Lana and the Laird (31 page)

She caught her breath as a wave, a ripple, a drizzle of delight took her, then tightened her inner muscles in preparation, in expectation of more. He read her like a book, working faster, harder, in concert with her manic breaths. Then he hooked her leg over the edge of the tub. She was curious as to why, but didn't ask. Didn't have the wherewithal. Besides, she trusted him with her pleasure.

And it was right that she did. For he skimmed his way from her knee to her nest and without hesitation plunged a finger into her waiting sheath. The pleasure nearly blinded her. Lachlan, in her, thrust with first one, then two fingers, while with the other hand he tormented her breast.

The cacophony took her, possessed her. She arched into his thrusts, sloshing water all over the floor and utterly uncaring. She whipped back and forth and grunted and moaned, like a wild creature in heat.

It was a magnificent glory that descended, all the more magnificent for his presence behind her, around her and in her.

When the rapture receded, like the rushing tide, she collapsed against him and he held her, still stroking, but with gentling caresses, bringing her back to the world with a tender touch.

Her heart thudded heavily as she half reclined, half floated. She felt his pulse as well. Pounding, as though he'd run a race.

She felt it against her bottom.

There was no doubt what he needed. And she intended to give it to him.

She glanced back and edged up to kiss him. “That was wonderful,” she murmured.

“I am so glad you—”

“Your turn.”

He might have paled.

His lips worked, but he didn't tell her no when she turned in the bath, facing him, and then grasped his length and shaped it. When she reached for the soap and made a fine lather, he watched through narrowed eyes. She slid her hands down his chest to his belly and then to his cock, encircling it. The water stole the lather from her before she reached him, but he didn't seem to mind. His gaze clung to hers, his expression sharp. “Lana,” he wheezed as she washed him, without any soap.

She washed him diligently.

As his pleasure rose, his lids lowered, investing him with a sleepy look, but he wasn't sleepy in the slightest. She edged closer and slipped one leg behind him, and then the other.

“Lana.” Her name croaked from his throat.

She did not stop. She held on to him with one hand as she levered up with the other and then, holding his attention, she lowered herself. Onto him.

He hissed out a breath as she encased him, but then she did, too. The pleasure was divine. As wonderful as the fullness of him had been last night, there hadn't been time for her to study the experience. But ah. In this position, she could. She was in charge of their intensity, their thrusts.

But she didn't thrust. She explored.

First she tested his girth with her muscles—that made him whimper a little. Then she rocked back and forth. That was fine indeed. But when she circled her hips in a roundabout way, the most amazing explosions erupted in her body. They were pleasurable, but tiny, so she tried for a wider arc.

Oh, yes. That. There.

Lachlan groaned and closed his eyes, but other than holding tight to her hips, he didn't guide her. He seemed to know that she wanted, needed to discover this for herself. His lack of command emboldened her. She leaned forward—he huffed a moan—and kissed his neck. She loved his neck. It was a thick, muscled column with a bristly dusting of scruff where his beard trailed down. And his shoulders. She loved those, too. Powerful, broad. And below that, his collarbone. She peppered little kisses along each wing. All the while she moved on him, circling him, embracing him, tugging on his length with slick inner muscles.

She kissed his nipple, suckled it as he had hers, and his cock lurched. She liked the feel of that, so she did it again. His fingers tightened on her and she glanced at his face. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed. “Lana.”

“Do you like that, Lachlan? Do you like when I touch you here?” She closed her fingers on a copper disc. He hissed through his teeth. “Do you?”

“Aye. God, aye.”

“Mmm. Good to know.” She lowered her head again and barraged him, licking, lapping, and nipping his nipples, tormenting him as he had her.

“I canna take much more of this, Lana,” he said in a growl.

She chuckled. “Och, aye. You can, Lachlan. You can.” But she decided to show him some mercy and shifted position, onto her knees, with him beneath her. With this leverage, she could move with more freedom and more quickly, in the manner he had the night before. And aye, it was splendid. His cock, hard, thick, deep within her, filling her. Completing her.

Water sloshed and heaved in the tub as her lunges became more frenzied. The waves were like little licks on her back. As she pumped up and down, her breasts submerged into the heat and then woke to the cold. She found the dual sensations maddening, almost as maddening as his tongue on her.

Their grunts and groans washed the room. The splashes became more turbulent. Lachlan's expression hardened. His hold on her became her only moorage in this world. Because even as she'd pleased him with this play, she'd brought herself to some strange and glorious place as well. Her focus skewed. Her grip on her purpose slipped. She had to let him take the lead. She had to let him move her as her muscles failed her.

She could tell he was close. The veins on his neck stood out as he struggled, thrusting his body upward, into hers, finding the angle, the depth, the rhythm that pleased them both.

Faster, harder, ever more frantic.

She'd stopped thinking about the water on the floor or the fact that her sister and her husband were in a room not far away. Nothing mattered. Nothing existed. Nothing but herself and Lachlan and this place they'd created together.

She gasped as his cock lengthened and swelled, filling her more completely, anchoring her, locking her to him. The slick slide of his skin abraded her nerves as he made one final thrust that did her in. He hit a spot inside her—a place so hidden she hadn't even known of its existence—and she dissolved.

Even as pleasure swamped her, he kept moving, sending even more spirals of bliss through her. Then his cock lurched and jerked and heat suffused her. It was a delicious heat. A rapturous rain.

She collapsed on his chest and clung to him as pings of pleasure barraged her in the aftermath of bliss. He stroked her back, whispered into her hair, and every now and again rocked … and shuddered.

When she was capable of such a complicated maneuver, she tipped up her chin and put her lips to his neck. It was all she could reach. It was all she could manage. “Lachlan.”

“Mmm.” His murmur rumbled through her.

Neither of them, it seemed, was capable of more.

But that was all right. The world did not require them to be capable of anything but this, but clinging to each other. Not at the moment, at any rate.

And all things considered, this wasn't a bad place to be.

He was still buried in her, and the water was warm around them, and they were wrapped together as they should be. It was, perhaps, divine. It felt divine.

It was a long while before he murmured, “We should get out. The water is getting cold.”

Lana wanted to pout, but she lacked the energy. Besides, it was true. The water was getting cold. And the towel was probably quite toasty by now. With a sigh, she heaved up and away, but had to pause to kiss him. And then he had to pause to kiss her.

But they didn't pause for long. Once they were out of the water, the air was cold. Lachlan strode to the hearth and picked up the towel, holding it out for her. She eased into the warm embrace and shuddered. But it was wrong for her to enjoy this alone. She turned around and opened her arms, making wings to enfold him. He stepped in and she closed about him. They stood like that for a long while, enjoying the heat of the bath sheet, the heat of each other.

Pity there was nothing else to do but kiss.

At length, they dried each other and then Lachlan sat her in the chair by the fire and combed out her hair as she sipped a glass of wine and nibbled on cheese, occasionally feeding him a bite or a sip. It was a new experience for her, sharing her food with someone in such an intimate way, but it felt so right. They spoke a little, but not much. Then again, little conversation was necessary.

When her hair was dry, he led her to the bed and they crawled beneath the covers together and held each other. They both knew their time like this was precious, and they relished it.

After a while, Lachlan left the nest they'd created and padded to the tray, coming back with the domed custard, although Lana wasn't hungry.

He, apparently, was. He dabbed the sweet treat on her nipples and ate it off, then did the same on her belly and her thighs. And then, he simply supped on her, with his head between her legs, shocking her and delighting her at the same time. He brought her to bliss with his mouth and then he made love to her again, this time slowly, languorously, to the great pleasure of them both.

When they were finished, she needed to bathe again, because she was sticky, and so was he, but the water was cold. Neither of them cared. They had enough heat between them to make up for it.

He left her in the wee hours. She protested and he reminded her that they couldn't be discovered like this. And while she knew it was true, she didn't want him to go. Tomorrow, they would arrive at her home and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find opportunities—or places—they could be alone.

It was a long time after he left, as she lay in her large and lonely bed, that she remembered … he hadn't once mentioned his precious French letters. He certainly hadn't used them.

She hugged that knowledge to herself, hoping it meant he'd released his hold on his fear, on his curse, and decided to embrace whatever fate might have in store for them. With that lovely thought wafting through her mind, she closed her eyes and slept.

And she dreamed of him.

It was a wonderful dream.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The ride from Forss to Dounreay was a short one, which was a blessing. Aside from Hannah's continued illness, it was difficult for Lachlan to sit next to Lana in the carriage and not stare at her. He did his best to engage in conversation with Alexander, about the ideas his baron had to increase profits without clearing the land, but he had doubts anything coming out of his mouth made any sense. In the end, he allowed them all to chat and simply sat and nodded his head, murmuring thoughtfully.

But there were no thoughts involved. At least, none that didn't involve finding ways to get Lana alone.

Once, when Hannah required a stop, he pulled Lana into his arms and kissed her, but it was, perforce, a brief kiss as they couldn't be caught reveling in such pursuits. And he only kissed her because he hadn't been able to evict the impulse from his mind.

The prospect of kissing her had been on his mind all night and all through the morning. Breakfast had been particularly difficult. Watching her eat. Seeing her lick her lips and murmur her pleasure as she nibbled a scone.

Torment.

Would that she were nibbling him …

Ah yes. He was a man in torment. In more ways than one.

For even as one part of his brain plotted ways to touch her, hold her, keep her, another part showered him with recriminations.

He knew, deep in his soul, what he was doing with Lana was wrong. Seducing and debauching a maiden for one—that was bad enough. But there was something else to this that was even more deplorable.

He was pretending.

Yes, as delicious as it was, holding her, kissing her, having her—he was pretending it could be this way. Pretending they could explore their love with no regrets. That they could live in this dream world they had created without thought to the consequences.

It was a folly. A fantasy. Possibly a sin. Simply because the consequences could be devastating.

The possibility of planting a child in her belly horrified him—once he fought through the skeins of pleasure at the prospect.

He had no right to yearn for such a thing. Not a man in his position.

Yet again, he'd completely forgotten about the French letters. He hadn't even used them once. It was as though he got close to her, drew in her scent, and his brain switched off. Something else switched on. A mindless, careless beast dwelling in the well of his soul. A beast who wanted only one thing.

It wasn't just physical slaking he craved of her, and that was the really frightening part of this whole debacle.

What he really wanted from her was more. Something ephemeral and lasting. Something that felt and tasted like forever.

But there might well be no forever for him.

In his mind he had accepted this fact. He had no idea why his heart refused to acknowledge it.

Even with the recent revelations about his “ghosts” and the realization that the curse he'd worn like an albatross his entire life might be nothing more than a fairy story, it behooved him to take care. He could not, should not act with impunity.

The logical thing would be to step away from Lana and the hope she proffered—until he knew for certain the story his uncle had fed him, like pabulum, from the moment he could understand such things, was all lies. The logical thing would be to wait. To eschew her embrace and wait.

He was so close to his thirtieth birthday. Only a handful of months. If he woke on that day—and he wasn't dead—then he would know the curse was a farce. Then, and only then, could he realize his dreams of the future. Entertain the prospect of a forever with the woman he loved.

His heart swelled at the thought. For he did love her. Loved her so much it hurt.

It certainly hurt to think of avoiding her for the next six months.

Six months without her seemed like an eternity of hell.

Six months with her would breeze by in a flash.

And what really clawed at his soul?