by Lisa Torquay
He returned over her to brace his elbows by her sides, uneven breath. He could wait no longer.
His hazy mind forced him to go slow even if the tempest in him demanded he take her hard and fast. Whole body corded in tension, he feared he was not going to make it.
Breath suspend, she lay expectant.
Positioning, his granite flesh advanced an inch, and stopped. No air would be enough for his lungs. Another torturous inch. Stop. He trembled all over now, knowing he was too big for her diminutive frame. One more devastating inch. A death sentence.
“What are you doing?” She asked feverish.
“I do not want to hurt you.” He panted.
At once, her legs surrounded his hips. And pulled him deep inside her hot moist channel. Merciless.
A groan escaped her, head thrown back, the picture of pleasure.
His grunt was pure torment. He slid in her, she sheathed him tight, torturously tight.
The diminutive hurricane!
“Does this solve your problem?” She asked breathless.
“No.” He breathed on the verge of an earthquake. “It makes it worse.”
“Then make it worse.” She goaded.
He filled every single nook of her, the sensation so melting, she found no pain to talk of now.
For the first time, he did what she said. And moved out, to come in deeper. Then out anew, to fill her up as he returned.
One of his arms laced her waist on the bed and she held him like a vice as they undulated on the mattress against the fire light.
He made it worse. She heated to febrile extremes as he came and went, each time throwing her in a more agonising furnace.
Tousled hair over his brow, sweat shining on his skin, muscles flexing and bunching, green gaze fixed on her with the hunger of a wolf.
He took her faster, hitting in her blindly. The surge of heat originated from an abyss inside her and she exploded in thousands of shards pinpricking her entirely. She screamed his name for the second time as ripples and more ripples clenched in her.
His rugged face crumped, before stretching in stiff tension, his thrusts broken, mindless. With a wild grunt, head thrown back, he froze at the same moment he poured his passion in her to the last drop.
The storm subsided little by little.
Bristle jaw buried in her neck, he found peace at last. They lay on the bedsheets joined and clasped to each other for a long period.
Muscled length sliding to the mattress, he brought her with him and covered both.
“Did I hurt you?” He asked grave, inhaling the perfume of her hair.
The warmth of him surrounding her gave a sense of contentment difficult to understand. Like everything today. Had someone told her yesterday she would end up sated in his bed tonight, she would have laughed her heart out. To revel in this summarised everything she wanted for the time being.
Her head half turned to him. “If this means hurt, hurt me many more times.” A faint smile on her swollen lips.
A hand caressed her side. “Be sure I will.”
This listed as all she needed to learn. She burrowed further in him as her throat drafted a sound of approval.
“You are the only woman who ditches a man at the altar and then gives him a wedding night.” A tint of amusement dropped in his deep voice.
“You deserved the ditching.” She said lightly.
“I am not complaining, mind you.” He tightened his arms around her. “Would not think of it.”
“Is that so?” Her hands came over his strong hair sprinkled forearms.
“Hell, Aileen!” His lips grazed her shoulder. “You almost turned me inside out.”
“Good.” She agreed.
“Come.” He cradled her closer. “We need to sleep.”
“We do.” She answered boneless.
Wrapped in each other, they fell in a sated slumber.
~.~.~
Middle of the night, Taran awoke, lying on his back. The wee hurricane climbed on him, just as she did in the woods when he went to fetch her. Tangled in him, as if she could not bear to be distant, she sought him unconscious and involved them in her receptive warmth
Unlike that night, he did not refrain from doing what he had wanted then. Under the coverlet, his hands caressed her silky skin, her hair spread over his chest. Calm breaths, given to him, her perfume in his nostrils. Her proximity soothed his insides.
This woman never ceased to amaze him. The way she surrendered all heat, passion and woman made him desire her more. And more.
Her warmth so close made him wish this happened often. She barged into his life and it would not be the same again, he esteemed. Neither did he want it to be. It was as though a blinding torch illuminated every corner here. Despite her fierce personality, she was generous. Heart open to his son and his struggles, she offered the boy affectionate comfort, not minding he was a McDougal, or his son, for that matter. Compassionate and understanding, she saw through the smoke scream right to the core of the matter. And did not use it against them, but to help them. Which surprised him in her circumstances. This elicited admiration from Taran. Difficult to find one such as her.
In the morning, he would propose to her in a proper way, he decided, as his hand roamed her dainty spine. She deserved his utter respect.
Abruptly, her head raised from his chest. “Oh, drat!” She emitted a discontent moan.
And tried to go from him.
His arm held her waist. “Stay.” Fingers combed her glossy hair. “I like it when you climb on me.”
Her length wriggled on him, adjusting her position. He liked it even more.
“I do not imagine what comes over me to do this.” She commented, eyeing him in the dimming fire.
“Never did this before, I gather.” He wanted to be the only man with whom she did it.
She wriggled again, this time to reach his face. “Not that I remember.” Her mouth traced his bristle jaw.
Her wriggling began to put him in a very awkward… condition.
He groaned with both caresses. “Good. And it will continue this way.”
A new rustle fired his flesh. “Possessive, are we?” Her mouth reached the corner of his.
“Always.” He admitted. The only woman with whom he acted thusly, strange as it might be.
Her body grazed him anew, to nibble his lip.
“Stop moving, woman, if you do not want me to— “ She did it once more, the provocative witch.
This became too much for him. He rolled them to pin her to the sheets. Their stares collided.
“Damn you, Aleen!” His chest registered her pebbling breasts. “You must be sore.”
Her hands caressed his firm buttocks, suggestive. “I am in sore need you take me again.”
No answer came other than his mouth plunging on hers. His flesh sank in her and in seconds they lost themselves to reality as passion devoured them one more time.
~.~.~
In the faint light of pre-dawn, Aileen watched Taran sleep sprawled on the overturned sheets. Like a Celtic god in his deserved repose. Very deserved, for they could not harness their esurience for each other in the night. They sated one another repeatedly, as if there must be only the two of them in the universe.
One arm over his brow, his entire length at her mercy to look her fill. Hair sprinkled broad chest, packed abdomen, narrow hips, muscled thighs. The temptation to explore him yet again strong in her.
Soot thick lashes hid his disquieting moss beacons, that, when trained on her, caused her insides to flip with the most unconfessable yearnings. She did not fathom what to do with it. She did, in fact. But the intensity consumed her. It had from almost day one.
Peacefully as he lay here, he would not understand how scary it was that a man possessed this hold on her. He had barely to kiss her, and she slipped under his spell, for him to do what he wished, what they craved, heedless to everything around.
Not enough. Not remotely enough.
The thirst he el
icited in her compared to a bottomless well that would not be filled in a thousand years.
Not that he was a bad man. On the contrary, his clan gave all the signs they admired him. Respected him. Regarded him as their true leader. And the man proved to be up to the task, obviously. His single-mindedness in protecting and keeping them together, his involvement in what concerned his lands and his people crystalline. A leader they could count on.
Despite his imposing posture, which could be totally overbearing. And led her to red-hot fury. It abraded her at the same time it made her burn for him. How soft-witted might she be?
Problem being she did not have a mind of becoming any smarter. Not while he lay at arm’s reach. Not while he took her from the fires of hell to heavenly bliss.
Better not to muse too much. Or her head would go spinning. Turning to the other side, she tried to get a modicum of rest.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sam waited for her in the clearing just outside the manor, with her carriage and servants. They had arranged it the morning before while they walked to the chapel. Mairi, Brody and Greg had been kept in a cottage in the village, watched by a McDougal kin, the boy discovered. Apparently, Sam told the kin his father sent for them.
On a sheet of paper, he drew a map of secondary roads and shortcuts through which she would be able to arrive home without anyone being able to follow her.
The decision to depart came the day Taran did his ‘convincing’ number to herd her to the church. She saw no reason to change it. The night they spent together had been… unforgettable. But played no role in the big picture of her life. She must go back to her usual duties and her family. To linger here without her brothers’ knowledge foolish and unreal. The thought that last night changed anything even more foolish and unreal.
It was not as if she did not impart this to the Laird. She did, the day they rode the cart together. And he denied her wish, even with reasonable arguments.
Not as if she would be with child. It rarely happened in one night, the women in the village implied.
The sun’s edge appeared on the far hills warning of the time to leave.
Sam took her hands in his. “I wish you could stay.” He expressed, a tint of sadness in green eyes behind round lenses.
Head tilted, she smiled encouragingly. “Come visit me. Stay as long as you like.” She invited, knowing he needed a reprieve now and then.
“Father would imprison me in the dungeon, I believe.” He scoffed, the sun making his hair redder.
She only rested a hand on his almost beardless face, unwilling to express her actual opinion on the matter. “Good bye, Sam.”
“Take care, Aileen.” And she climbed in the carriage.
They should be arriving tonight if the roads did not disappoint them.
~.~.~
Much later, Taran turned on his side in his crumpled bed, hands stretched looking for her. His desire for the witch never fully sated. Cool sheets met his hands. Eyes snapping open, an empty chamber greeted him.
Jerking to a sit, he surveyed around. That hollow hunch from the day she had bolted smothered him. In swift action, he bulleted from the bed, fumbled on some clothes and exited the room like lightning.
His feet stormed the hothouse, to meet Sam taking care of one of his species. Father and son faced each other in mute communication.
“She is gone.” His son informed simply.
He scowled in the height of vexation. “And you let her?” Long fingers raked his sable hair. “In these dangerous roads?”
“She will be fine.” The mild comment only served to make him madder.
He wanted to punch a wall. “When?”
“At dawn.” Not a trace of guilt in the information. The boy was becoming a man who knew what he was doing.
Eyes on the outside, Taran hurtled there.
“She does not want to stay here.” Sam reasoned. “You cannot force her.”
A swivel back to the boy, his eyes spitting fire. “You do not understand.” His lips pressed together.
“I do.” Two pairs of green eyes connected bluntly. “You compromised her.” The father blanched. “But she does not seem to care.”
How did a compromised woman not give due importance to it? Damn her!
“But I do!” He nearly shouted.
“Too much, I would say.” The younger of them ventured.
He lunged out of the hothouse as if chased by a horde of demons. The McDougal heir did not have the faintest idea of what ‘too much’ meant.
But the Laird did.
Too bluidy much!
Orders barked for his horse and travel preparations, he rushed to his chamber to assemble a saddle-bag for the trip.
~.~.~
Relief flooded Aileen when the carriage parked at the McKendrick’s manor entrance. In haste, she alit, eager to meet the bears of her brothers.
Past the entrance hall, she found them and their father in the drawing room, whisky in hand. Her eldest brother, Drostan, stood by the hearth, elbow on the mantel. Her second eldest one, Fingal, sat on an armchair in front of the fire. The third, Lachlan, leant on the window. Her father, Wallace, sat on a settee. The four of them, in an utterly lively chat, turned when the door opened.
She was not sure—or if—they heard anything about her time at the McDougal’s, so she waited to gauge what they knew.
“Little sister!” Fingal greeted.
“How is Aunt Bridget faring?” This from Lachlan.
“Very well, I will say.” She blurted.
Drostan merely looked at her. He was a man of few words and a lot of observation. He had become even more introspect after his wife Freya disappeared mysteriously five years ago. Since no one was sure if she was alive, he had no possibility of considering marriage again.
“Did you have a nice trip?” Her father imparted.
“Yes, father.” Her attempt at a smile did not succeed that much. “It was rather… eye opening.”
In dire need of solitude, she cut the conversation short. “If you will excuse me.” She took off her hat. “I am weary from the trip. We will talk in the morning.”
“As you wish, sister.” Drostan deigned to talk.
~.~.~
After a refreshing bath, in a crisp nightgown, Aileen’s head rested on her pillow. Her mind wandered. There must be no questioning she had done the right thing coming back home. Had she taken much longer, her brothers might have suspected something wrong and gone in search of her. That would have been disastrous if the history of both clans was anything to go by here.
So why did she feel so… twisted inside her skin? Her cosy chamber did not seem restful at all. A hollow sensation drifted through her veins as if something might be missing. Or she missed something. Someone.
Blast the implacable giant!
Not even reasserting he had abducted her, to marry a young man who had been little more than a boy relieved it. He did not prove to be reasonable by any stretch of imagination.
No use. When she remembered him, his kisses, his thoughtfulness as he took her for the first time. And his fierceness as a clan leader, his protectiveness towards his son, everything vanished from her mind and the man remained. The man she gave herself to unrepentant, ineluctable. Insufficiently.
So insufficient!
She did not believe she would ever have her fill of him. Not in a lifetime. Which stood unattainable, obviously.
Futile to dwell on it. Reality called. Her life had to go on, for sure. A choice of suitor lay ahead, either she continued to be a maiden or not.
Their clans wrote a history of enmity though her brothers opted for ignoring it and getting on with their lives, apparently followed by Taran. Their generation did not skirmish as yet. And she hoped it stayed so. Times changed, and it proved to be easier to change with them, something her brothers seemed to understand. The sole course of action to forget the whole thing ever happened. Try to forget.
She would never forget.
But she shou
ld leave it aside and carry on with her duties. It started tomorrow, she promised herself before she turned to her side and allowed sleep to give her repose.
~.~.~
The five McKendricks gathered for luncheon in the dining room, next day, when a loud banging sounded on the front door.
Aileen’s heart jumped to her throat and begun thrashing unruly. She must place her silverware on the table or they would rattle in her unsteady hands.
A footman must have opened it. But did not manage to come make an announcement, for footsteps pounded on the wooden floor, marching in their direction.
No need for an announcement where she was concerned.
Blood rushing first cold and then boiling-hot, she waited.
“What the h—“ Drostan started, but had no chance of finishing.
For The McDougal warrior emerged in the room.
Magnificent.
Large, wrinkled shirt and tartan, mud-spattered hoses and boots, morning stubble, wind-mussed coal hair.
And a ferocious look in those moss coloured regard.
Everybody stood abruptly from their chairs at the sight of his red and black plaid.
His green flashing eyes sieged her burning with fury and one other thing that made her want to grab him and take him somewhere quiet. Very quiet. And wear off the fury in a… heterodox way.
“A McDougal?” Her father exclaimed. “Is this any kind of invasion?”
The giant sketched a slight bow. “I am Taran, The McDougal.” As he straightened, his unrelenting attention bored into her again. “And this is not an invasion.” A meaningful glint in his expression to her. “Yet.”
Would the troglodyte not leave her be?
“What is this, then?” Questioned Fingal, a belligerent stance.
This might become bloody really fast, she feared.
“I came to propose marriage to Lady Aileen.” The man prompted, legs braced, muscled arms crossed, jaw jerking at her.