Highland Obsession

by Dawn Halliday

  But it was more than that. He felt an aching need to have her beside him, to listen to her voice, to know her in every way.

  Blast. Somewhere in the midst of this disastrous beginning of a marriage, he'd fallen in love with her.

  "I need you. I miss your touch. I miss—" Her breath caught, and she tried again. "I miss the feel of you moving inside me." She took a step toward him. "It has been so long, and I'm so afraid. Afraid you don't want me. Afraid you'll go to war and I'll never see you again."

  She swallowed down a sob, and her heartbeat pulsed wildly in her neck. How could she entertain the thought that he didn't want her? He was nearly mad with need to bury himself in her sweet body.

  But then he remembered his pride. Even now, a vestige of it remained. Seeing her with Cam had caused him to rebuild the barriers in his heart. His pride was what kept him from touching her.

  He didn't say a word, just studied her. The swell of her bosom, brimming over her thin arms. The flare of her hips. The dark triangle at the juncture of her pale legs. Her lower lip trembled, and she spoke again, her voice a mere whisper. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about... last time. How you touched me. Everywhere." He raised a brow. So she'd liked his experimental play, had she? Not all women found such things erotic. But then again, this was Sorcha. Nothing should surprise him when it came to his wife's wantonness.

  "You want more," he said. It was a statement rather than a question. Pressing her lips together so tightly they turned white, she gave a jerk of a nod. She dropped her arms so her breasts bobbed free, and she clenched her fists at her sides.

  "I want... I want you to possess me. I want you to show me that I'm yours." Anguish clawed at him. How could he when she'd belonged to another first? How could he claim her when she'd already been claimed?

  "I want to be yours. Please make me yours."

  "Nobody else's?"

  "Aye," she agreed breathlessly. "No one else's." His face still, Alan stared at her as he climbed off the bed. Ignoring the discomfort of his cock as he rose, he stepped toward her.

  "Very well." He led her to one of the carved wooden posts at the foot of the bed and pressed her back to it. "Stand here."

  He turned to fetch one of her stockings, then carried it back to her. "Clasp your hands behind you."

  She obeyed instantly, her chest heaving, her eyes shining.

  He couldn't resist. Still holding the stocking, he cupped her breast in his palm, bent down, and brushed his lips across the rosy tip. She tasted so sweet, so good. He took the other breast in his other palm, weighing it, kneading it as he laved and suckled and nipped at her delicate skin until she released each of her breaths with a low sob. Goddamn. He had to stop. He pressed his mouth against her soft flesh; then he moved around her, deftly looping the stocking over her wrists and tying it securely.

  "Alan?" she murmured.

  "Do you trust me, Sorcha?"

  After a short pause, she whispered, "Aye. With my life."

  "Good. Stand here until I return." He tore his gaze from her glistening nipples to her face. Sometimes he could read her like an open book. Now was one of those times. She was aching, arching into him, needy with lust. It was exactly how he wanted her. And now she would wait.

  She couldn't believe he had left her. Sorcha pressed her thighs together and wiggled her hands. Alan hadn't bound her too tightly, but the wool scratched at the delicate skin on the insides of her wrists.

  How long had it been? She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Ten minutes, at least. Where had he gone? What if he didn't come back? Would he leave her standing here, naked and cold, all night long?

  She would do it. For as long as she could stand, if it would only prove her devotion to him.

  She knew Alan still doubted her feelings toward him. How could he not, after all the attention and affection she'd showered upon Cam for the past several days? Cam was a broken man. He was hurting—mind, body, and soul. Her heart reached out to him, and she felt compelled to show him that despite all he'd done, she still cared for him. Yet she hadn't meant for her devotion to Cam to be at Alan's expense.

  She'd sensed him watching her and Cam together. Sometimes she caught a thoughtful expression on his face, a look she couldn't deci' pher. Was he hurting or angry? Did he fear she still possessed feelings for Cam? At times she thought it might be something else. Some sort of attraction, fascination at seeing her and Cam share a touch? Surely that couldn't be right. Nevertheless, a low hum resonated between her legs whenever she sensed Alan staring at them in that way.

  It didn't matter. Even if seeing Cam and her together aroused Alan, it certainly also hurt him. And she wanted nothing more than to erase that hurt.

  Alan was the most honorable, most caring and selfless person she'd known. He was masculine, handsome, wise, caring, honorable, strong. Everything she'd fantasized about in a man as she'd discovered her body in the cave below Camdonn Castle. Everything she needed to feel content. To feel whole.

  Her teeth chattered in the lonesome coldness of the room, but Alan had stoked a simmering fire between her legs. She crossed her thighs. If her hands were free, she would have felt compelled to touch herself, to soothe the burn. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the hard wood of the post. She'd stand here and wait. As long as he wanted her to. Resting her weight against the bed, she tried to relax and clear her mind.

  Perhaps he would come deep inside her tonight. He never had to this point, and yet she found herself craving it. His choice to spend outside her had become symbolic of the break in the bond they should share as husband and wife. One she wanted to mend. And if he did get her with child ... yes, she feared giving birth, feared the horror her mother had gone through, but the prospect of her stomach increasing with Alan's child made her chest clench with some sweet new emotion she'd never experienced before.

  "Sorcha."

  Her eyes flew open. Alan passed in front of her holding a small jar. He set the jar on the shiny wood surface of the table beside the bed. Coming to stand before her, he cupped warm hands over her shoulders.

  He traced down her arms, then traveled the sides of her body, the roughness of his fingers gently scraping her sensitive skin. He stopped when his hands reached the inward dip of her waist. She glanced downward, marveling at how large, how masculine, his hands appeared against her body.

  She looked into his blue, blue eyes. "I waited for you, as you asked." He smiled. "So you did."

  "I would have waited longer, if you'd wanted. All night." It sounded silly, but she wanted to let him know.

  "Would you?"

  "Aye."

  He reached around and flicked at the knot binding her arms behind the bedpost. Immediately, the tightness against her wrists released, and he pulled the twisted stocking away.

  As soon as her hands fell free, he took her into the warmth of his embrace, lifting her. She burrowed into the heat of his chest as he carried her to the side of the bed and sat her on its edge.

  He pushed his plaid off his shoulder, and she reached up to untie the strings closing the neck of his shirt. He allowed her to work the ties free, and he lifted the shirt over his head.

  Now his muscular torso was bare, as were his legs and feet. He wore only the green and black tartan plaid belted about his waist. A telltale bulge showed from between the pleats.

  "Do I do that to you?" she asked with a long upward sweep of her fingers. His cock was hard beneath the wool, solid as stone.

  "Aye, Sorcha. Just looking at you, Lt—"

  She licked her lips and raised her hands, exploring the sides of his body just as he'd explored hers moments ago. "You're so beautiful."

  Her fingers traveled the line of hair that led from his belly button down to the top edge of his belt. Lust flared in his eyes as they narrowed and took on a silvery gleam. He took a step back, out of reach.

  "On your feet," he growled.

  Shaking with anticipation, she obeyed instantly.

  He curve
d his palms over her shoulders and turned her so she faced the bed. Then he nudged her upper back. "Bend over."

  She bent at the waist, lowering her upper body on the bed. The blanket rasped against her sensitive nipples. Resting her weight on her forearms, she turned her head to look back at him.

  He discarded his belt and plaid, revealing his cock jutting proudly out, flushed dark. She gasped at the sight of it, knowing it would soon join the two of them together. She wouldn't be able to stand it if he didn't take her soon. Every inch of her body ached for his touch.

  "I want you," she murmured.

  His fist curled around his shaft and he gave it a hard tug. "Is this what you want?"

  "Yes." She wiggled her backside in invitation. "Yes, please, Alan." The callused tips of his fingers traveled down her back, down the crack of her behind until they met the moist heat of her sex.

  "Oh," she murmured as his fingers danced and played between her outer lips, teasing and taunting her.

  She tilted her hips even more and spread her stance in a silent plea. The head of his penis nestled between her plump, blood-filled lips, and she groaned in pleasure at the feel of him, hot and hard, finally touching her, pushing against her. Slowly, he burrowed in, crowding the air from her lungs.

  He bent over her and planted a hard kiss against her neck. "You feel so damned good around me." ,

  Her channel tightened over him, grasping on to him as he began to pull out, as if to reach for him, to hold him deep. They both moaned as he tunneled back inside. Sorcha reached behind and clasped his thigh, urging him deeper.

  His hands rested on her lower back, forcing her down against the bed, and his thumbs played in the upper crack of her arse. He removed his hands, but she barely noticed, lost in the feel of the slow, long glides of his cock.

  His fingers returned, slipping between the cheeks of her bottom, and she stiffened at the feel of the cool, creamy substance he smoothed over her skin.

  "Do you trust me?"

  "Aye," she choked.

  "Then relax, mo chridhe."

  He pulled his cock from her body. His fingers moved lower until one cool digit pressed against the rosette of her arse. "Is this what you want?" She squirmed, but he held her firm, anchored under the weight of his palm. Oh Lord. He felt so good. It felt so wickedly good.

  "Yes," she groaned. "Yes."

  "Touch yourself, Sorcha. Stroke yourself."

  She obeyed, slipping her hand between her body and the bed and cupping her mound. He leaned over her again, pinning his hand between them, his weight pushing the tip of the digit into her.

  "Grind your body into your palm."

  She complied, gasping at the torrential rush of sensation. Every nerve between her legs was alive, aching, needy.

  His body heaved against her, and he rose, simultaneously pressing his finger all the way into the resisting hole.

  Sorcha cried out, and her sex spasmed under her hand. She curled two of her fingers, burying them between her slick lips until they brushed over her clitoris. She felt the prod of a second finger against her backside, and whimpered.

  "Too much?" Alan murmured.

  "Yes. No," she gasped. She felt like a skittish animal, unable to keep still. Alan pushed the second finger inside her, and she pressed her cheek against the rough wool of the blanket.

  "Oh. Oh."

  As she lay there, overwhelmed with sensation, he worked her arse with his fingers. Nothing existed but his movements and her own, and the flaring heat curling between her legs.

  All of a sudden, he removed his fingers, but just as suddenly, they were replaced by the head of his cock.

  Surely it wasn't possible. Surely he was too big . . .

  Slowly, with painstaking care, Alan pushed inside.

  Sorcha squeezed her eyes shut and grabbed the blanket in her fist.

  "Relax, love."

  "Alan," she sobbed.

  "Relax." His arm curled beneath her body, lifting her slightly off the bed, and soft lips pressed against her neck. "Let go, Sorcha. You're so tight. Let go, mo chridhe." Sorcha focused all her energy into loosening the tight ring of muscle and allowing him entrance, even as he pushed deeper into her. Finally, everything released and he slid home, his balls brushing against her fingertips, which were still buried between her legs. They hung there for a long moment, perched on the edge of something unfathomable. Alan's breath brushed in her ear, his exhalations whispering against her lobe.

  "Are you all right?" he murmured.

  "Aye," she said on a gulp of air. She was standing on a cliff with one foot poised off the edge. Alan had lit a torch deep in her body, and she leaned back into the heat, not wanting to fall. Not yet.

  Slowly, experimentally, he moved out slightly, then pushed back in. Her body undulated beneath him, completely out of her control.

  "Oh, Alan ... I don't think—" But he moved again, and the words died in her throat. He slid in and out of her, kneading her breast, his breath hot on her neck. Sorcha's body shuddered and bowed, but she couldn't control the spasms, couldn't contain the sobbing moans that emerged from between her lips, couldn't stop the furious rubbing of her fingers over her sex. It was absolutely necessary for her to touch herself. Her quim needed to be touched, her sensitive nub required flicking and pinching. Alan's breaths turned harsh. He released her, allowing her to sink onto the blanket; then he gripped her shoulders and rode her hard.

  Sorcha was being torn apart. It hurt, it was fire, but it was the most exquisite, beautiful pain and the sweetest heat she'd ever experienced. The torch inside her body lit a hot blue blaze to each nerve ending.

  She raised her arse to meet every one of Alan's thrusts, and when his balls slapped against her quim, she ground herself into her hand. It was an instinctive motion, occurring without thought, without effort, and her whole body participated, down to her toes, which dug into the

  carpet, and her ringers, some of them plunging into her dripping channel, the others curling in the coarse blanket.

  Alan began to shake. Even as his movements became jerkier, his thrusts deepened. Sorcha's mouth opened in a silent scream as she was rent in two by Alan's thick, long cock.

  She twisted and writhed, each movement taking her higher, pushing her closer to the edge. Squeezing her arse tight around Alan, Sorcha ground her body into the bed, into her hand.

  Leaning forward now, off the cliff into the crisp Highland breeze. The loch stretched out below her, gleaming a fathomless blue mirrored by the clear blue sky above. Golden heather whispered in the breeze. And Sorcha didn't plummet to the earth—instead she spread her wings and glided through the air as Alan held her steady, keeping her safe from harm.

  As if from far away, she heard his low groan. Gripping her hips, he thrust twice more, then buried himself as deep as he could go.

  She flew higher. Air rushed past, rippling and streaming over her body. Alan was with her, and together they reached the heavens and then drifted slowly down, as light and gentle as a pair of feathers twisted in a lover's embrace.

  Sorcha slumped against the bed, all the tightness in her body releasing in a rush. Seconds later, she felt Alan relaxing similarly, but he kept his weight on his forearms so as not to crush her.

  Gently, he pulled out of her, as careful as if she were a delicate piece of lace. And then he left her.

  With great effort, Sorcha turned her head as he walked over to the basin. She should get up, move, climb into bed, do something. But she couldn't garner the energy. She simply stayed there, flopped over the edge of the bed.

  Alan returned moments later with a damp cloth, and he stroked the cool material between her legs.

  "Mmm." It felt wonderful—the cool contrasting against the blazing inferno she'd felt there just moments ago.,

  She smiled against the blanket. He'd come inside her for the first time. Not in the way she'd imagined, but it was meaningful, nonetheless.

  He left to discard the towel and returned, gathering her in his arms an
d lifting her up onto the bed, arranging her beneath the covers.

  Her eyelids felt like dead weights, her muscles languid and soft. Alan extinguished the single burning lamp on the bedside table, then turned to tuck her against his side. Just as she drifted off into a sweet slumber, she heard a low murmur. "I love you, Sorcha."

  Had she dreamed it?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Cam shifted uncomfortably to adjust himself. His cock was hot and hard, pressing painfully against the material of his breeches. He hardly felt the movement in his injured side.

  Sorcha and Alan sat on the chaise longue across from him in the receiving room adjacent to his bedchamber. Alan's shoes were off and his legs were propped on the cushions. Sorcha sat firmly wedged between his thighs. She sipped from his glass of whisky and made a face. Alan laughed at her and kissed her lips.

  Cam moved discreetly again, trying not to call attention to his raging erection. He eyed the tumbler on the sidebar. It was more than half empty.

  After the deadly fever, his injury had healed so quickly the doctor said it was a miracle. Cam had thus far kept the state of his near-perfect health from Sorcha and Alan. The truth was that he didn't want them to go.

  It was becoming apparent that he was nearly well, though. There were certain truths a man couldn't hide. Although neither had broached the topic, he knew they'd return home soon. Leaving him alone once again.

  This time, he'd manage on his own. He'd have to.

  Staring at the two of them, it hit Cam square in the gut that it was time for him to change. He'd inherited an earldom, for Christ's sake. He could squander all he had to offer... or he could use his friend as an example and exploit his power and wealth for the betterment of his corner of the world, including all the people in it. Hopefully, that would someday include a family. But he couldn't think on that now. Each time he gazed upon Sorcha MacDonald laughing up at her husband, a sharp blade of pain pierced his heart. He'd had a chance with her. She'd been on the verge of falling beyond lust and into love with him. Yet he'd treated her like a mistress, never as someone who could be anything more. He hadn't given her what she deserved, had never offered marriage but dismissed the idea due to some foolish notion of impressing the English with a noble heiress. What a bloody cur he was.