by Anna Durand
I bent low over him, my breasts swinging in his face, and spoke in my huskiest voice. "If you give me what I want, I'll give you what you want."
"Bargaining with your body?" He tried to smirk, but the rapturous agony of his need eradicated it. "Isnae that—too much like—ah God, woman. Yer killing me."
I licked at the seam of his lips. "Say yes and I'll use my mouth on you. Don't pretend it's not what you want."
"Aye," he said, sucking in a breath. "Yer family stays here."
"Thank you." I waddled backward until my face hovered above his erection. "I've wanted to taste you since the night we met."
Despite his heavy breathing, his face blanked. "Emery…"
"Please don't tell me no again. You want me to do this, I can tell."
"I do, but—" He swallowed hard. "No one has ever touched me this way. Considering how much I want you, ahmno sure I can keep still. Donnae want to hurt you."
"Relax, baby, you won't."
"Better restrain me, just in case."
I set my hands at either side of his hips and looked up at him. "I am not tying you up. Stop worrying and tell me yes or no. Do you want this?"
He stared at me as the seconds ticked by in my head, counted by the beats of my heart. His blank expression gradually faded into a mixture of admiration and delighted surprise.
"Do you want this?" I repeated.
"Aye."
I lowered my head to kiss and lick his inner thigh, working my way up to the base of his cock. My breasts grew achy, the peaks stiff and tender as I grew more aroused the more I explored him. His breaths gusted from his open mouth and his eyes followed my movements, riveted to every swipe of my tongue. I flicked my tongue out to lap at his sac, slowly moving onto his shaft, lapping at his flesh as I made my way up toward the head.
His heels dug into the mattress.
My mouth watered as I marveled at the beauty of his sleek shaft and the blunt head. I laved my tongue over the slit.
He shuddered, his breathing ragged. "Please, Em, donnae go slow. Ahmno calm enough to take it."
"Whatever you need, honey."
I tucked my lips over my teeth and engulfed the head with my mouth, closing one hand around his sac. His head lolled on the pillow, his lids shuttered. I stroked my mouth up and down his length, kneading his thigh and moaning with pleasure at the flavor of his skin and the salty beads of liquid that gathered on the head of his penis. I kept the pace measured, alternately cupping his balls and skimming my hand along his thigh while he grunted and groaned and locked his hands around the headboard rails. I made hungry little noises in the back of my throat that seemed to arouse him even more, and he rolled his hips into the downward strokes of my mouth. His sac tightened and pulled into his body, and I knew he was close.
His eyes popped open. His gaze centered on me, on my mouth enclosing his cock and manipulating his flesh. His face twisted with the exquisite torture of impending climax.
I swiped at his flesh with my tongue, gliding my mouth up and down, maintaining a steady pace even as my clit throbbed and the urge to go faster beat at my willpower.
"Ah!" he shouted.
His release erupted in my mouth, salty and hot.
My clit pulsed. Despite my own mounting need, I kept stroking him with my tongue, tenderly, until his hand in my hair halted me. I propped my chin on his thigh, smiling up at him.
"God, Em," he said, breathless, his hand combing through my hair. "You are wonderful. I've never felt anything like that, it's almost as good as taking your body."
I levered up to sit back on my heels and take in the vision of my strong husband dissolved into a masculine puddle of satiated need. "Why wouldn't you let me do that before?"
"Donnae know."
"Baloney. You know as well as I do, but I want to hear you say it." I stretched out on my side next to him, twirling my fingers on his chest, the fine hairs tickling my skin. "This is part of your therapy. Tell me why."
He made an annoyed face and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was afraid of losing control. When we have sex, I can't help losing it a wee bit. But your mouth on me…I knew I could never withstand that onslaught."
"How did it feel to let go and give in?"
"Extremely satisfying." He aimed a crooked smile at me. "You're a wicked little angel, m'eudail, and I love it."
"You're sinfully sexy yourself, Rory baby."
He curled an arm around me, his hand wandering down to my buttocks.
"We should get up," I said. "It's after six."
"In a while." He shifted his hand to my belly, sneaking it lower, and delved his fingers between my thighs to find the taut bud of my clitoris. "Once I regain my strength, it's your turn."
Desire shivered through me anew.
We wouldn't get out of this bed until long after his normal wake-up time, and he didn't care. Lounging in bed past six. Getting it on in his office, on his desk. Letting me pleasure him with my mouth. My husband had shattered so many rules in the past twelve hours.
Progress, progress, progress.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
On the following day, I convinced Rory to take a break from work and go outside with me. He groused, of course, but gave in without too much cajoling. That's how I wound up towing him by his hand out the vestibule door and toward the lush, green lawn Tavish had mowed an hour earlier.
At the edge of the grass, Rory dug in his heels like the stubborn mule he was. "What are we meant to do out here?"
"Dance on the grass."
"I don't dance."
"Well then, spin with me."
"Spin?" He virtually shrieked the word, as if I'd asked him to take his clothes off, spray glitter over his body, and prance around waving his arms in the air. He shook his head. "Emery—"
"Chill out, Rory." I let go of his hand to spin and skip my way across the verdant expanse, twirling my way back to him a moment later. I offered him my hand. "Give it a try. Please. For me."
He scrunched up his whole face.
I grasped both his hands, leaning back. "No skipping or prancing, I promise."
"But you expect me to spin."
"This one time. If you hate it, I'll never ask again."
He screwed up his mouth and sighed, resigned to his fate. "What am I meant to do?"
"Hold my hands, lean back, and then we both turn in a circle together. Slow at first, but faster and faster with each circuit."
Rory planted his feet on the ground opposite mine and canted backward.
As one, we rotated in a circle. At first, he wore a tight expression, but with every rotation he relaxed more, and as our pace increased he seemed to get more into it. Faster and faster we whirled, my hair flying around my face and the centrifugal force stretching our arms. We spun and spun, first with only me laughing, but finally with Rory's throaty laughter joining mine. We twirled so swiftly the world around us blurred until all I could see was his face.
One of us tripped, I couldn't tell which, and we tumbled to the ground. I landed on top of Rory. He clapped his arms around me. We both kept laughing for a few seconds, but then the laughter diminished and we simply gazed at each other.
Rory smiled. A brilliant, glorious smile that lit up his face—and lit up my heart. I grinned in response, breathless from the beauty of his overjoyed expression.
Overjoyed. My husband. Because of spinning, with me.
The clouds peeled back to admit a ray of sunshine. The light streamed down on us, igniting the golden highlights in his hair and glittering in his amber eyes. Yet nothing, not even sunshine, could glow with more brilliance than his smile.
A kind of laughter I'd never heard from him before, bright and unrestrained, tickled my senses and my heart, like a feather brushing over my soul. I laughed too, sprawled atop him on the lawn in the broad daylight, unable—unwilling—to relinquish this feeling one millisecond sooner than necessary.
I never wanted to give it up. If I could've stopped time, so we might live in this
moment forever, I would've leaped at the chance. To keep him like this, happy and free. To revel in this without end. My head floated and swayed as if weightless, my heart lightened, and the world around us seemed more vivid and alive, suffused with the glory of his joy.
And that's when I recognized the truth. It inundated me, stunning in its fervency.
I'd fallen in love with my husband.
Helpless to deny the sheer bliss of my epiphany, I caught his face in my hands and kissed him. I poured all my love and passion into that kiss, transforming a simple meeting of the lips into a soul-searing expression of true and unlimited devotion. Whether he felt it, I couldn't say. The potency of it stole my breath, summoned nascent tears that pricked at the backs of my eyes, and set my heart to racing so fast I felt about to rocket into the sky.
He rolled us over, his body covering mine, and we kept kissing.
I hooked my legs around his, my arms around his neck, and dived into a shimmering pool of emotion.
He pulled away and hopped to his knees, sitting back on his heels with my feet beneath him.
Uncaring if I looked like an idiot, I gazed at him in rapt and unabashed adoration.
He regarded me without expression.
My heart rate slowly calmed, and I regained the ability to breathe. I couldn't stop looking at him. Love filled me, consumed me, energized me.
Rory coughed. "That was interesting, but I have—things to do."
My natural high fizzled out just like that. I lay there on the sun-warmed grass studying his face, but I couldn't tell if he'd been unaffected by The Moment, or if he was pretending not to have noticed everything had changed.
At least he hadn't said he had "work." I supposed "things to do" was an improvement.
But everything had changed—for me, anyway.
Rory rose and helped me up. "I'll see you at dinner."
He hurried back to the house and through the front door.
I rubbed my arms, suddenly chilled in spite of the warm sunshine and the temperate air. He acted like nothing had happened, but I'd seen him do this too many times to believe it. When we got too close for his comfort, he'd pull back into himself or turn into the cold bastard who liked to remind me of our contract and the temporary nature of this marriage. Maybe I was desperate to believe he shared my feelings. Maybe…
No, dammit. He must've experienced the same thrilling high, the same life-altering revelation, or else he wouldn't have gone stoic and run back into the house.
The rest of the day inched by, with my mood as cloudy as the sky. I hung out in the kitchen with Mrs. D until she had to leave to do the laundry. She refused to let me lend a hand with the task, and I didn't want to insult her by pushing. She commented I seemed "rather quiet" today but left it at that.
Since I didn't want to talk to Rory yet, the sting of his departure too fresh, I called everyone I could think of. First, I dialed up my sister in Germany. She was busy but promised to call back later. Next, I tried Erica but got her voicemail. Calli was busy at the office of the construction company she and Aidan ran together. I tried Jamie's number, but got voicemail.
With nothing else to do, I resorted to the lamest activity I could find, staring blankly at the TV while sipping Ben Nevis. I'd felt like a thief for pouring myself a glass of Rory's favorite whisky without asking his permission, but this was my home too. Even Captain America on TV couldn't lift my spirits, and so I leaned my head back against the sofa and let the flavor of the single-malt scotch conjure a memory of Rory. Laughing. Smiling. Beautiful.
When he found me asleep on the sofa later, he woke me but made no comment on the empty whisky tumbler on my lap. He informed me dinner was ready and ushered me into the dining room. We exchanged idle conversation over dinner, but neither of us brought up the incident on the lawn.
My chest ached every time I looked at him. It was stupid, this melancholy feeling. I'd succumbed to the fall without reservation, and I'd gloried in the moment when I realized I loved him, but as quickly as the joy had come it had vanished.
When we retired to the bedroom, neither of us wanted to do anything except sleep. Rory cocooned me in his arms and fell asleep, the ebb and flow of his breaths whispering in the darkened room.
He ran from me because he cared and it frightened him, I understood this. One day soon, though, he'd have to overcome his fears—if we had any chance of happiness.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Our life went back to normal the next day. Rory didn't smile again the way he had on the lawn, and I wondered if he ever would. This morning, I'd resolved to enjoy my life in Scotland for as long as I lived here and to make the best of our marriage. No more moping because he hadn't declared his eternal love for me or announced I was his soul mate.
My family would arrive tomorrow. I refused to let them see me as a pathetic wreck in love with a man who would not allow himself to love me.
In the late afternoon, I waltzed into Rory's office armed with a new determination to work things out between us, even if that meant learning he didn't share my feelings.
"To what do I owe this honor?" he asked.
"Your own neurosis," I said, taking a seat on the front edge of his desk. "We need to talk about yesterday."
He flipped through a sheaf of papers. "Yesterday?"
"Come off it, Rory." I slapped my palm down on his papers. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. That moment when you actually had fun, out on the lawn. When you gave me a real smile for the first time in the history of us."
He plucked his glasses off his nose and tossed them onto the desk beside my hand. "I've smiled before. Many times."
"Uh-uh." I crossed my arms under my breasts. "You smirk. You almost smile. You kink your lips like you might be about to smile, but you don't go all the way. Not for me, at least. You grin and laugh with your family, but with me you hold back like you think the universe will smack you down if you let on you like being around me."
"That's ridiculous."
"Ah, your favorite word," I said. "Case in point, that day in the garden when you were happy until you looked at me. Then you frowned."
He huffed. "I did not."
"You did." I leaned in. "Are you accusing me of lying?"
"Of course not." He twirled his pen on the desktop. "If I frowned at you that day, I apologize. I had no idea I'd done that."
"Apology accepted." I settled my hands on my thighs. "About yesterday…"
He rubbed his chest, wincing slightly. "What about it?"
"You had fun, admit it. Spinning made you smile." Please say it was me, not the spinning. You were happy because of me.
"I suppose it did," he said. "And I had fun."
Though my heart plummeted through the floor, probably landing on Mrs. Darroch's head in the laundry room, I realized I had to let this go for now. He'd admitted to having fun, which was itself a major step forward. Pushing him to admit his feelings for me, whatever they might be, wouldn't help.
At least I'd done it. I'd confronted him about yesterday, and I'd earned a confession of a sort from him.
"Spinning may have been enjoyable," he said, twirling his pen faster, "but it wasn't as much fun as the night before." He caught the pen, halting it, and spread his hand over the desktop. "When I shagged you right here."
His hand petted the wood.
And oh, how my traitorous body responded. Warming. Softening. Reeling backward in time to the relive the sensations he'd evoked in me then.
He'd done it on purpose, naturally. Distract me from the real issue by getting me hot and bothered.
"I'm glad you had fun that night," I said, and hopped off the desk. "Maybe tonight we can reenact that pivotal moment on a different surface. Maybe someday we'll even do it in the daytime."
I swayed my hips, on purpose, as I sashayed out of his office. When I turned to pull the door closed, Rory uttered a single word dripping with sensuality.
"Perhaps."
I shut the door, leaving my husband al
one in his office with the memory of that night, and myself with the dream of what might come in the future.
◆◆◆
Alas, the previous night had not concluded with hot sex on his desk or anywhere else. I'd talked to my mom until one a.m., discussing the wedding, by which time Rory had gone to sleep. I curled up beside him and slept the whole night through without waking until he climbed out of bed at six o'clock. Per my instructions, he now woke me when he got up in the morning. We ate breakfast together before he retreated into his office.
Waking up with him and staying up until he went to bed would turn me into a daytime napper, for sure. Four hours into my day and already I was yawning, not to mention craving every kind of food the medical establishment scolded humans not to eat.
That's why I'd wound up in the kitchen, leaning my hip against the island and considering the items I'd collected and set on the granite surface. A few days ago, I'd mentioned to Mrs. Darroch how much I lusted for an ice cream sundae. This morning a note had awaited me on the fridge door, written in Mrs. D's efficient hand. It said, "Morning, gràidh. What you need is inside. Check the freezer too." Upon opening the freezer, I'd discovered three gallon tubs of ice cream—vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry—while in the fridge section I found an assortment of toppings.
As I gazed at my selections laid out on the island, my mouth watered. Hot fudge, caramel sauce, walnuts, and whipped cream sat in their respective containers alongside a tub of vanilla ice cream.
"In the mood to indulge your cravings?"
Rory's voice originated from the doorway, though I hadn't noticed his footsteps approaching. The man had a knack for stealth.
Turning toward him, I leaned back against the island and settled my hands on its rim. "I am jonesing for something decadent."
He gave me an appraising look, his eyes narrowing at the sight of my very short denim cutoffs and the short-sleeve, button-up top that exposed the swells of my breasts. The neckline just covered my nipples. My lacy pink bra peeked out from under the top.