Holding back a quiet chuckle, Ian smiled. Tavish reminded him of his pal Martin. The two men obviously had a love of customer service, and in Tavish’s case, for proper Scottish tradition. With much circumstance, he escorted her to Ian and gently removed her hand from his elbow, placing her in Ian’s care.
“Mr. Ian McCallum, may I present Miss Bryn Wallace.” He nodded respectfully.
Ian took her hand, slowly raising it to his lips. “Miss Wallace.”
“Please, Mr. McCallum, call me Bryn.”
His eyes met hers. A countenance of trust, respect, maybe love, lit up her face.
“Please.” He pulled out her chair and settled her at the table. He couldn’t help caressing her shoulder as he moved from behind her. He felt her bristle, not in repulsion, but of an aroused knowing.
“Love the kilt, Ian,” she told him in her husky whisper.
As much as he admired the man, Ian wished Tavish would disappear and leave him alone with his beautiful American date. But, he didn’t—instead he made Ian hungry as he brought rice paper-thin slices of smoked Scottish salmon with capers and crackers, accompanied by a dram of thirty-year old Mortlach single malt. Dinner consisted of Haggis with a Drambuie sauce, neeps and tatties on the side, and the finish to their meal—sweet raspberry cranachan.
Bryn swirled her cognac. “What’s with those paintings, Ian, they’re everywhere.” Her head cocked toward yet another scene of the hooded lass and the strapping Celt.
“Aye, they’re famous.”
“No wonder they’re all over the place. There’s another in my room.”
“They tell a tale as old as this rock, Brynnie.” Her eyes lit up in curiosity. “Those are prints of course, but a gent by the name of Grant painted them back in the 1600s. There were a dozen or so, different scenes, telling the story of how that lad—” he nodded at the scene near their table— “lost his lass.”
“I saw one scene where they were on a dock. Did she leave him?”
“Story has it, no one knows whether she left or just disappeared. It is said his last words to her were ‘haste ye back to me,’ but she never did. Some say she left because he was ambiguous about his feelings for her, never made them known to her. It’s believed she died at sea, on her way to your fair land. Another tale says she died of a broken heart. Rumor was, Kelpie feared….”
“Kelpie?”
“Aye, Kelpie, the devil of waters, feared Grant in his grief would construe a painting so grand, so full of the spirit of the woman he lost, that other gods would take pity on him and bring her back to life. Of course, Kelpie, along with Black Donald—the devil—despised being tricked by mortals and having their hateful fun interrupted by good faes, so they concocted a plan to do away with the work Grant was in the process of painting, allegedly the most beautiful work of its time, even though no one has ever seen it. A fire at his home killed him and destroyed all his work. So, he remained forever separated from his lass.”
The fable always affected visitors and he could see how it affected her. He calmed her with an arm about her shoulders, drawing her close.
“The antagonists of your legends are mean, Ian.”
With a gentle squeeze and a calming kiss to her forehead, he whispered the remainder of the lore. “But, it’s said Kelpie and the Black Don will someday be revenged by Cerridwen….”
“Another god?”
“Goddess actually, love. She’s rules over death, inspiration, wisdom, past lives, and all sorts of other ethereal posts. She’s been working throughout eternity to make things right, not only when it comes to our bonnie couple in the paintings, but with anyone who’s ever been wronged, in any capacity.” His heart leapt again when she rested her head on his shoulder. “Just a legend, wee Brynnie.”
She sighed and nodded in his embrace. “I know, but why do those paintings feel so real?”
Closing his eyes, he rested his chin atop her head. “Maybe they know how we feel.”
His lips met her temple again and lingered there. He could hold her like that forever, listening to her breathe, smelling her delicate, yet intoxicating aroma.
And, somewhere deep in his soul, he knew he already had.
***
Tavish interrupted a last time. “More scotch, tea and a large fire in the great room, Mr. McCallum, if you and Miss Wallace are interested.”
“We are,” Bryn chimed before Ian could say a word. When she saw his amused and wondering look, she covered, “It’s just a bit chilly in here, and a fire would be nice.”
“Thank you, Tavish.” Ian rose, assisting her from her chair.
They followed their host down a long flagstone hallway through yet another arch into the most rustically romantic room Bryn had ever seen. A fireplace, easily eight feet wide and four feet high, anchored the low ceilinged room. The hearth consumed huge chunks of wood, heating the room to a comfortable temperature. Large leather and wood chairs made a sitting area to one side. However, a flannel blanket and pillow-strewn area directly in front of the fire caught her eye, and she noticed, Ian’s as well.
“If there is nothing else, I will say goodnight. If there is something you need, please don’t hesitate to ring.” Tavish nodded to a decorative box on a side table that appeared to be a phone.
“Thank you, Tavish. Good night.”
“Good night to you, Miss.” He nodded. “A fine evening to you, sir.” With a wink, he shook Ian’s hand and departed.
Bryn slipped out of her heels and padded toward the fireplace. Propped against the gnarled oak mantle, she sighed, pleased how the date had progressed, how it would progress the remainder of its time.
Shit, I’ll take out a loan to pay Don back. I certainly don’t want him taking credit for my happiness!
Feeling Ian behind her, she smiled; almost all was right with the world.
“A wee nip, m’lady?”
Turning to him, she nodded, taking the crystal from his hand, raising it to him. Neither said a word. With a clink of her glass to his, his eyes said all that she needed to know, and all that any woman would want to hear.
After a long sip, she watched him shed the modern sport coat, vest and tie which topped his McCallum tartan kilt, and roll up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. Her eyes wandered from the flex of his forearms as he adjusted his sleeves down to where his belt pouch draped about his waist.
Giving the plaid a bit of a tug, she licked her lips, “A man in a kilt—the sexiest thing in the world.”
He unclasped the sporran and tossed it on a nearby chair. “You think so?”
Succumbing to his easy seduction, she closed her eyes, resting her cheek on his chest. She took a deep breath, his scent one she’d miss terribly in the morning.
“Come, lass.”
Callused hands took hers, guiding her down to the soft flannels in front of the fire. She sat in his lap, both of them facing the hearth. He took her glass, putting it with his next to the bottle of Chivas Regal Royal Salute, a fifty-year old blend she’d teased her father about buying him for Father’s Day—if she had ten thousand dollars to spare on a bottle of hooch. The innocent thought of her dad quickly vanished as the man she’d been intimate with all afternoon slipped her wrap from about her shoulders. A slow, quiet ziiiip followed.
She closed her eyes as his lips met her cheek. They lingered there, his light scruff brushing against her skin, sending her mind swirling. His nearness, kindness, his scent, and obvious sexiness had her nearly over the edge.
“Brynnie,” he whispered, his hand caressing her skin.
She couldn’t resist him; his accent, attractiveness, his silent expressed want of her. Feelings stunned her, especially the one less like lust and more like another L word.
No, that’s not what this is. It’s a one-night stand, which you friggin’ bought, Bryn Wallace—don’t forget that!
“You have beautiful skin, darlin’.” Callused hands dug a bit more into her shoulders. Resting his chin in the cove of her neck, his tone was heavy w
ith seduction. “Brynnie, would ya mind me rubbin’ your back a wee bit?”
Holding back an obvious pant, swimming in drink and the situation, she closed her eyes and let her head tilt back into his shoulder. Wonderfully rough fingers slipped her dress about her arms, down to her waist. When he searched for a bra clasp, she took his hand and directed him between her breasts where he skillfully popped the closure and freed her from its confines.
A gasp left her when lips and scruff dragged across her neck. Gentle, strong thumbs burrowed into her scapulas. Muscles deep between her thighs tightened then released, straining in need—his touch laden with salaciousness. His large stiffness tented against the fabric of his kilt.
Meticulously, his hands worked—her shoulder blades, each vertebra, the slender line of her neck, until the sensations were too much to bear. She faced him, her kiss strong, controlling and insistent. She knew what she wanted, and like he had that afternoon—with her permission—would take it if need be.
Again, she didn’t want to think the thoughts, feel the emotions, but from the moment she’d laid eyes on the strapping man, she’d been smitten, despite fending off feelings of anything but lust for him.
In his embrace, laid out on the comforting throws, his heft poised over her, his lips didn’t leave hers. Her arms surrounded him, and he moved in her hold, and even though they’d been nude together most of the day, still she yearned to study his body, his sinews, his male shapeliness brought about only by honest use of it in the outdoors.
When he came up for air, his eyes locked with hers. He shifted, pulling her dress and panties from her.
In a poor attempt at stifling a moan, she breathed, “Ian.” Then was silenced again by his mouth. Wool scratched at her thighs as he rubbed against her.
In all her years with Don, with other lovers, she’d never had this intensity of want, and it wasn’t the scotch—she and Ian were far from drunk. She wanted to unthink the thoughts running roughshod through her brain, the idea that this was anything but purchased companionship.
She clawed at his broad back, pulling at his dress shirt. “Take it off, Ian.”
He did as she commanded, rising up from her, complying, his eyes never leaving hers.
How beautiful he was—broad, tight chest, well-cut flat gut, strong, hefty, and thick in a lumberjack-esque sort of way. When she reached to stroke the fine hair trailing into the waistband of his kilt, he stopped her, grasping her wrists, forcing them above her head, and pinning her to the floor.
His expression was not a rebuke, rather the loss of all resolve. “Dammit, Brynnie.”
His wildness ignited her like it had in the rain that afternoon. Kissing her neck, his groin ground into hers, and in his excitement, he released one of her arms. She dug under his kilt, frantically searching for his cock and found it, doing a poor job of hiding in matching tartan boxers. Hooking her hand into the elastic waistband, she willed the blocking garment down his legs.
“Hold on, darlin’.” He rolled from her, kicking the undergarment from his legs.
When he sat up fingering a closure on his kilt, her own admonishment bounced from the stone walls. “No!” She clutched at his offending hand. “No, leave it on.”
“So, that’s how you American birds like it, eh?”
Any response was stifled by a ravaging kiss.
No one had ever touched her heart and body the way he had in the past twelve hours; it seemed he made love to her every moment they were together with his words, his body, with his mere presence. The beginning of this coupling the opposite of the afternoon’s—seeming deliberate, almost pre-ordained.
He drew her close, burying his face in her neck. His whiskers prickled in the most arousing way. He was straight up and large under the fabric.
Unwanted emotions dominated her psyche, and she tried to hide an obvious hard swallow of feeling. She encouraged his face away from her shoulder, embracing his cheeks in her hands. Gazing into his eyes, she could barely hold back tears and brought her lips to his, again thankful he took over, honoring her mouth with his exquisite kisses.
Through the lipped caress, she wondered about time without him. She felt she knew him, inside and out, from the beginning of her life to wherever it would end.
But, would he be part of it?
Callused hands skimmed her skin, and she reveled in his embrace. Her eyes fluttered as he gently kissed her neck, her sternum, and then paid particular attention to her breasts—loving each one with his mouth. She groaned as two strong fingers slipped into her sex. Heat emanating from her matched that of the fire.
In the dimness, her eyes narrowed and were momentarily drawn away from his affection to yet another Grant painting on the wall. The same lass as in the print in her room at the Castillo Dalmahoy, and in the hotel’s dining area, and yet another print in the room where they’d eaten that evening. Only this one had her caped back to the kilted man as she walked slowly way up a ship’s gangplank.
Despite grinding into Ian’s hand, and with his kisses everywhere on her skin, immense dread suddenly washed through her.
“Ian,” she gasped, holding him closer, feeling his aliveness in her hands.
“Darlin’?”
Confused tears came fast. She grabbed at him, encouraging him atop her, for some unknown reason feeling she’d die if he wasn’t inside her soon. He tugged at the tartan, his bare member poking at her. Spreading her legs, lifting herself to him, nothing was more important than making love to him, and unconsciously she didn’t care if he had protection or not. She gasped as his substantial tip probed her engorged folds.
Hot breath against her neck forced her to squirm beneath him, maneuvering, shifting, without thought positioning herself for intercourse. Never had she gone without protection with a new lover, and she certainly didn’t want to feel this way—this much trust, care and concern was not what she signed up for.
She agreed to a one-night stand even if it had lasted all day. She wasn’t supposed to be even thinking the words hovering on her tongue.
“Ian….”Nope, you are not going to say that!
She mentally reprimanded herself for being so emotionally weak, so typically female, as his insistent mouth met hers, quieting her, stirring her want further. She shook herself back to the moment, refusing to give in, to allow silly, stereotypical-for-such-an-encounter feelings overwhelm her.
Who the hell am I trying to kid?
Hovering above her, he poised to do just as she has subconsciously mused, yet as a modern man....His grinding slowed. “Hold on, darlin’, hold on.”
As he moved away from her, stretching to reach his sporran on a chair, she stopped him.
“No, Ian. It’s all right.”
His eyes caught hers, shocked. “Really?”
She’d never pleaded for anything in her life—until now. “Please.”
Burying his face in her neck, he kissed her. He moved deliberately, seeming to savor his moment of entry for both of them. How she loved his aroused gasp, and wished this wasn’t the last night she’d hear it.
Just like the female subject of Grant’s paintings, she’d be leaving in mere hours—making her way up her own gangplank of sorts, probably never to see him again.
“Damn, Brynnie!”
His dick was huge and when her vacation ended, she would miss it and all the terrifyingly true emotions it elicited.
When her tempo met his, he lifted his face from her neck and smiled at her like he’d known her all his life. She relented, dropped the tough cookie routine and—although she’d hate herself in the morning—gave into everything, including the potential of a broken heart.
***
Perfect amount of firelight, perfect atmosphere, perfect dinner, perfect companion, and Bryn figured the sex was good all day, how much more perfect could it get?
What a man! Superiorly attractive, kindhearted, caring, interested and a cock unlike any she had ever experienced. And, he liked everything—she wondered what else the two of
them could get into sexually.
He gently kissed her throat, caressing a breast with a strong hand. “You are—” he punctuated each thought with a kiss, “the most bonnie, bonnie lass.” He held her face steady, watching her eyes.
“Ian!” His face disappeared as her lids fluttered. He’d been in her more ways than one that afternoon, but the slow breach of her body had her wondering what she’d missed during their flagrant screw session.
“Aye, sweet Brynnie.”
Never had she felt such a depth of caring in the arms of another man, like a virgin all over again, his deliberate gentle entering of her, his lips on her neck, the words he breathed in her ear. Don’t do it—do not cry!
Too late, the dam broke when she climaxed well ahead of schedule.
Nothing in her life had ever felt quite so right before. She cried out, his named echoing from the stone walls. She couldn’t contain her sobs, knowing in just a few short hours the end of the sudden relationship would be at hand.
He slowed. “You all right, darlin’?”
Embarrassed, she nodded into his neck. “Please, please don’t stop.”
“Aye, Brynnie, aye.”
She clutched at his shoulders, attempting to memorize every move of him, every physical and emotional connection being made. Just as she gained control of her psychological situation, the thought which raged in her mind as he moaned in her ear upon climax again had her in tears and questioning her skill at corralling her feelings.
Dammit, Ian McCallum, why’d you make me fall in love with you?
The fire had died down, and a chill filled the room. Ian certainly didn’t want to ring Tavish to stoke the fire, considering his guests were both buck naked and ready to screw once again. That would be terribly embarrassing! So, he did the most chivalrous thing he’d ever done—he scooped Bryn into his arms and carried her to bed.
He wrapped her up tightly, holding her so close it seemed their breaths and hearts were one. At a bit of a loss as to how to comfort her, he squeezed her more diligently. Their night had been soft, deep, and more meaningful than any in his life. It’d been barely fourteen hours since they first met—now he could never be without her.
1NS 094 - Haste Ye Back - Wendy Burke - Decadent 2012-02 Page 4