Just as she drifted off into a sweet slumber, she heard a low murmur. “I love you, Sorcha.”

Had she dreamed it?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

C
am shifted uncomfortably to adjust himself. His cock was hot and hard, pressing painfully against the material of his breeches. He hardly felt the movement in his injured side.

Sorcha and Alan sat on the chaise longue across from him in the receiving room adjacent to his bedchamber. Alan’s shoes were off and his legs were propped on the cushions. Sorcha sat firmly wedged between his thighs. She sipped from his glass of whisky and made a face. Alan laughed at her and kissed her lips.

Cam moved discreetly again, trying not to call attention to his raging erection. He eyed the tumbler on the sidebar. It was more than half empty.

After the deadly fever, his injury had healed so quickly the doctor said it was a miracle. Cam had thus far kept the state of his near-perfect health from Sorcha and Alan. The truth was that he didn’t want them to go.

It was becoming apparent that he was nearly well, though. There were certain truths a man couldn’t hide. Although neither had broached the topic, he knew they’d return home soon. Leaving him alone once again.

This time, he’d manage on his own. He’d have to.

Staring at the two of them, it hit Cam square in the gut that it was time for him to change. He’d inherited an earldom, for Christ’s sake. He could squander all he had to offer . . . or he could use his friend as an example and exploit his power and wealth for the betterment of his corner of the world, including all the people in it. Hopefully, that would someday include a family. But he couldn’t think on that now. Each time he gazed upon Sorcha MacDonald laughing up at her husband, a sharp blade of pain pierced his heart.

He’d had a chance with her. She’d been on the verge of falling beyond lust and into love with him. Yet he’d treated her like a mistress, never as someone who could be anything more. He hadn’t given her what she deserved, had never offered marriage but dismissed the idea due to some foolish notion of impressing the English with a noble heiress. What a bloody cur he was.

He’d do it all differently if he had the chance. But it was too late.

She raised a dark eyebrow at him. “Penny for your thoughts, my lord?”

Cam smiled. “I was just thinking of my plans for buying more stock once I’m up and about a bit more.” He looked at Alan. “And giving the herds to my MacLeans. Do you think they’d take them on?”

“Oh, aye,” Alan said in an offhand manner, yet Cam saw the spark of interest light up in his eyes. “Your herds are aging, and fresh beef is a strong motivator for the MacLeans. And if you don’t want them lifting half the Inverness stock, it’d be a fine idea to keep them occupied with yours.”

Cam smirked. “A more legal option, in any case.”

“They’re fine men, on the whole. I’d rather not see blood shed,” Alan said.

“I agree.” Cam leaned back into the velvet comfort of his favorite chair. “It seems cattle raiding is the least of everyone’s concerns at the moment, however.”

Alan’s face instantly shuttered, and Cam’s senses sharpened. It had to be something to do with the rising.

“What is it?”

Sorcha seemed to sober a bit, and she scrambled out of Alan’s lap to face him. “What has happened?”

“Bowie and a group of clansmen came to me this morning.” Alan sat up straighter and swung his legs over the edge of the chaise. “Have you heard from Argyll?” he asked Cam.

Cam had received a message from the duke, who, as his neighbor and ally, considered it his duty to keep Cam informed, just yesterday. “Still holed outside Stirling. He believes conflict is inevitable and he has been scouting the lay of the land in the area.”

Alan nodded tersely. “Mar plans to move from Perth soon. My men wish to leave in three days to join him.” He took a deep breath and met Cam’s eyes. “If they go, I must lead them south.”

Cam’s chest tightened, but he gave a sober nod.

Sorcha spoke first. “Can’t you stop them, Alan?”

Alan shrugged. “They are free men and may do as they please.”

Bloody hell. Alan would never allow his men to go into battle without their leader—not if it was for a cause he believed in. “Just tell me,” Cam asked, “do you honestly wish to have the Pretender on the throne of Great Britain?”

Alan stared at him, his expression like steel. “I want what is best for my country.”

“You believe James is best? I’ve heard he is a careless, coldhearted man.” Cam flicked a piece of dust from the arm of his chair, then bent forward. “And I ask you, why hasn’t he joined Mar? Brought reinforcements from France? Agreed to fight with the thousands who’ve risen to stand for him?” He leaned back again. “I would question such a leader. He’d gladly take the throne . . . but only after forcing his underlings to suffer for the cause, while he sits back, grows fat, and reaps the benefit.”