Alana couldn’t tear away from the sight of his bent head, the dark brown hair drying in waves, as he lowered, his fingers slipping below, finding her secrets again. She gasped with the heat of his kiss, watching him love her. Sensations spiraled upward, connecting the sweet ache building in her core to the wild beating of her heart, and her eyes flickered closed. Fingers twining in the thin throw that she’d laid upon the bed, her body strained toward the ecstasy she’d climbed to last night. But this was more, more intimate, more intense. He played her with his fingers while loving her with his mouth, his tongue.
“Oh God, Shaw,” she breathed, the end of her words bending into a groan. She lay back on the straw-filled tick, arching and clasping her breasts as he moved rapidly below, stroking the fires within her until sparks of light fringed the darkness behind her eyelids.
“Yes, bloody hell, yes,” she called, her words filling the small world of the cottage around them. The release of the words and her loud moans built on the rhythm that Shaw had set below, her core pressing upward in time with it until… The peak broke suddenly, sending pleasure shooting off within her writhing body. A high-pitched moan billowed up from her throat, and she let it come, let all of her fall over the edge of reason, her toes curling as her knees bent deeper where they latched onto his shoulders.
He slid up her body, kissing her stomach and breasts until he hovered over her on the bed. Somehow, he’d lifted her to the center. He wiped a hand along his mouth, his gaze fastened to hers. It was fierce and intense and sent another jolt of heat through her, making her core clench again with anticipation. She reached down to capture his hard length, sliding her hand along it.
“Mo chreach, Alana,” he groaned. He leaned on one elbow as his other hand teased her nipple while lifting her full breast, and he kissed her. Their lips fused together, sliding, giving and taking as he continued to stroke her body until she was again writhing against him. Her hand kept up a rhythm, and his fingers trailed to her heat below. Ready and completely wanting, she spread her knees far apart.
“Please, Shaw,” she said against his mouth, her words breathless and needy. Had she ever begged before in her life? No, but she had never felt such sweet fever. She raised her knees, locking her legs around his hips, and pulled the tip of him close to her heat. “See me,” she said, her words a breathless whisper. “I want this. I want you.”
He leaned over her, his face tense as they locked their gazes. “I will always see ye.” His hips surged forward, and she let go as he plunged into her. Large, so incredibly large. A sting of pain shot upward, and she inhaled. He stilled, buried deep inside.
She felt him brush hair back from her temple and realized that she’d squeezed her eyes shut. Apparently, she hadn’t lost her virginity in the saddle. “Alana,” Shaw said.
“It is no matter,” she replied, opening her eyes. “Already fading.”
He studied her face as if trying to read the truth. She smiled, her fingers going around his neck to pull him back in. “Kiss me senseless again,” she murmured and pressed upward against him.
He sucked in breath. “Good God,” he whispered, and slowly withdrew to press into her tight body again. “Ye are like wet fire and heaven mixed together,” he said at her ear, his words so full of passion and reverence that she shuddered, moving against him in the slow rhythm he’d started.
“Keep talking,” she said, feeling the erotic power of the words.
In and out, he moved, his body strong and sleek with muscle. “Do ye feel me way up inside ye, lass?”
“Oh yes,” she breathed, squeezing around him and marveling in his groan.
He leaned into her ear, whispering, his hot breath sending wild pictures through her mind. “I want to take ye from behind,” he said. Unable to form words, she nodded vigorously, trusting him to guide her.
She almost cried out in disappointment when he rose, leaving her body, but he turned her around, pulling her up onto her hands and knees. She felt him there again, where she ached, the emptiness feeling hollow. She panted loudly as he slowly pushed back inside her from behind, filling her a different, excruciatingly wonderful way.
Shaw leaned over her, covering her entire back with his chest and stomach as he rocked into her. His fingers wrapped underneath, finding her sensitive spot, strumming it, making her moan and shift against them as she bucked backward. His other hand held tightly to her breast, the roughness of his thumb sliding over her nipple, pinching it to send another shot of passion flying down through her, connecting with her hot core. “Good bloody hell, Shaw,” she said, her voice loud and keening.
“Keep talking,” he said, and she felt him kiss and nip the back of her neck, his hot breath sending more shivers along her skin.
“Yes,” she yelled. “More.”
“More what?”
“More…everything.”
He picked up the rhythm, thrusting into her open body, playing across her sensitive nub, squeezing her breast. Alana reared backward, feeling him slap against her until the fire built higher and higher. “Shaw,” she screamed as she came apart, shattering into a thousand sparks of sensation.
Over her, Shaw growled, thrusting into her as he, too, exploded, his heat filling her. Her body clenched along his length as they continued the rhythm, over and over again with the waves of passion, until her head fell forward to hang between her shoulders.
His hand stroked up her stomach as they slowed. Finally stopping, he pulled her to the side with him, their legs intertwined, his thighs supporting hers from behind. She had never felt so protected, so wanted, so seen before.
She nestled backward into him, watching the shadows and light from the hearth flicker across the walls of the tiny room, loving the feel of him all around her.
As the silence continued, worry began to seep in. She swallowed. Was he regretting the whole thing? “I guess… I was a virgin,” she said softly.
He kissed the side of her neck, hugging her, and relief uncoiled a notch in her stomach. He pulled her gently over onto her back, looking down to stare directly into her eyes. A slight smile touched his lips. “I knew, from the feel of ye last night.”
“Oh,” she said. “But that did not stop you.”
His gaze moved above her head and then back to her eyes. “Once ye asked—”
“Demanded,” she said and ran her fingers over a wave of his hair that hung around his solid jawline.
He snorted softly. “Aye, once ye demanded, there was no way I could stop.” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “Are ye a witch, Alana Campbell?”
She smiled. “Maybe I am. I seem to have quite a bit of power over you,” she said, reaching down to find him already growing hard again.
He laughed and passed a leisurely kiss across her lips before rising, his gaze going to the hearth. “Ye have been so full of passion that ye did not notice the hare and pheasant are burning.” She turned on her side, watching him step out of their little nest, and reached down to the floor to grab the blanket that she’d dropped. Without Shaw’s body against her, the room was cold. She watched him walk across the room, completely naked and comfortable with it, as he crouched before the hearth to turn the spit. The bandage that he’d wrapped around his hip had been torn away. A dab of blood beaded out of one of the stitches, but the thread had held through their madness.
“Well done on one side,” he said, seemingly unfazed by his wound.
“I don’t mind,” she said, mesmerized by the play of light and shadow across his nakedness. The muscles of his shoulders and back contracted and lengthened, showing the long scars across his skin. The white lines where he’d been lashed stood out against his tanned skin, muscles moving under them as he worked the spit around.
“One of your stitches is bleeding,” she said, her voice soft.
He stood and her breath caught at the raw beauty of the man as he twisted to look down at the long gash. Toned and full of muscle, the lines and sinew of his body were smooth and full from obvious training
with the heavy swords and hammers. He wiped the spot with his thumb. “’Tis nothing. The thread held.”
Her gaze traveled over the scars along his back. She didn’t say anything, but her heart hurt for the boy Shaw had been. Where she had grown up surrounded by love, he had grown to manhood under the cruel thumb of an abusive man who may have killed his mother.
“They do not bother me.” His voice was low and caught at her breath. He was watching her.
“I am sorry,” she said, looking away. Sorry that he caught her staring. Sorry that pity showed in her face. And exceedingly sorry that he suffered so much as a boy, and even now, that he had to bear the scars from such brutality.
He walked over, crouching before her, his hand going to her foot. He picked it up, rubbing his knuckle slowly along her scarred arch. Her toes curled as it tickled.
He lifted it to his mouth and kissed the side where the burn scars wrapped up and around. “Ye can look all ye want,” he said, meeting her gaze. “Just do not be sorry for me. The marks mean that we survived something fierce and lived to carry the scars. They show how strong we are. ’Tis not something to mourn but a testament to our endurance.”
She swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat and nodded, leaning forward to kiss him gently. “You are a wise man, Shaw Sinclair.”
He leaned back, his smile quirking to the side. “Some would argue against that.” He stood to go back over to the spit in the hearth. “Including me.”
Her gaze dipped to the mounding of muscle in his arm as he turned the meat. The sharp points and swirls of the tattooed horse on his upper arm reminded her of something ancient and magical.
“Is the horse on your skin Rìgh?” she asked.
His arm flexed as he lifted it to look at the tattoo, and her breath hitched a little. Lord, just a simple gesture stirred the fire within her.
“Nay,” he said, striding back. “It is the symbol of the Sinclairs from long ago. We have always revered the strength, stamina, and speed in horses.” He sat on the edge of the bed, glancing down at his hip as if just checking to see if it still bled. “A century ago, there was a legend that the four sons of Sinclair were the biblical four horsemen of the Apocalypse.” He reached forward to slide a knuckle down her cheek.
“Since we are all still here, I guess they were not,” she said, though her words came breathless under his light touch. They had just stroked, kissed, and loved each other to shattering peaks, and yet she could feel her blood warming quickly.
He smiled, a real one that reached his eyes. She loved it when he smiled. She hadn’t realized how much heaviness he was carrying until he let the frown and tense fierceness drop away from his face, leaving behind a look full of hope and contentment.
“True,” he said. “Even if they were not magical warriors sent from God, they revered and trained horses, and our clan has continued to do so.” He leaned in, capturing her lips with his own, and all thoughts of horses and legends dissolved under the warm pressure.
She felt the bed dip as he climbed over her, pulling her into him to continue the leisurely kiss. When he pulled back, she opened her eyes to see him watching her, a hunger etched into his features. “We should eat and then sleep,” he said.
She shifted, feeling his hard length against her stomach. “That is not what your body suggests.”
Swallowing, he slid a hand through her hair to cup her head. “Your body needs time,” he said, his voice hoarse with struggle. He was right.
“But,” she said, sliding her hand down to find him; a groan rumbled up from his solid chest. “That does not mean we have to just eat and sleep,” she said, and pressed her naked, well-loved body up against his, their mouths sealing together for another wild dance. The heat and need blocked out the world beyond the walls of their little forgotten cottage in the woods.
Chapter Fifteen
Bloody hell. What was he doing? He didn’t want to let go. I will never let go. The traitorous words reverberated in his mind as he held Alana in the bed, the warmth and scent of their bodies joined together. He watched her sleep, her full, sweet lips gently parted, her inhales and exhales flowing smoothly in and out like the waves on the northern beach of Sinclair territory.
It was morning, well past dawn, and he needed to get them up and ready to ride. Yet he remained still, holding her, soaking in every detail of Alana Campbell. She had a light smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks, intriguing little dots that his gaze followed, connecting them like little stars. Long eyelashes lay flat against her smooth skin. They were full and spread evenly like a lady’s fan.
Her long hair was twisted about her, full of wild curl from drying in random fashion while they loved each other through the night. He turned his nose into the pillow that was coated in the length and inhaled the flower scent that would forever remind him of Alana. She shifted, and he looked back to find her eyes open, staring at him. A slow smile spread across her face as she stretched her legs out, her feet sliding along his shins. Her back arched slightly within the confines of his arms. “Good morn,” she said, her words barely even a whisper, as if she, too, wished to freeze this time together.
“Good morn,” he said, equally quiet.
“It is past dawn.” Her gaze flitted to the window over the bed where the sun filtered through the taut leather shutter.
“Aye.”
“We should rise then, I suppose,” she said but only snuggled closer into him.
He hugged her close, loving the feel of her body wrapped within the shelter of his own, the contrast of her soft skin against his war-hardened form. “Aye,” he repeated. They remained that way for several long seconds until he felt her inhale fully as if regret weighed on her chest. Regret about having to rise or regret about their night together? Nay, she couldn’t regret their night together. He’d brought her shattering into bliss at least five times. They’d explored, tasted, and pleased each other beyond anything he’d ever experienced before. But loving a man had consequences for a lass.
Giving her a bit of space in the circle of his arms, he met her gaze. “Are ye regretting last night?”
“Is that why you are frowning?” she asked, running a finger over his forehead where lines must be furrowed. She smiled. “No. I only regret that we cannot stay here.”
Her words stirred the need to get moving inside him. He had a mission to complete, a quest that began long before he met Alana Campbell. “Aye,” he said and released his hold on her. The disappointment on her face probably matched his own. “We need to get to St. Andrews.”
She nodded, pushing up in the bed as he stood. “I want to see Rose again.”
It would be bad indeed if the bairn was taken away without a goodbye. His chest tightened at the thought, making him frown, but he shook off the feeling. The little princess was just part of his mission to see his lands restored.
“I will ready Rìgh and get my clothes from the barn,” he said, crouching to stir the remnants of the fire.
“There will be tea and pheasant when you return,” she said.
He looked at her from the door. She was wrapped in the blanket that held their combined warmth and likely the evidence of her maidenhead. Regret tried to take root in him but dissolved with her smile. Damn the consequences. She was happy. He nodded, his gaze intensifying as he felt himself stir. “I have never had tea,” he said, “but warm and wet sounds very good.”
Her eyes opened slightly at his jest, a small blush working up into her cheeks. Blast, he would roll her back into the bed if they didn’t have to leave. Before he completely lost his mind, he threw open the door, letting the chill from the fall morning splash his heated skin. He dodged her hanging clothes and strode naked to the barn where Rìgh shook his mane, eyeing him. Could the horse detect the traitorous sway of his thoughts? Thoughts of a woman, thoughts that tore at Shaw’s resolve, thoughts that muted the hunger he’d always had for his land and home?
“Do not look at me like that,” he mumbled, ya
nking his kilt down from the rafter, shaking the stiffness of being washed and dried out of it to wrap the length around his hips. It brushed the scabs on his stitches. He should re-bandage them before they rode. The strain on them last night made them sore, but he didn’t care. His night with Alana was well worth any discomfort.
He grabbed his tunic and whipped around toward the door as he heard the distant sound of horses riding through the leaves. Shite! Dixon? He’d left his sword in the cabin with Alana. Alana! She was alone and naked.
Shaw yanked the knot loose on Rìgh’s tether and tore off out of the barn in a full run, knowing the horse would follow. Out of the woods ran a wolf, loping up onto the porch. No…a dog. Alana’s dog. “Robert?” he yelled, making the dog run down the steps to meet him in the yard.
Robert jumped around him and ran back to the door, scratching and sniffing at the crack underneath. He let out an excited whine. But Shaw’s focus was on the horses weaving through the forest toward them, five horses with riders. They weren’t his men. They were…women.
Behind him, Alana flung open the door, gasping. “Robert? You came back.”
“I need my sword,” he said.
“Riders.” The word came fast as she dashed inside, coming back with his sword. The handle slid into his hand like a familiar friend. He clenched it, feeling the power in its weight.
He took two steps forward to meet the first rider, recognizing the man from the festival. Kerrick Campbell wore a frown, his gaze taking in the scene before him. Shaw without a shirt, Alana wrapped in a blanket, her shoulders bare and her hair tousled, her stays and trousers hanging over the rail of the porch.
“Kerrick?” Alana called, stepping next to Shaw.
Kerrick pulled up on his horse, stopping before them, the Campbell warrior’s look full of shock and fury. The other horses, with Alana’s schoolmates seated on them, stopped in a semicircle behind him. Each woman held a dagger ready to throw, and Kerrick pulled his sword.
“Ye bastard,” Kerrick said, taking in the obvious freshly-rolled-from-bed appearance of the two of them. Even Alana’s skin had a glowing, rosy hue as if her blood were warm from being loved exceedingly well.
The Highland Outlaw Page 20