Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (24 page)

With him standing between her knees she couldn't help becoming aware that the front of his kilt was tented again, and rather impressively so. Because he wanted her. Quick shivers darted through her, tingling between her thighs. She wanted to see him, but that seemed very bold, and not at all something a lady would admit to—much less do. Then again, she wasn't much of a lady.

Before she could change her mind, she reached around his waist to unfasten the buckles on his right side. She'd seen men wearing kilts for most of her life, even though the practice had become less common in everyday dress. Even on Islay, trousers had become the norm, with the traditional MacDonald tartan only appearing on holidays and for weddings and funerals. And that was a damned shame, as far as she was concerned. A man wearing a kilt—especially one who wore it as well as Bear did—was a sight to behold.

Unwrapping the aprons, she drew open the kilt and then let it go. The material fell to the floor, but abruptly she scarcely noticed. One couldn't grow up among Highlanders without an occasional glimpse of a cock and balls, but a fit, aroused giant was something new. And very, very impressive.

“Ye see what ye've done to me, Cat?” he murmured, sliding his hands beneath the shoulders of her coat and then pulling it down her arms. A moment later it joined his kilt on the dirty slab floor.

“Ye're a magnificent lad, Bear,” she returned, tentatively running a finger along the length of him. Warm, firm, and reactive to her touch, he was. Damp spread between her thighs.

“And ye leave me breathless, lass, with yer long legs and all those curves ye have on ye. I want to touch every inch of ye. I want to kiss every part of ye. And I want to be inside ye. So if ye're bound to change yer mind, do it now. Otherwise, kiss me again.”

She leaned up and took his mouth, nibbling his lower lip as he'd done to her. At the same time she stroked him again, wrapping her fingers around his girth, exploring him the way she'd wanted to nearly since she'd met him.

With a low moan against her mouth he parted from her again. “Lift yer arms, wildcat; I reckon I'll have ye naked.”

The idea made her nervous. For the devil's sake, she'd avoided wearing gowns for her entire life. Wearing even less, and in front of this magnificent giant of a man, terrified her. But she'd made her decision, and she'd already taken off half his clothes. Fair was fair.

Sighing unsteadily, she released his cock and did as he bade her. Munro pulled her shirt from her trousers, then took the bottom hem of the rough cotton and lifted, pulling it over her head and then dropping it somewhere behind her. “Well, now,” he breathed, his gaze on her bare breasts.

“What? I'm nae a lass who goes aboot flaunting her bosom, ye ken.”

Green eyes touched hers, and then lowered again. “Then I'm honored, my lass, because the sight before me is damned marvelous.”

Before she could respond to that, as if she had any idea how to do so, Munro put his hands beneath her breasts, as if testing the weight of them. Then his thumbs brushed across her nipples, lightly at first, then more firmly. The sharp, tight sensation had her arching her back, pressing harder against him.

With a slight grin he leaned in, replacing one hand with his mouth. He flicked his tongue across her, and she gasped. “Ye're a wicked man, Bear.”

“Then tell me to stop, Cat,” he returned. Without waiting for her to answer, he lifted her off the table and set her onto her back on the floor—where he'd already spread out her blankets. Of course he knew what he meant for them to be doing, but part of her wished he wasn't so … confident about it. It only demonstrated that he knew precisely what he was about, while she lay floundering like a fish trying to breathe air.

Kneeling beside her, Bear stripped off his shirt and dropped it. She'd seen his bare chest and abdomen before, but now, abruptly, she could touch him. Warm, soft skin, with hard muscle beneath—muscle that flexed beneath her touch. Did she affect him, then? Did her touch please him? She wanted to ask, but it seemed a supremely silly question, and one to which she should likely already know the answer.

“Sit up, lass,” he said, grasping her hands and tugging. “I'm taking that ribbon oot of yer hair.”

“I can do that.”

“Nae,” he countered, his voice more firm and quick than she expected. He took a breath. “I reckon I'll do it.”

“Fine. Ye do it, then. It's naught but hair. Hair that never does what I wish it to.”

Bear moved around behind her, and the gentle tug and pull of his fingers unknotting her hair ribbon made her shiver from her scalp to her toes.
Good heavens.

“They say a redheaded lass has a temper,” he murmured from behind her, his fingers still toying with the long, wavy mass. “They say she's too full of passion, and more than likely a witch.”

“I've heard all that before,” she returned. “And worse. Is it what ye think of me?”

“I think ye'd run wild if ye could, keeping yerself away from everyone and everything. Ye think there's someaught odd aboot yerself, because ye dunnae ken why other lasses act the way they do, and why ye're the one who's in the wrong.” Draping a long lock of her hair over her shoulder, he moved around to sit on his backside half facing her. “Ye're unique, and I reckon that's nae an easy thing to be. And I'm honored ye trust me enough to be with ye.”

She scowled, wiping at her abruptly damp cheek. “Stop saying nice things and bed me, ye brute. I didnae come downstairs for conversation.” Even if it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

“Well, then. Yer wish, wildcat.”

He pushed her flat again and went to work unfastening her trousers. No one had ever done that for her before, and certainly not a six-and-a-half-foot, very aroused Highland lord. When he fumbled at it she tried to push his hands away to see to it herself, but he only scowled at her and refused to budge.

When they finally came open, he flashed her a deep grin. “That's better. Now lift up. I've a yen to see ye naked.”

That was only fair, since he was already nude but for his boots. She lifted her hips, and he pulled her trousers down past her thighs. When she settled again, he lifted her legs, running his palms down from her thighs to her calves, removing the material as he went. One by one he pulled off her boots, then stripped the garment the rest of the way over her feet. His own big boots followed.

Before she could wonder what she was supposed to do next, he twisted onto one hip and kissed her again, slowly and deeply. Luxuriously, almost. He'd told her to do as she pleased, so she ran her palms down his spine to his backside, felt his muscles clench and relax beneath her touch. When he lowered his face to her breasts, though, she couldn't seem to do anything but moan and drag her fingers through his thick hair. Nothing had ever felt this good, this sharply pleasurable, before.

When his fingers drifted down her stomach and then between her legs, she squeezed her knees together before she could command them to be still. “I'm sorry,” she rasped, her breath so uneven she was surprised she hadn't fainted.

“Dunnae apologize to me,” he returned, lifting his head briefly before returning his attention to her breasts. “I've nae a thing to complain aboot. Just try not to yank all my hair oot.”

She snorted, loosening her hard grip on his lanky black hair. This time when both of his hands went to her knees, she made herself cooperate. How odd, that her insides wanted him so badly, but her body couldn't seem to figure out what in the world to do about it. Perhaps he was correct, and she needed to stop thinking so hard.

He brushed a finger up along her most intimate place, and she shut her eyes, moaning before she could stop herself. For a man with two hands and one mouth, he seemed to be touching her everywhere at the same time, each sensation more pleasurable than the last.

“Ye want me, lass,” he murmured, parting her folds and slipping inside with one wicked finger. She bucked against him, moaning again.

“I do,” she managed, “so stop teasing me and get to it.”

“This is all part of the fun. But, if ye insist…” Munro shifted over her, keeping her knees apart with his own. Resting on his elbows, he brushed hair out of her face. “Look at me, lass.”

Catriona opened her eyes again. “I dunnae need to see ye to know exactly where ye are.”

He grinned. “Aye. But I've someaught to say to ye. I'm nae accustomed to having virgins, but I'll be as gentle with ye as I know how to be. It'll hurt ye, though. I'd give anything if it wouldnae, but that's the way of it. Nae fer long, but it'll hurt.”

She met his gaze, his face a foot from hers, looking down at her with a combination of concern and lust that made her ache inside. “Do ye think me a lass who shies away from a bit of pain?”

“Nae. I'm only being gentlemanly and warning ye.”

“Then I'm warned. Get on with it, giant.”

“Say my true name, first.”

She narrowed her eyes, but he was stubborn enough that he wouldn't relent until she did as he asked. “Munro,” she uttered, too breathily.

“That's more like it.”

Munro sank down over her, his cock pressing at her entrance and then slowly, ever so slowly, sliding inside of her until she felt pressure. He took a breath that she could feel against her own ribs, then canted his hips forward and pushed deeply. She squeezed one eye shut at the sharp pain of it, and he froze again.

“Tell me when ye want me to move, wildcat,” he murmured, taking her mouth again.

Almost immediately the pain began to subside, and she became aware of the indescribable sensation of his big cock filling her, his hips against hers, the hard, controlled weight of him on her. The … intimacy of their connection felt both wicked and madly romantic, in a way that had never touched her before. And he was holding so still, as if he feared she might break beneath him.

She reached up to grip his shoulders. “I want ye to move.”

He did so, pulling back, and then entering her so fully she couldn't do anything but hold on to him, arch her back and groan. Beginning slowly, he entered and retreated so that she could feel every inch of him moving inside her. The heated tightness across her abdomen suddenly shattered into spasms of pleasure.

“Christ, lass,” he groaned, his pace increasing as she continued to shiver around him.

If that was the “little death” the poets wrote about, she could see why they seemed so obsessed with it. “More,” she ordered breathlessly.

“Aye.”

After that, she couldn't conjure a coherent thought to save her life. Instead all she could do was feel—feel him entering her again and again, hard, faster, his harsh breathing against her neck, his hands at her breasts, squeezing and tugging in rhythm with his lovemaking.

She spasmed again as he pushed deeply into her and held himself there, shuddering. Ecstasy. That was what it was. Pure ecstasy. He'd claimed her, as he'd said he would, and she'd claimed him. Munro kissed her once more, then lowered his head to her shoulder, his breath hot and quick against her skin.

Munro. Bear. Would he say they were joined, now? That they were bound together? Handfasted, even? She wanted him to say that, even if it was an impossible dream. From his reaction she hadn't done anything horribly wrong, and more than anything she wished to do it again. With him. In a bed, this time. But that couldn't happen, either.

In fact, she'd told herself that she'd allowed this because it was meant to cure her of her … need to be with him. That she could part from him now, and go forward with the plans she'd made for herself weeks ago. Years ago, really, when she'd first overheard some of the daughters of other MacDonald lords giggling about how odd she was, wondering if she took her meals in the hound kennels and if she peed standing up.

She didn't feel odd now, at this moment, but she would again. And however much new knowledge she'd just gained, another man wouldn't be as … circumspect as Bear was. He wouldn't find her enchanting, or unique. Not in a good way.

“Let me up,” she snapped, pushing at his shoulders. “I cannae breathe.”

Breathing hard himself, Munro rose onto his hands and knees, reluctantly pulling out of her. She looked half panicked, so he settled onto his backside and leaned against the stack of bricks behind him. A hundred years ago, he would have thought a lass with Catriona's wild and sensuous nature a selkie. If she were a creature of myth, that would certainly help to explain why his want for her had changed into a need, as if he could never have her enough, be close enough, be inside her long enough, to be satisfied.

On the blankets in front of him, she didn't seem to have any sort of the same emotional turmoil sprinting through her. Instead, she slipped her man's shirt back on over her head, hiding her delicious tits from his view.
Damn.
He wasn't finished looking at them. Or fondling them. Or tasting them. When she dragged over her trousers and began pulling them on, he frowned.

“Are ye tardy fer an appointment somewhere?” he asked, nudging one of her boots farther away from her with his bare toes.

“Yer two lads'll be back here any time now,” she returned, tying her splendid, flame-colored hair back into its loose tail.

“Nae fer an hour or more. Ye cannae be scared of me
now.
”

“I never was scared of ye.”

He tried to catch her gaze, but she seemed determined not to look at him. Another reason for her hurry occurred to him, and he reached out to catch hold of her wrist. “Did I hurt ye, Catriona?” he asked in a lower voice. “I ken my first claiming of ye caused ye some pain. That willnae happen again. But if I was too rough, or I did someaught ye didnae like, ye must tell me. Because I swear I'll nae hurt ye again. Body or soul.”

Dark brown eyes finally lifted to meet his. “That's quite the claim, Bear,” she said, and reached across his bare legs for her stray boot. “Nae. Ye didnae hurt me, any more than ye said would happen. I liked it. I like the way ye touch me.”