by Carrie Elks
He caught her eye, as though he was searching for permission. She held his gaze, her expression telling him she wanted this as much as he did. He reached for her buttons, deftly unfastening them one by one. His eyes lowered, taking in her half-exposed breasts, his lids turning heavy as he unbuttoned the final one.
She was silent as he slid his warm hands up to her shoulders, pushing the fleecy material down her arms. Then he pulled until it slid from her back, dropping to the mattress. Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her against him, until her breasts were pressed against his hard chest. She could feel her breath hitch as she tried to inhale, his proximity driving her crazy.
His hands moved lower, and in spite of the fleece pyjamas bottoms, she could feel every finger pushing against her flesh.
She angled her head until her lips were against his ear, her breath soft against his cheek. He let out a strangled moan, one that caught in his throat, the sound echoing against her. ‘Lucy…’
‘Lachlan…’
‘Just… Christ, what are we doing?’
‘You’re warming me up.’
‘Yeah, that.’ He slid his hands beneath the elasticated waist of her pyjamas, his heated palms sliding down her bottom. The sensation of flesh against flesh sent another jolt of pleasure through her. Who was controlling who here?
There was only an inch between her lips and his cheek. She could practically feel his night-time beard brushing against her mouth. Exhaling, she closed the gap, pressing her lips to his jaw.
‘I should have let you freeze,’ he muttered. ‘You’re a fucking temptress.’
A small rumble of laughter escaped her mouth. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this good. The last time she was so in the moment. ‘I should have let you burn.’
‘You’re the one burning me.’ He turned his head until her lips grazed the corner of his mouth. ‘Jesus, woman, what do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing,’ she whispered against the corner of his lips. ‘Nothing at all.’
It was strange how she hesitated now, just before she kissed him. As if it were more intimate than the way their bodies were entwined, more meaningful than his hands pressed against her flesh. A kiss laid you bare, made you vulnerable. It was a leap from a cliff edge with your eyes closed.
Lachlan pulled his hand from her back, reaching up to cup her cheek. His thumb stroked the line from her ear to her lips. Her chest felt strange, as though the air was slowly squeezing out of her.
Closing her eyes, she moved closer to the cliff edge, hesitant as she took a step into thin air. But before she could take that final leap, Lachlan moved his mouth onto hers. His lips were hot and demanding, kissing her as though she held his final breath. And she was kissing him back, her hand still cupping his jaw, the other reaching up to curl around the back of his neck. Their legs were still entwined, and they ground against each other in a subconscious rhythm, gyrating to a silent tune only the two of them knew.
It wasn’t heaven, it wasn’t hell, it was somewhere far, far away from there. Somewhere only the two of them existed. And she never wanted to leave.
This had to be the most sensual night of his life. The most painful one, too. He held her in his arms, her body soft and pliant against his, moving his lips against her with an urgency he didn’t quite understand.
How long was it since he’d had a woman? A month, two? No wonder his body was so responsive.
Lucy was responsive, too. Her mouth was warm, her lips welcoming him in when he slid his tongue against hers. And when they broke the kiss her breath was short, hot against his skin, her chest rising and falling in an effort to catch some air.
He circled his finger lower, until he could feel the tight flesh of her areola, his touch gentle and teasing. She arched her back against him, encouraging his movements until his hand was brushing against her nipple. She gasped, and he kissed her again to taste her excitement.
And now the temptation was excruciating. His whole body pulsed with the need to have her, to be inside her. His spine was tense, his muscles contracted, and the throbbing between his legs was impossible to ignore.
Rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he kissed her again, their tongues tangling together as they tasted and licked. Her moan sent a rush of pleasure through him, his body vibrating in response. But it was too much, way too much. He wasn’t sure he could resist much longer.
‘Lucy…’ he murmured, against her soft lips. ‘Is this okay?’
‘Yes,’ she breathed against him.
‘Do you want more?’
Her legs parted beneath him as if in answer to his question. He slid his hand beneath her waistband, feeling the softness of her stomach against his palm. He moved lower, his fingers making slow sensual circles until he could feel her slickness, her heat, and she let out a little moan against his mouth.
‘Do you want this, Lucy?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was firmer this time, though her lips were still soft against his. ‘But I don’t have any protection.’
‘I do.’ He looked deep into her eyes, at the way they were staring at him, as though he had all the answers. And damn if it didn’t turn him on more than ever. He tugged at her pyjama pants, and she arched from the mattress as he pulled them off, quickly taking off his own, too, and throwing them to the floor. Reaching for his wallet on the bedside table, he pulled out a foil packet, deftly opening it and sliding on the condom. Then he was over her, caging her in with his arms, their bodies inches from each other.
He stroked her chin with his hand, his thumb trailing across her lip. His body throbbed insistently, reminding him how he ached for her, how he needed to be inside her. He felt himself brush against her wetness, felt the give of her flesh as she welcomed him, and the shock of pleasure that ripped through his spine as he slowly moved inside her. She gasped, her legs wrapping around his hips, her body demanding a rhythm he was all too willing to give.
He rocked, thrusting inside her, wringing another moan from her mouth. Kissing her, he swallowed the sound, feeling the vibrations rack down his spine. She felt good. Too good. Enough to make his body tighten with the pleasure spiking through every sinew. He slid his hands beneath her, angling her until she gasped every time he thrust.
If he was going to hell, she was coming with him.
‘Where’s this from?’ he murmured. They were lying there in a post-coital haze, the air around them thick and heavy with the scent of sex. Her eyes were still glassy – the way he imagined they’d look after a mouthful or two of wine. She blinked, staring at him questioningly, her chest still heaving from their exertions.
Her naked chest.
Get a handle on it, MacLeish.
‘Your scar,’ he whispered, running his finger over the raised white line. ‘How did you get it?’ His breathing was almost back under control.
Lucy reached her hand to her forehead, following his finger as he traced it. ‘I was in an accident when I was younger.’ Her frown deepened.
‘Did it hurt?’ he asked.
‘I… ah… it needed stitches,’ she said, still breathless. She looked as confused as he felt. ‘But I can’t really remember the pain. Everything was so messed up.’
‘Messed up?’ He lifted the sheets to cover her chest. That was better.
‘My mum was driving the car. She didn’t make it.’
He didn’t like the way her voice wavered. ‘She died in the car crash?’
Lucy nodded.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
Lachlan racked his brain for something to say, but there was nothing there. Just a blank space where his good sense used to live. He pulled her closer, until her head was nestled against his arm, her body curled into his. He hadn’t expected her to be so light when he’d lifted her out of her bed. Her strong personality somehow made her seem bigger than she was, weightier, too. But in reality she was petite, small-framed with gentle curves, and the contrast bet
ween her body and her soul was enticing.
She placed her hand on the centre of his chest, where he imagined his heart must be. Her fingers splayed out, as though she were bracing herself against something. It felt different from her earlier touch, more gentle, more comforting. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the cocktail of emotions rushing through him. He wasn’t sure what any of them meant.
They lay there silently, Lachlan on his back, Lucy curled into him on her side, their breath slowing as the excitement of earlier ebbed away. In its wake it left him with questions, and an overwhelming sense of apprehension.
15
Flesh and blood, you, brother mine
– The Tempest
‘Good morning.’ Alistair looked up from his newspaper when Lachlan walked into the kitchen. There was a fresh pot of coffee on the table, along with a jug of orange juice and a rack full of toast. ‘Help yourself to breakfast,’ he said, gesturing at the food.
‘Has Lucy come down yet?’ Lachlan asked, pulling out a chair. She hadn’t been in his bed when he woke up – he assumed she’d gone back to her bedroom at some time before dawn. He should have been relieved – it wasn’t as though either of them had meant to cross the line, maybe it was best to pretend it never happened. And yet he couldn’t shake off the edgy sensation that had been gripping him all night. Ever since he’d let his desire overtake his good sense.
‘She left about an hour ago. Said something about an emergency at work.’ Alistair raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.’
Lachlan blinked for a moment. A glance at the clock above the old range-style cooker told him it was only eight thirty. ‘Is she coming back?’
Alistair’s expression softened. Lachlan didn’t like the way the man tipped his head in sympathy. ‘I don’t think so, Mr MacLeish. She took her suitcase with her, and thanked me profusely for the hospitality. She’s a lovely young lady, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah, she is. Lovely.’ Lachlan tried to ignore the spark of frustration that heated up his veins. He reached for the coffee and poured some into a mug. ‘Are we still on for lunch?’
‘Of course. I’m looking forward to it. Even if Lucy can’t join us.’
Lachlan rubbed his chin with his thumb. The skin around his neck felt tender. A memory flashed through his mind, of Lucy scraping his throat with her teeth as he thrust harder into her.
Christ, he needed to stop that.
They’d had sex, she’d left, and there were no regrets. If anything, he was glad he’d gotten her out of his system. He didn’t need any more complications.
‘Oh, and I found something last evening, in our files. I thought you might be interested.’ Alistair grabbed an envelope from his bag and slid some papers out. ‘We have so many old photographs. One day I’d like to have them all catalogued. Even better if we could scan them all in to the server. They’re such a great part of your heritage.’
He handed over a small rectangular photograph to Lachlan, who looked down at the image – surprisingly colourful and unfaded in spite of its age – and frowned.
There were two boys standing by the lake, both holding fishing rods. They were dressed identically – in MacLeish tartan kilts, grey jackets and long blue socks. Lachlan stared at it for a moment, recognising himself immediately. He remembered the kilt, too. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t remember smiling with his brother.
‘Is that me and Duncan?’ he asked, the frown still pulling down at his lips.
‘That’s right. I think I must have taken it, though I don’t rightly remember. I was in charge of the salmon back then, and you boys were royal terrors.’ Alistair laughed. ‘In the end, I taught you to fish so you could give me some peace.’
‘I don’t remember playing with my brother.’ Lachlan shook his head. ‘If this wasn’t so old I’d swear it was Photoshopped.’
‘You two looked so similar back then, I couldn’t tell you apart. You both loved running around the estate, too. Like two peas in a pod.’
‘I’ve never heard us described like that before,’ Lachlan said quietly. He couldn’t stop looking at the photo, at the way he was smiling, next to Duncan grinning from ear to ear. It was so different from the memories he had of his childhood, of the way he was treated every time he visited his father. Of the anger he always saw on Duncan’s mother’s face.
‘Can I keep this?’ he asked. For some reason it felt important to have it. ‘I’ll be sure to scan it in and send you a copy.’
‘Of course. I have another very similar, anyway. I must have been snap happy that day.’ Alistair smiled.
And for a moment, just a moment, it felt as though Lachlan’s world was tilting on an angle. Not too acute, just enough to make him feel as though he was listing to one side.
Then he took another mouthful of coffee, and let the bitter liquid warm his throat, and the caffeine soothe his mind.
Memories were strange and unsettling things. He’d much prefer to focus on the present.
The Glencarraig Inn was an old-fashioned family-run pub, perched on the edge of the village, next to the main road out to Inverness. Lachlan and Alistair had walked there – a fifteen-minute stride from the lodge gates – and though the air around them was cold and blustery, the snow seemed to have disappeared for now.
The pub itself was as old as the village, and for more than three centuries it had been refreshing both the locals and the drovers who would lead their sheep down the banks of the glen, stopping at the pub for food and drink before making their way south to the livestock markets.
As they walked inside, a wall of warmth hit Lachlan’s face. The interior was dark, the ceiling low, the burgundy-painted walls decorated with stags’ heads and old paintings. It was like stepping into the past.
‘Would you like a pint?’ Alistair asked, raising his voice above the drone of conversation. It was surprisingly busy for a week day, with most tables occupied by diners.
‘Let me buy you one,’ Lachlan said, reaching in his pocket for his wallet.
‘Not at all, this one’s on me. Put your money away.’
It took them ten minutes to get to their table. As they walked through the pub, everybody stopped them, talking to Alistair, slapping him on the back. They all looked pleased to see him. And when he introduced Lachlan, the locals’ smiles widened, as they asked him about his plans, whether he would be moving here, and offered condolences for his father. It was all a little overwhelming.
He couldn’t help thinking that if Lucy was here, he’d have felt more relaxed.
When they made it to the table – still laid for three – Lachlan took a long, deep sip of his beer. It was cool and refreshing, and he closed his eyes for a moment, feeling it slip down his throat and into his belly.
‘They’re all delighted to finally meet you, you know,’ Alistair said quietly. ‘The village gossip has reached boiling point. Everybody wants to know what’s going to happen to the estate.’
‘Hopefully we can get this all sorted soon,’ Lachlan said, ‘and things will settle down.’
‘That would be nice.’ Alistair’s smile was tight. ‘I even had an email from a MacLeish in Australia last night, asking if it was true you were fighting with your brother over ownership. Of course, I told them it was all stuff and nonsense.’ He lowered his voice further still. ‘We don’t want that sort of speculation around these parts.’
Lachlan bit down a smile. There was something about Alistair that he really liked. The man was honest and forthright, and clearly loved being in charge of the estate. ‘Of course we don’t.’
‘What can I get you to eat?’ the waiter asked, stopping at their table. ‘Or do you need a few minutes?’
Lachlan glanced at the menu and then back up at Alistair. ‘What do you recommend?’
‘The pie is always good, and of course there’s haggis if you want to be really traditional. But my favourite is the venison casserole and tatties,’ Alistair said, closing the menu. ‘That’s what I always
go for.’
‘Then we’ll have two of those.’
After the waiter left, Lachlan looked around again, noticing how more than a few of the locals were looking at him. He caught the eye of one woman, who turned away immediately, and started giggling with her friends.
‘Did I come here as a child?’ he asked Alistair.
‘Not that I know of. Your father never was very keen on coming to the village. He preferred to stay on the estate whenever he visited.’
‘From what I remember, he wasn’t keen on much of anything,’ Lachlan said, keeping his voice light.
‘Ach, he wasn’t so bad. A little taciturn, maybe, and hard to pin down. But he always sent the staff gifts at Christmas, and contributed to the village fair every year.’ Alistair lifted up his pint glass. ‘At least he didn’t parcel the whole place up and sell it off in lots. You’d be surprised how many Highland estates have been lost that way.’