Highland Obsession

by Dawn Halliday

  Damn them both.

  God help him, he didn't want her to leave. His desire to keep her close was too strong. He was perversely fascinated by her, not just by her appealing form, but by something deeper. Her. The woman who would risk death escaping from her lover to return to the husband she hardly knew. The woman who desperately craved his forgiveness for the wrong she'd done him.

  It was turning into a test of wills. How much could she take before she broke? Before Alan's anger dissolved into something else? Would it be gentle love or sheer need? Would he surrender to lust and take her again? If so, it wouldn't be like that first night. No, this time, he'd take her like she deserved to be taken.

  That pretty mouth rounded over his cock while he fisted his hands in her hair and pumped himself inside her. Feeling her hot tongue slide over his shaft as he asked, "Does Cam fuck you like this? Does he take your mouth, Sorcha? Does he make you gasp for air?" Alan sucked in a breath. Her nearness was driving him mad. The sweet smell of her permeating the small space of his cottage—a place he had once thought of as his own. A place that had symbolized peace to him. Now it was filled with her confusing, infuriating, intoxicating, beautiful presence.

  "Moira will be out later. Mary MacNab is coming too, to check on our wounds." Alan sighed. He wasn't eager to see the old witch again. "I'll be back by the time they arrive."

  "You're leaving again?"

  "Aye."

  "Will you be riding?"

  "Aye."

  Pressing her lips together as if to stop herself from saying anything more, she rose to clear the plates. He watched her in his peripheral vision, pleased to see she no longer limped as she walked.

  Suddenly, she spun around to face him, clutching the front ties of her stays. Her fingers trembled as they plucked the strings.

  Alan froze in place. She pulled the ends of the stays apart. She pushed her sleeves over her arms and the fabric fell down in a heap to her ankles. Stays, petticoats, and shift puddled on the floor, leaving her bare.

  Alan hid the shudder that racked his body at the sight of her. She was absolutely perfect. Lush curves softened her slender form. Her breasts were heavy and plump, with cherry-red nipples topping them, already hardening in the cool air. Her stomach was pale, slightly rounded. Her waist was narrow; her hips flared. At the juncture of her thighs, the triangle of hair was so dark as to seem nearly blue-black in the dimness of the room. Alan let his eyes skim over her. His own body roared into life, as if her shedding her clothes had lit a thousand fires under his skin. But, by sheer force of will, he kept still, his eyes blank, his expression flat.

  He dragged his gaze back up to her face, her pleading, desperate face, and raised a cynical brow.

  Silence. Then her voice, shaking with a plea. "Take me to bed, Alan." He flicked a glance at the window and then back to her. "It is noon."

  "Does that matter?"

  "It does." Though he couldn't muster an explanation why. She licked her lips. "I want to please you."

  "I know." God, he nearly flinched at the sound of his voice. He sounded so damned cold. But whether he liked it or not, her sweet penance was chipping away at the ice encasing his heart, and he felt an unwelcome surge of affection for her.

  "I want you to forgive me. I want to show that I can be a good wife to you. That we can be happy together." She lowered herself to her knees before him, dragged in a breath, and then continued in a low voice. "I am yours. My life is yours. My well-being is yours. But please, please take me. Take me as a husband takes his wife. Only then will I know you've forgiven me."

  She was right. She belonged to him now. She'd made a vow, under God, to be his. She bowed her head against the steel of his gaze.

  Struggling not to touch her, Alan spoke. "I freely gave you my trust once. But you destroyed it—you made a mockery of it with your lie."

  "I know," she whispered, her head still bowed. "I'll do whatever it takes to regain your trust."

  "If I spurn you from my bed?"

  "Even then."

  "Would you seek out a lover to bed behind my back? Would you return to the Earl of Camdonn?"

  "Never," she bit out.

  "What if I should take a mistress?"

  She glanced up at him, and the heat of possessive anger flared briefly in her eyes. "It would hurt me if you did that. It might destroy me."

  "And if I choose to destroy you?"

  He was testing her. But she'd made a promise, and he wanted to know that she meant it no matter what.

  She clenched her jaw. Her shoulders shook. It was a long moment before she spoke again.

  "Then, Alan ..." she ground out, and he knew she'd given away the final vestiges of her pride, had bared her soul and offered him, a virtual stranger, ultimate power over her. "Then I would be destroyed." Alan closed his eyes. Maybe he needed to destroy her—destroy them both—and only then could they build something from the ashes.

  Grainne opened the door, and her jaw dropped at the vision she beheld on her threshold. The new Earl of Camdonn. Blessed Virgin. Not the nervous wee lad who'd come knocking fourteen years ago, begging her to relieve him of his pesky virginity. His hair was cut short now, almost to his scalp, but it was still dark as pitch. He was so tall she had to tilt her face up to see his.

  It had been two years since Grainne had last cast eyes upon him, but the image of him most deeply imprinted on her memory was of a fourteen-year-old fumbling youth with the makings of a fine man.

  She'd taken him under her wing. Taught him some of the joys of carnal communion. But he would know more now. He was fully grown, virile, and with a look in his eye that bespoke his power and experience.

  "Well, Grainne. Are you going to let me in?" His voice was low, dark, and dangerous. Oooh. Even as jaded as she was, it sent a tremor down her spine. He'd changed since his days as a youth. He was darker now, not only in appearance but in demeanor. The last time they'd slept together was over five years ago, when they had separated as friends.

  He smiled at her, but it was tight-lipped, and the expression in his eyes was deep and haunted. Grainne was no fool. He wanted something from her. Something she'd be more than willing to offer, given enough silver. She almost chuckled. Cam was never thrifty with his coin, like so many other men were. Probably because he was the richest man within a hundred miles.

  She opened the door wider and stepped aside to let him pass. "Come in, love." The inside of her cottage was warm and cozy. She had no protector now, but Cam did remember on occasion to send her a little something, and as old as she was—nearing her fortieth year—Grainne was still popular enough among the whores on the mountain. Never knowing who might come by, she kept her home cheerful and welcoming, and herself and her clothing spotlessly clean. After her daily routine of plucking out the few strands of gray that had begun to appear, she brushed her hair three hundred strokes, but never wore a cap or put it up. She left her long red locks to cascade in thick curls down her back. As much as people disparaged red hair, she knew it was nothing but the green-eyed monster rearing his ugly head. Every other hair color was drab in comparison. Her hair was her best feature, and she flaunted it brazenly.

  "Please sit." She gestured to the table in the center of the one-room cottage. "Would you like a dram of whisky?"

  The earl lowered himself into a chair beside her, and when he looked up at her, sharp intelligence quickly blotted the stark pain in his eyes. "Yes, please. Thank you." She went to the cupboard to pour the amber liquid into her finest goblet. When she brought it out to him, he took it from her, wrapping his hands around the cylindrical shape. To this day, she remembered what those long fingers felt like inside her. Her cunt grew damp at the thought.

  He took a deep swallow of the amber liquid and set the cup down. His eyes met hers across the table. As much as he'd changed on the outside, she sensed he was still the same man underneath. She wouldn't mind exploring the similarities and differences more intimately. She wouldn't mind at all.

  "How are yo
u, Grainne?"

  "I'm well," she said. "And yourself?"

  He broke the eye contact, turning his gaze to her bed. "I've been better." Her response was automatic. "I can comfort you, love." His mouth twisted into a bitter smile, but he didn't look at her. "Can you, Grainne? I've come to see if you can."

  She had already released the clasp on her arisaid—her woman's plaid—and was plucking at her stays. She pulled them off her shoulders, pushed her shift down her arms, and proudly naked—for she possessed the body of a woman half her age—she walked around the table to stand in front of him. Deep in his thoughts, he hardly glanced at her as she knelt before him and reached forward to unfasten his breeches.

  "Tell me your troubles. Like you used to."

  He didn't answer, just adjusted in the chair to give her easier access to his ties. She loosened the top knot and separated the fabric. His cock lay against the taut, flat skin on his stomach. Not flaccid, but not at a full stand either. She grinned at the sight of the earl's shaft. She'd seen many specimens of manhood—large and small, fat and thin—but the size and girth of Cam's penis had always fit her most pleasantly. She stroked one long fingernail down the silky length, and to her satisfaction, it twitched and grew another inch.

  "Is it the Jacobites?" she asked in a low voice. "Are they causing you grief?"

  "No."

  She glanced up at him seductively. She had his attention now. He was gazing down at her, studying her every move.

  Very deliberately, she licked her lips, then swiped the point of her tongue from the root to the tip of his cock. "Mmm ... you still taste like heaven." She looked at him from beneath her lashes. He didn't smile. "You were always very kind to me."

  "It isn't kindness," she said, pretending to be affronted. "Tis the truth." She curled her fingers around him, tightening then releasing. Though outwardly she focused on his cock, she paid close attention to his reaction to her. His chest shuddered as his breath hitched, and then he sighed.

  "A lass, then?" she asked, making her voice light. She hoped he would say no. She wasn't a stupid woman, nor was she prone to fanciful dreaming. She knew he'd had many whores and taken mistresses. One day—probably soon—he'd marry some fine lady. It was the way of the world. But it didn't mean she'd stopped feeling altogether. She held a special place in her heart for the Earl of Camdonn. She always would. She tightened her fingers around his shaft and pumped it lightly, savoring the feel of it expanding in her hand.

  He grunted. "Yes. A woman."

  Poor, sweet Cam. At that moment, he reminded her of the frightened fourteen-year-old.

  "Your mistress?"

  "Not anymore."

  She pumped him again, using her free hand to open his breeches wider, giving her access to his balls. She slid her fingers under them, tickling the sensitive spot at the base. "Why, love?"

  "She married."

  "Och," she said sympathetically, bringing her lips lower to brush them over his exposed crown.

  "She married Alan MacDonald five days ago."

  "Ah." Grainne came down from the mountain infrequently, for women of her status weren't welcome in Glenfinnan, but she lived in a tight-knit community, and she knew of most of the goings-on in the glen.

  Alan MacDonald, the Highlander who'd spent his youth among the English, had returned to claim his ancestral right as laird of the MacDonalds of the Glen. Sorcha Stewart, a dark beauty whose father was the old factor at Camdonn Castle, had immediately caught his eye.

  Aye, Grainne knew the whole story. She hadn't known, however, that Sorcha was Cam's mistress. Had Alan MacDonald known?

  Grainne infused her voice with sympathy. "And now you cannot have her." Cam's fingers threaded in her hair, and he pulled her closer to his pelvis and his seeking cock.

  "I took her on her wedding night, but she ... she rejected my ... advances. Then she escaped."

  That, she couldn't ignore. Pushing against his hand, she looked up at him, eyes wide.

  "Truly?"

  "Yes," he said grimly. "I'm surprised the news hasn't already trav' eled up here." She was too.

  "I've exposed her secret. I've placed her marriage in jeopardy." He groaned. "Hell, I've destroyed her. And yet..." He pushed Grainne's head down. There was no way she could fight the power of his hand— not that she wanted to. She opened her mouth, taking his cock deep, until the head pushed against the opening of her throat. "And yet I want to do it again. Force her to be with me. Chain her to the walls of Camdonn Castle. Feel her sucking my prick ... ah ... like you're doing now, Grainne." Moving up to the top of his shaft, she rounded her lips over him and pushed back down slowly, feeling every contour of his cock. He was solid now, hard as granite except for the covering of soft skin and delicate bumps marking his veins. She curved her palm over his balls, massaging gently. He tilted his hips, forcing himself deeper down her throat. With her saliva lubricating the way, she slid her lips up, then down, making a tight seal over his hot flesh. She closed her eyes. His other hand came to tangle in her hair, and he guided her movements, forc-ing her lower, then tugging her up only to push her to the base of his cock yet again. She opened her throat and took him. She inhaled him until she felt him to the roots of her hair. Using her tongue, she explored every part of him, gasping when he pulsed, his seed boiling against her lips.

  "I want her back, Grainne. I want her to want me. I want her to love me. I want her to be obedient... like you are. Responsive ... like you are."

  Grainne couldn't stand it anymore. She slid her fingers between her legs and rubbed furiously. She moaned over his cock as he guided her, deep and rough. She scraped her teeth up and down his sensitive shaft, and he growled low in his throat. Her cunt was dripping, dampening the insides of her thighs. Her clitoris was hot and swollen and eager. She drew slick circles around it with two fingers. Then, when she couldn't bear teasing herself a moment longer, she tapped her middle finger against it. Her whole body shuddered in response. Using two fingers, she pinched it. She cried out over Cam as spasms jerked through her body. At some point, he hauled her mouth off his cock and yanked her against him as her orgasm surged in deep, rolling waves through her body. His cock was wedged between them like a steel rod cradled by her breasts. His taut stomach pressed against her cheek as he held her to him, his hips moving in tempo with her clenching cunt.

  When the storm receded, he rose, hefting her along with him. She stumbled, clinging to him as he kicked off his breeches. He took her waist in his hands and spun her around. Then he pushed on her back between her shoulder blades, bending her over the table. Grainne reached forward, clasping the opposite edge of the small table with both hands as he moved behind her, pressing his burning shaft into the crack of her arse.

  "Why doesn't she want me like you do?" His voice rumbled down her spine, prickled the back of her neck. "Even when years pass between my visits to you, you're always willing, always ready for me."

  She whimpered, but the sharp, ever-analytical part of her mind knew the answer. It was because she was a whore and she knew how to excel in her trade, while Sorcha, even after having played the part of his secret mistress, was merely a young woman seduced by his bonnie masculinity.

  The blunt tip of Cam's finger slid down the crack of her backside, followed by the heat of his cock until they settled between her wet folds. Without preamble, he tunneled into her. Gripping the edge of the table, Grainne arched her back until his mouth touched her neck.

  "Take me," she murmured. "I need you. Take me hard." Her intu-itiveness helped her to be very good at her trade. She gave him exactly what he wanted to hear—even if she wasn't the woman he wanted to hear it from.

  He fucked her. Grainne could do nothing but hold on and take the battering. She groaned in pleasure. She panted. Her body caught on fire. It was animalistic rutting in its purest, finest form. His solid cock grinding into her as she tightened around him. Her hip bones thrusting almost painfully into the table. The wet sounds their bodies made with the repetitive advance
and retreat. Her breasts smashed hard against the wood, and her nipples rubbed gloriously against the rough whorls. Cam's hands clenched her waist so tightly she was certain he'd leave marks. She gloried in each bite of pain that came with the advance of his cock until it slammed against her womb.

  His thrusts deepened, hardened. She began to shake deep in her core. The vibrations branched out until she shuddered from head to toe. He was solid and strong behind her, inside her. Rock hard as he reached the pinnacle.

  His fingers tightening over her hips, he slammed into her once, twice. Then with a long, low groan, he froze, shaking. Spilling his seed deep within her. Grainne made a low keening noise, pushing her arse into his pelvis as tightly as it would go. His pulsing cock sparked off her own spasms, and she let herself loose, shuddering as release opened her from the inside out.

  They both stilled slowly, emerging out of the orgasmic haze. Grainne realized with a pang that they'd spilled the expensive whisky, and it was dripping onto the packed dirt floor. Cam leaned over, bracing his weight on either side of her.

  "Thank you, Grainne," he whispered, his voice thick. He moved a strand of hair away from her cheek and his lips brushed over the spot, warm and soft. After a long moment, he pushed himself off her. Gathering her pliant body into his arms, he carried her to the bed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cam stripped off the rest of his clothes and lay facing Grainne, his body an arm's length from hers. He'd almost forgotten how she pleased him. Physically, he felt sated, but being with Grainne hadn't sealed the chasm in his heart. If anything, it had grown. He'd betrayed Sorcha.

  A foolish thought, really, considering the fact she was probably sleeping with Alan at this very moment. They were probably fucking like rabbits in their secluded little cottage. Gazing at him with her intelligent doelike eyes, Grainne reached up to stroke his cheek. He groaned. "I want her back, Grainne. I should never have allowed her to marry."