What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  “Both, I believe. I had quite a few in my repertoire to describe you.”

  He’d miss this. Their banter. Their sparking rivalry.

  “Why are ye here, Imogen?”

  She stared at him for an interminable moment, those guarded green eyes finally shedding some light into what she was thinking. Her hands lifted and went to the pins in her hair. Mesmerized, Ronan watched as she pulled each of them out, allowing each glossy lock to spill free. It didn’t quite hit him until she’d removed her gloves and kicked off her slippers, but then Imogen’s intentions all but pummeled him straight in the gut.

  Staying in.

  “Imogen,” he began hoarsely, refusing to take one step into his own chamber. If he moved, he wouldn’t stop until they were on that bed. Together. Entwined. With every stitch of clothing gone. And that would be an irreversible mistake. “What are ye doing?”

  “Undressing.”

  The simple answer made his chest seize. “I see that. Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she said.

  His control felt like it was hanging on by a string. “Nae.”

  “Then I shall endeavor to be more…explicit.” The throatiness in her voice went straight to his excited cock, and his senses were so deluged in lust that he almost didn’t take her meaning—until her fingers went to the satin ribbon at her bodice and tugged.

  Oh, sodding hell, no.

  He wasn’t that much of a saint.

  Ronan stalked toward her, closing his shaking fist over hers. “Dunnae,” he growled, trying not to feel his knuckles pressing into the soft give of her bosom.

  Imogen licked her lips, and the sheen of moisture on them almost made him groan. Tension throbbed between their bodies, parts of her straining toward him and parts of him refusing to obey the simplest of commands.

  “I want this, Ronan,” she said. “I’m calling in my favor that I won fair and square during our race on Rotten Row. I want one night with you.”

  He closed his eyes. Of course she would use it to claim this. Now, when he barely had a leg to stand on. When he was hanging on to decency by the skin of his teeth.

  “Nae.”

  Her lips tightened. “Yes. You lost. I won. This is what I claim.”

  “Imogen, this willnae change anything, ye ken,” he said in a rasp.

  “Then what does it matter?”

  It mattered. All of it mattered. But she was here and in his arms and so willing. And Ronan could no more resist her call than he could change what this woman made him feel.

  “Are ye certain, Imogen?”

  Her answer was to lift up onto her toes and crush her lips to his. Opening his mouth on hers, he kissed her back, sipping at her.

  He wanted to make it last. Savor every moment. But first he wanted to know something. “Why now?”

  Her eyes met his, honesty burning in them. “It’s what we have left.”

  …

  A shiver chased up Imogen’s spine as Ronan’s large hands wound into her hair and slid down her back. It seemed seduction was her forte, though it felt like she was the one being seduced. Seduced by his mouth and his hands and that clever tongue. Imogen wondered what it would feel like on the rest of her…on her breasts, between her thighs. She bit her bottom lip and blushed. Curse those loose-mouthed women at Haven and her own greedy ears for listening. And then imagining later on, in her own fantasies.

  But in those fantasies, the pleasure she received was from men with no names or faces. She hadn’t known or admired anyone worthy enough to take a place in her dreams. Until Ronan had come charging into her life like a savage bear in a Highland storm wind.

  He moved slowly now, however, as if restraining himself as his palms warmed the silk against her skin. He explored the swell of each buttock and then the curves of her hips. Ronan’s tongue traced the column of her throat, his teeth nipping gently in its wake.

  “If this is truly what ye want,” he said, his breaths hot and rapid and bringing up a rash of gooseflesh, “then I cannae deny ye.”

  Imogen gripped his shoulders, holding on as relief made her legs warm and numb. If he’d refused her she would have carried that rejection with her for the rest of her life. On the way to Dunrannoch House, she had fully expected to seduce Ronan only so far before coaxing him to drink the altered whisky, which she had already poured during her few minutes alone in his room.

  However, when she’d seen Grace in his study, something had changed. He did not belong to that woman. He was hers. And if this was to be their one night together, she would leave no regrets behind her.

  Ronan took her lower lip between his teeth and tugged. “What do ye want, Imogen? Tell me and I’ll do it.”

  She slid her hands to his cravat, her fingers plucking at the knotted linen. “First, I want this off,” she said. “I want it all off.”

  He laughed, the rumble of it low and hoarse. “Let’s no’ rush things, love. We have some hours yet to fill.”

  “Hours?” she gasped, a beat of excitement threading through her veins.

  “Aye. Have ye anywhere else pressing to be?” he asked as he worked the knot of his cravat, pulling the whole length free and dropping it to the floor. A gap of bronzed skin stood exposed, and she reached for it.

  “Nowhere comes to mind,” she murmured, her fingers touching the warm, smooth skin.

  He took her mouth again, his tongue parting her lips and reaching for hers in a possessive sweep. He closed his arms around her and pressed her flush against him, the hard length of his male part unmistakable. She blushed. His shaft, tool, rod, cock, whatever all the giggling women at Haven called it. The space between her thighs throbbed with anticipation.

  She ran her hands down the front of his shirt, feeling the hard muscle underneath, the tight bud of each male nipple, and then circled his hips. She hesitated, and Ronan drew back from their kiss.

  “What is it? If ye’ve changed yer mind, ye need only say so.”

  Imogen shook her head. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

  He frowned. “If I do anything to make ye uncomfortable or scared, or if it makes ye remember something ye dunnae wish to—”

  “You won’t. I trust you, Ronan. I know I’m safe.”

  There was no doubt in her mind of that. But she did question one thing. She drew a fingertip down his hip and around the front of his thigh.

  “I want to touch you,” she said, her confidence faltering when his storm-blue eyes darkened. “If that’s something you want.” Perhaps it wasn’t.

  But then Ronan covered her hand with his. “Ye can touch me, Imogen. I’m yers. Every last inch of me.”

  His voice was a mere rasp, and as she moved her palm over his erection, guided by his hand, she heard him take another hitched breath. He was hard, the ridge of his cock imprisoned by his trousers as she gripped him through the cloth. Ronan leaned forward and took her mouth in a bruising kiss. She met it with just as much force, drinking him in and welcoming the brutal edge of his passion—something her one touch had seemed to ignite.

  Ronan guided her hand away, placing it flat against his chest, where she felt the thrashing of his heart.

  “I’ll no’ last,” he said.

  “Then we shouldn’t tarry,” she replied, once again reaching for the ribbon at her bodice. Ronan had interrupted her before, but now, he watched, entranced, as she pulled the ribbon and loosed the front-fastened bodice. Imogen tugged down each shoulder and let the gown slide into a pool on the floor. Ronan stood immobile, watching her as she peeled off each stocking with shaking fingers, unlaced her chemise and stays, and then untied her thin linen drawers; his eyes roved from the points of her breasts to the thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs.

  “My God, ye’re stunning,” he breathed. And then, as if something inside of him snapped, Ronan surged to life. He tore at the buttons of his shirt and, with one motion, pulled it over his head and tossed it to the floor with his cravat. She barely had time to marvel at his expanse of bare
, brawny chest before his trousers and smalls were gone as well.

  Imogen lost her breath as he sprang forward, every magnificent inch of him. She stared at the erection she’d just stroked, that part of him appearing to have grown in size.

  He dragged her against him, his skin so hot he practically seared hers. There was little in the world Imogen cared about right then, beyond the exquisite sensation of her bare breasts crushed against his chest, the friction of their mouths as he kissed her and shifted her onto the bed. The cool satin of his bed covering against her back, the wet clasp of his lips on her nipple as he took it, suckling and licking and wringing her into tight coils. She arched into him, wanting more. Wanting all of it. All of him.

  “Please, Ronan,” she moaned, her bare foot running along his muscled calf and hitching over his hip. Opening to him, she felt the thick weight of his staff brush against her core. With wanton need, she ground up against him.

  Ronan raked his teeth over her breast, the vibration of his answering grunt shivering through her.

  “Imogen, lass,” he groaned. “Ye’ll undo me, and I want this to last.”

  The desire was at odds with what they were doing, though. This was not going to last. Them, this coupling, this rough exploration of each other’s bodies. This one time together didn’t have to be perfect or lengthy. It just had to be.

  “I need you, Ronan. Please, I need…I need…”

  He trailed kisses between her breasts and unhinged her leg from his waist. “I ken what ye need, love,” he said, dropping more kisses along her stomach and moving lower still. When she realized where his lips were going, Imogen sucked in a breath. She went rigid, uncertain, no matter how much she wanted to know the pleasure of his mouth on that part of her body. On every part.

  “Trust me, Imogen,” he said, his tongue darting out on a tentative lick. She felt it straight to her bones and clutched at his hair.

  “Yes,” she gasped. “I trust you.”

  Ronan adjusted her leg over his shoulder and set his mouth to her. Imogen couldn’t breathe as he nipped and licked, the coarse stubble along his chin rasping against her sensitive flesh. She twisted her fingers into his hair, rocking her hips to the rhythm of his tongue. He dragged his thumb against the bundle of nerves at her apex, and Imogen cried out, pulsing and shivering as pleasure spilled through her, dragging her under. She willingly went, her limbs gloriously slack as Ronan climbed up her body, worshipping her with heated, openmouthed kisses. Her navel, her hip, her breasts, her clavicle, the lobe of her ear—no part of her was too unworthy to nuzzle and caress.

  “I had no idea,” she sighed, unable to finish her disjointed thought when his swollen arousal rubbed the inside of her thigh.

  “Do ye wish to stop?” he asked, voice strained.

  He would, she knew, if she asked him to. Even as unsatisfied as he clearly was, Ronan would abandon the bed, if it meant she would not be frightened. But she wasn’t. Not in the least.

  “Not even if the house was on fire, Your Grace,” Imogen said and then boldly reached between their bodies. His thick length slid into her hand, and she heard her own moan as well as his.

  “Fuck, Imogen.” The crass word only made her more slick. She could feel her own desire sharpen between her legs as she stroked Ronan. He was like granite sheathed in silk, and she wished she could put her lips to him the way he’d done to her. But that desire fell away the moment he aligned himself at her entrance. The first, soft nudge stole away every last thought in her brain.

  She met his eyes, and he held her in their blue grip as he made small rocking motions with his hips. He was being so gentle. Too gentle.

  “Yes, Ronan,” she said, thrusting to meet him. He hissed and pushed deeper, the pressure of him so different from that of his fingers or tongue. It filled her, stretching her until a sharp, burning pain threatened to change her mind. Holy hell.

  “I’m hurting ye,” he noticed, beginning to withdraw. Imogen held him to her.

  “I know how this works, Ronan. I’m not an innocent.”

  Imogen hadn’t meant to bring up her past. She hadn’t even been thinking about it. The black spots in her memory widened. Oh God, why couldn’t she remember? Surely she wouldn’t forget a man touching her so intimately.

  Ronan frowned, his brow furrowing as he held himself above her, arms straining. “Imogen, are ye certain of that?”

  She bit her lip and shook her head. Silas had claimed he’d ruined her, so it was only his word, given her state. But he was a liar. Perhaps McClintock had interrupted before anything had truly happened. If only she could remember! Imogen closed her eyes in silent shame. “I don’t know.”

  “It doesnae matter, love. As far as I’m concerned, this is both our first times.” He kissed her, rocking forward and scattering her uncertainty. “There’s only ye and me here. No one else. No past, no future. Just us.”

  “Just this moment,” she agreed on a gasp, meeting his next thrust and feeling him come full hilt.

  It was perfection, this feeling of wholeness as Ronan retreated and returned, filling her again and again. His tempo increased as she dug her nails into his back and buttocks, gripping him tighter as they came together and apart, his eyes never once leaving hers. They turned sooty and serious as his thrusts became harder, faster, more reckless, one moment’s pleasure topped by the next. Imogen cried out as the spiral of rapture shattered. The muscles along Ronan’s back tensed under her hands, and then the sublime pressure of him was gone. He’d withdrawn, a hand wrapping around his length as he spent himself on the bed between her legs.

  He rolled them both onto their sides and held her as the last ebbs of pleasure racked her body.

  She knew why he hadn’t let himself release inside of her, and while rationally it made sense…it also filled her with sadness. It was just as he’d said minutes before: there was no future for them. And Imogen knew only too well what kind of complications a baby out of wedlock created. Unlike some of the girls at Haven and Belinda or Lady Beatrice, she’d been lucky, if indeed Silas had been telling the truth. Once more, a dark cloud spread over her, but she refused to let that man color what had just happened…a memory she wanted to treasure.

  “Imogen?” he said. She realized she’d been silent too long.

  “I… That was…” Her confused mind couldn’t settle on anything. Because it had already kicked back into motion. No future, he’d said. And there wouldn’t be for him, not if Silas came out the victor in tomorrow’s duel. It was why she’d come here tonight. She had to get back to her plan before she lost her nerve. Or her window of opportunity.

  She disentangled herself from his arms.

  “Where are ye going?” he asked.

  “I’m a little thirsty,” she replied, leaving the bed. His robe hung on the back of a chair across the room. Imogen knew she’d been abrupt, and so she took her time walking toward the chair, hoping Ronan would be distracted by the bold display of her naked body.

  By the time she wrapped herself in the robe and looked back, she knew it had worked. He stared at her with raw longing.

  “Drink?” she proposed.

  Hilda’s sleeping draught was waiting in the bottom of his whisky glass. All she had to do was pour in a finger and hand it over.

  “Are ye all right, then?” he asked, standing up without a stitch. The attraction went both ways, it seemed. Bolts of desire streaked straight through to her toes. Good God, he was a beautiful man.

  “I’m…surprised,” she answered, pouring his whisky. She took another clean glass and poured a finger for herself.

  “By what?” He took the proffered whisky but didn’t sip as he waited for her answer.

  “How much I already want you again,” she answered honestly. She was about to betray and sedate him, so it was the least she could do. Imogen sipped her whisky and felt sick with guilt as Ronan downed his in one gulp.

  He smiled as he set the glass down and reached for her. His arms were heavy with muscle, and
they held her firmly, tenderly. “We have all night, love.”

  Imogen nodded, even though she knew better. Given his size, she’d doubled the dose Hilda usually administered. When Ronan’s leg gave out, sending him stumbling to the side, Imogen held her breath. He released her, putting a hand to his temple.

  “Christ,” he murmured, blinking as he looked around the room and then at her.

  “Ronan?”

  He squinted, his face screwed up in a confused grimace. “What’s happening?” The words were slurred.

  Imogen guided him to the bed, where he all but collapsed onto the satin covering. She peeled back the blankets and sheets and threw them over him, sharp guilt slicing through her. God, she was as awful as Silas, taking Ronan’s free will away. What she was doing was unconscionable. Terrible. She breathed out a ragged breath, doubt filling her. No, it had to be done. Ronan would only get himself killed otherwise, and she had to protect him. And it wasn’t laudanum, only Hilda’s sleeping tincture, which she took herself from time to time.

  “You are not Silas,” she whispered to herself.

  But a part of her wept that she was.

  “I’m sorry, Ronan. I wish there was another way,” she said as his pupils dilated and his eyes drooped closed.

  “Imo…what…stop.”

  “It’s too late. It has to be done. I have to do this, Ronan. Me.”

  She kissed him on his damp brow and turned to put out the light, freezing as a hand closed around her wrist like a manacle. But before too long, it loosened and fell away. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “It will be over before you know it,” she told him as she threw off the robe and slipped back into her clothing, tamping down the panic rising up in waves. In a moment of indecision, she forced herself to climb on the bed and tie his heavy hands to the bed posts with her stockings. If by some miracle he awoke, she didn’t want him rushing off to find her. And given her command to Vickers, they would not be disturbed for some time.

  Ronan was blissfully asleep as she went for the door, taking one last look back. For all the world, he appeared asleep. When he roused, he would be beyond furious. He’d never forgive her. But she would accept the penance.