Highland Obsession

by Dawn Halliday

  Her chest tightened, and she could scarcely draw in a breath as his lips came down over hers. He tugged her shift upward and cool air brushed over her buttocks. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. Her finger was still wet from his mouth. Her skin was fired with sensitivity from head to toe. She felt the smoothness of the quilt beneath her. The rough scratch of the linen as her shift inched up her waist. The heat of his body clashing with the chilled air. His lips, so soft, warm. His tongue pressing inside her mouth, exploring her as if she were a delicate treasure. His hand slipping beneath her shift and closing over her breast, teasing her peaked nipple until she released a low gasp with every breath.

  Her nails dug into the skin of her palms, and the sting of pain forced her to open her hands. She moved one arm around his waist, aware of his nudity beneath his shirt. Was he hard for her yet? Did she dare touch him?

  No. No, not yet. He thought her a virgin. But oh, how she wanted to stroke Alan's cock, feel him grow stiff in her hand. She gasped again, stunned by the sudden strength of her desire for him.

  Alan drew away, no doubt misinterpreting her noise. His eyes flared with concern. "I'll make it feel good for you, Sorcha. Open yourself to me." His hand slid away from her breast, moving down her belly to the vee of her thighs.

  "Let me touch you," he continued softly, gazing at her. She knew without feeling him that he was hard indeed, erect and desperate for her, but he also wanted to make her comfortable, so she wouldn't feel too much pain when he broke through her virgin's barrier.

  Slipping his fingers between her legs, Alan groaned. "You're wet for me already, lass. I can help ease the way. Let me."

  "Aye, Alan," she murmured, closing her eyes. "Please." He moved down her body, nudging her knees wider apart. She was

  glad Alan's cottage was away from the village and the surrounding structures were empty of servants tonight. There was no other soul within a mile, and she could bare herself to the window and scream her pleasure as loudly as she desired-—something she could never do at Camdonn Castle.

  Alan was still for a moment, and she looked down at him. His eyes gleamed as he stared at her quim. Using his thumbs, he spread her wide, then with the flat of his tongue, bent his head and licked her from top to bottom. She froze, stunned by the sheer carnality of the act. Then she jerked away, but he clasped her thighs, pinning them against the quilt. Cam hadn't done this. He'd used his fingers, explored everywhere, but he had never touched her there with his mouth.

  Alan raised his head and smiled at her, his lips shiny from her juices. "Yes," he confirmed. "You are the sun."

  And then he proceeded to devour her. Sorcha fisted her hands in the green and blue blanket and allowed herself to fall into the pleasure.

  He played with her clitoris, using his tongue as a tool to tease it and stroke it until it was so engorged, Sorcha was certain she would burst.

  "Please," she panted. "I want, I need . .." But she couldn't voice it. A part of her held on to a small measure of sanity and prevented her from saying any more. Alan chuckled against her sensitive skin. "Yes, lass. I know." Without removing his mouth from her, he inserted one finger inside her, working her, though Lord knew she didn't need to be worked.

  "More," she gasped. Her demand bordered on folly, but she couldn't bring herself to care. He hummed against her, and she would have bucked off the bed had he not held her down. He drew his finger out and pushed a second one in. Now he pumped her wholeheartedly, without reserve, as if he knew she could take what he had to give. His fingertips stroked her in-ner walls, ramping up her pleasure with every thrust. He lowered his head again, and when his tongue swiped over her sensitive bud, an uncontrollable moan of pleasure erupted from her throat. Spasms racked her body, intense and overwhelming. Her channel clutched at his fingers, holding them deep within her as if she'd never let him go.

  "My wife is a wanton," Alan murmured.

  She panicked. She'd been too lustful, too amorous. Surely he had discovered her secret. Every muscle in her body tensed, abolishing the languor brought on by the orgasm. Please, God, let Alan believe this is all new to me.

  In a way, in fact, it was. Alan was so different from Cam.

  Keeping his fingers buried inside her, Alan moved up her body, spreading kisses over her skin. He had hiked up his shirt and his cock rubbed against her thigh before settling against her mound. His ex-pression softened at her distress. "I meant that as a compliment, Sor-cha. I want you to be a wanton. I want you to lose yourself. I want you to scream from my touch. Every day, if possible." He smiled. "It is just as I had hoped. We will do well together, I think."

  She gave a jerk of a nod, unable to shake the fear rooted deep inside her. But then he began to stroke her again, making her passage tighten and shudder around him. He buried his face in her hair and his lips brushed against her ear. "Are you ready for me, wife?"

  With tears welling in her eyes, Sorcha nodded. She opened her legs and sank her teeth into her lower lip, bracing herself for his invasion.

  Cam observed it all, unable to tear his gaze from the scene unfolding before him. Alan touching her, tasting her—something Cam had never done. Why?

  There was no time to ponder his oversight at the moment. All Cam knew was that he wanted to taste her, he wanted it desperately, and he wanted to kill Alan for being the only one who could.

  From this vantage, he could see flashes of Sorcha's sex, glistening red and ripe. How could she give herself over to Alan so easily? Could she have forgotten all those nights she'd spent with Cam? No. No, it was impossible. She couldn't forget him. He wouldn't allow it.

  Cam brushed his hand over his breeches in an attempt to soothe his aching cock, to no avail. He was stiff as a pike, and as long as he watched Sorcha, panting and flushed, with her shift pushed up high around her waist, it would remain so.

  Her scream as she came pierced through the windowpane. Cam shifted uncomfortably and unbuttoned his breeches in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure. Alan had crawled up alongside Sorcha, his fingers still buried deep inside her. He murmured something into her ear. Christ, but Cam wished he knew what the man had said. Sorcha squeezed her eyes shut and opened her pale legs, revealing her shiny, slick folds to Cam. Alan withdrew his fingers from her and pressed them to her lips, speaking softly. Her tongue darted out, and her eyes widened as she tasted herself on his skin. Cam slipped his hand into his breeches and grasped himself, biting back a yelp at the coldness of his palm against the hot skin of his cock. The shock faded, though, the heat quickly overwhelming the cold.

  Alan shifted himself over Sorcha, reached down to position himself at her entrance, and inched forward. Cam supposed the halting movement was an unnecessary effort to diminish Sorcha's pain. Beneath Alan, Sorcha arched up and cried out. Good work, Sorcha love. That should convince him.

  Cam jerked on his cock, blinking back tears. God, he was pitiful. The last time he'd wept he was seven years old and his father had beaten him for running away from home to chase after his governess, who was to marry and leave him forever. He hated Alan. This wasn't fair. Sorcha should be his. She was his. Why did he have to be born into this godforsaken position in life? He hated the earldom. He wanted his own picturesque cottage. He wanted to be the one joyfully fucking Sorcha for the first time. Alan pumped into her now, the muscles in his arse flexing with every thrust. Shivering with cold, lust, and barely contained emotion, Cam tugged on his cock in time to each of Alan's thrusts.

  Sorcha's fingers dug into Alan's muscled back, so hard that little pinpricks of blood seeped through the coarse white material of his shirt. Her head moved back and forth as Alan's thrusts built in frequency. He fucked her deep, and though she wasn't a virgin, it looked as though he pushed her to the limit.

  Damn him. Damn him for giving her pleasure. Cam pulled on his cock, groaning as his fingertips scraped over the delicate skin of the head. Alan moved at a frenzied pace now, and Sorcha's head whipped from side to side. Her legs wrapped around Alan'
s thighs, her toes curled. And then, to Cam's surprise, Alan wrenched out of her. Cam came, spurting over his hands and his breeches, just as Alan released onto Sorcha's stomach. Alan and Sorcha stared at each other for a long moment before Alan leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. Then he gathered her close and held her, his seed smearing between their bodies as they lay pressed against each other, their chests rising and falling with their heavy breaths.

  But it was not a release for Cam. It was a call to action. Though his hands and breeches were slick with come, his body remained tense and unfulfilled.

  He would not be this pitiful creature, standing in the rain and frigging himself while he wept. He was the bloody Earl of Camdonn, not some inexperienced lad with his hand to his heart pining over a lost love.

  Sorcha MacDonald belonged to him first, and by God, he'd bloody well have her again. Alan MacDonald was a nobody, a lowly Scottish laird of little means. He didn't deserve her.

  Curse the repercussions to hell.

  Turning away from the window, Cam buttoned his breeches, wiping his sticky hands on the wool as he rounded the corner of the cottage and made a low, trilling birdcall to summon MacLean.

  As soon as Cam saw the shadowy figure thundering down the hill leading Cam's mount by the reins, he drew his sword and ran to the front door of the cottage. He tried pushing it open, but it was bolted from the inside, so he stepped back and kicked through the weak planks, gaining strength from anger and need.

  He barreled inside to see Alan rushing through the doorway of the bedroom, naked, Sorcha at his heels. He reeled to a stop as Cam stalked toward him, sword held at the ready.

  "Stay back, Sorcha!" Alan bellowed. Sorcha halted at the threshold, her green eyes wide and her face pale with shock.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Alan thundered. He glanced at Sorcha, who stood in all her naked glory in the doorway, and then whipped his glare back to Cam. "Damn you, Cam," he ground out, teeth bared. "Get out of my house. Now." Just the thought of Cam seeing her naked had driven Alan into a fury. What would he do if he knew Cam had seen that body time and again, if he knew how frequently, how wildly Cam had possessed it?

  Cam narrowed his eyes. Remembering the look of adoration Alan had given Sorcha after he came, Cam lunged closer, allowing all his righteous fury to show on his face. Before the man could react, Cam kneed him, hard, in the balls. Alan's breath exploded in a whoosh, and he doubled over with a groan, clutching his crotch. Making a small sound of dismay, Sorcha leaped toward Alan.

  Keeping his sword trained on Alan, Cam flicked a glance at Sorcha, stalling her in her tracks. "You're coming with me," he said flatly.

  Understanding flared in her green eyes, but just as she turned to scramble away, Cam lunged at her, hooked his arm around her waist, heaved her over his shoulder.

  "No!" Alan roared. White-faced, he dove for them, but MacLean, who'd been standing by the splintered remains of the front door, drew his sword and rushed between Alan and Cam.

  Sorcha came alive as Cam wheeled around and took his first step toward the exit. "What are you doing?" she shouted, pounding his back. "What are you doing, Cam? Stop it! Put me down, now!"

  He grimly wondered whether she was aware of the informal way in which she'd addressed him. If Alan had heard, surely he would realize there had been something between them. She kicked and screamed and scratched at him, but Cam held her firmly. He expected such treatment—he already knew that as deliciously submissive as she was in bed, she could be a wildcat when she considered herself wronged.

  "Hold him off," he shot over his shoulder to MacLean, who held his broadsword steadily trained on Alan's neck.

  Cam sheathed his own sword as he strode outside. Mounting his horse with a fuming, slippery, naked woman wasn't the easiest thing to do—it would be nigh impossible one-handed. He managed it without grace, flopping her over the docile gelding, then pinning her down as he mounted behind her. When he had her seated in front of him, still trying to squirm away, he threw his plaid over her shoulders to cover her nakedness. Then he grabbed his reins and slid his arm between the edges of the cloth to lock around her bare waist, still wet with Alan's semen.

  Alan's enraged shouts sounded from the doorway behind him, but Cam did not spare him a glance. Instead, his lips twitched. Sweet victory. She would be his once more. He turned the horse toward Camdonn Castle just as Sorcha's teeth sank into his arm.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Goddamn you!" Alan ignored the searing pain in his balls and the nausea boiling low in his stomach. Fury swept through him, angry, hot, and painful. He tried to dodge past the enormous man blocking his way, but the tip of the sword nicked Alan's shoulder, and a hot line of blood trickled down his chest. "You bastard," Alan growled. "Let me pass!" Beyond the man's bulk, he saw Cam toss Sorcha on a horse.

  The unreality of the situation slammed into him. Impossibly, unbelievably, the Earl of Camdonn— his friend Cam—had just broken into his home and abducted his new wife. What in the name of God did Cam think he was doing?

  Raindrops shimmered over her pale, bare skin. Cam threw a red tartan plaid over her, his movements clumsy because she writhed and squirmed in his grasp. She put up one hell of a fight with her small body, but her attempts proved ineffective against the height arid strength of the Earl of Camdonn.

  As Cam urged the horse to a gallop, Sorcha's eyes met Alan's for the briefest of seconds. The wild look of fear he saw there made him roar in frustration. His wife was being abducted—by Cam, of all people—and Alan, damn besotted fool that he was, couldn't protect her.

  Alan had let his guard down. The pleasure Sorcha brought him had made him soft. He had allowed this to happen. He had failed to protect what was his. It was his fault and his responsibility to make things right.

  Alan turned his glare to the brute blocking his exit. He knew the man—Angus MacLean. MacLean trailed everywhere after Cam like a damned lap dog.

  "Get the hell out of my way."

  MacLean shook his head, and his pockmarked face twisted into a sneer. "Nay." Alan shifted to a fighting stance. He was naked and vulnerable without a weapon, but goddammit, he wasn't about to let that prevent him from going after Sorcha. MacLean didn't move his sword tip from Alan's chest. "You just stay put there, MacDonald, and sit tight till his lordship finishes with yer wife and brings her back." He paused and frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Make that if his lordship brings her back."

  Alan's lip curled. "Go to hell, MacLean." He offered up a silent prayer that MacLean was as idiotic with a sword as he was with everything else. Alan was certain Cam kept MacLean near only to intimidate, because intimidate he did—he was a giant of a man, half a head taller than the doorframe and almost as wide.

  MacLean waved the sword menacingly. His movements were clumsy and ungraceful, not the precise swipes of a skilled swordsman.

  "I dinna want to kill ye, MacDonald."

  "Well, that's a good thing, MacLean, because I've no desire to die by your hand," Alan said evenly.

  MacLean lowered the sword, and a grin played about his lips. No doubt he actually believed Alan would give up and passively allow his onetime friend to carry off his naked wife on their wedding night.

  Alan ducked his head and rammed his body into MacLean's, using every ounce of power he could muster.

  "Oof!" MacLean's breath wheezed out of him. He reeled backward until his beefy body slammed the edge of the doorframe, causing the cottage to shudder and the sword to slide from his fat fingers. It crashed onto the wet flagstones just as MacLean's feet slipped out from under him. He landed flat on his back, half inside the cottage, half out. Alan leaped on top of him and slammed his fist into the big man's jaw before he could regain his bearings.

  Alan scrambled for the sword, grabbing the hilt just as MacLean thrust a giant fist into his wounded shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the jarring pain, Alan smashed the sword hilt into the giant's soft stomach.

  Groaning, MacLean wrapped his arm
s around himself and curled into a ball. Alan leveled two punches at his torso, but MacLean suddenly possessed no interest in fighting back. As a disgusted Alan jumped off him, the big man brought his knees into his chest and rocked back and forth, whimpering about his abused belly. "Curse ye, MacDonald. You've busted my gut. Now I'll die and 'twill be yer fault," he sobbed. It'd be a blessing to humanity if he did die, Alan thought, but kept his mouth shut as he jerkily donned his shirt and plaid. In a few seconds, he had mounted MacLean's oversized bay and urged it toward Camdonn Castle.

  The castle rested on the flat top of a high spit of land jutting into the loch. Cam slowed his horse as they followed the twisting, narrow path that led up to the castle gates. The drizzle had stopped and the moon once again spilled light over the countryside. The grounds shimmered and glistened in the silvery beams.

  Consisting of a medieval keep now used as the living quarters, a dozen outbuildings, bountiful gardens, and a wide, green courtyard, Cam's family seat was not only imposing, but magnificent. A testament to the power his family held in the Highlands. Sorcha sat in front of him, quiet now, as tense as a bowstring pulled taut. She couldn't fathom what Cam thought he was doing by stealing her from her husband's bed. But fear and panic had given way to calm, and a slow, simmering anger.

  It was over between them. Over for nearly two months, and sealed today by her marriage to Alan MacDonald. Did Cam honestly think she'd come willingly? No Highlander should dishonor a woman in this way, and most Highlanders wouldn't dare to for fear of reprisal from their clan. But Cam was an earl, above reproach. He wielded the strongest authority in this region of Scotland, his power rivaled only by the Duke of Argyll far to the south and the Earl of Seaforth to the north. Cam could do anything he pleased, and he knew it.

  Sorcha had drawn blood with her fingernails and teeth in at least half a dozen places on Cam's body, and that gave her some consolation. But fighting him was like fighting steel. When he'd yanked her against his warm, solid body and informed her casually that struggling was no use, that she should save her strength for his bed, she had fallen into a state of rigid calm. She conceded defeat for the time being, if only to conserve her energy for the larger battle ahead. And for that, she needed to let go of her fury and panic and think rationally.