He stilled her hands, somehow pulling away from her lips.
Swallowing, he whispered, “I have scars.” It was all he could say to warn her of what lay under his shirt. Mayhap it would be best to stay clothed. But he knew he wanted her nude. He wanted to see her the way he thought she was intended to be, wee fae-woman.
“All right.”
When she smiled up at him, he forgot his worries, he forgot to think if she’d be repulsed by him and his damned scars. He forgot everything in that smile and just poured himself in it.
Then he went to work on her shirt. Lord, there had to be a million buttons. Tiny ones too. Meredith already had her neck set free from the confining shirt. But this would take an eternity to get her out of it.
He growled his frustration and looked down at the offending garment. She softly chuckled, then her hands left his body and started on those little buttons.
“You know, women a hundred years ago were sewn into their dresses. No buttons.” Her voice was low and breathy, and Jake’s already excited cock tightened all the more at the sound.
He nodded and greedily watched her slowly reveal herself to him. “I ken.”
“Wouldn’t that be difficult? Undressing me if I were sewn into my dress?”
She was teasing him, and he liked it even more. He shook his head. “I’d just tear ye out.”
She let out a breath—part sigh, part moan. He lunged at her lips again. Kissing her feverishly, he started to undo her skirts.
Bent over her table, slightly tearing at her clothes, he probably should have tempered his reaction to her, his desire. But that sound she’d made had him completely undone. He couldn’t help but think she wanted him too. She might want him as much as he craved her.
Finally, her skirts and that damned blouse were free from her, but then he had to contend with her stays and shift. She’d opened her legs around him, and in so doing her shift had risen to her mid-thighs, and he loved the look of her lithe limbs. He pressed her shift farther up, but she stayed his hands.
“Could you please remove your holster?”
He blinked, then realized she was asking for him to take off his pistols. He wore one close to his ribs, but the other was noticeably down on his hip.
“Sorry. Must have been uncomfortable.”
She smiled. Lord, that went straight to his gut and made him feel dizzy.
Shaking her head, she whispered, “I kind of liked it, the leather on my leg.” Looking down, she giggled softly. “I’m such a pervert.”
“Aren’t I lucky then?”
Her laughter rose, heightened, and made his whole body tingle. As if he’d won a major battle, he felt like he was floating and had conquered the world when he made her laugh like that.
Still, as she sat up on her elbows, he unbuckled his belts, letting one of his Colts hit the floor, but the other holster he shrugged out of, placing the Smith and Wesson on his duster. Glancing down, he was surprised to see she’d done such speedy work with his shirt. Oh, he still had a couple buttons in place, but the majority were undone. Revealing his pockmarked skin. It was worse on his back, he knew, but still, he worried what she saw, especially of his two large bullet wounds through the left side of his chest and back.
Swallowing the thickness in his throat, he dared a peek at her. She was looking straight at what he feared—his skin. Her hand sneaked through the opening of his shirt, and her tiny fingertips feathered over his chest, down his stomach.
“Were you in pain?” Her voice had softened.
“Aye, er, yes.”
Her eyes were gigantic when she looked at him again, her hand over his stomach, the muscles under knotting in nervousness. “I’m sorry.” She undid the rest of his buttons, slowly opening his shirt more for her scrutiny.
“I can keep my clothes on, if ye prefer.” His own voice had gone too gravely.
Now she looked at him with incredulity. “Are you kidding? You’re beautiful. I don’t think I can take off your clothes fast enough.”
He stilled her hands, trying to rip his shirt off from his shoulders. “Ye see my scars, don’t ye?”
She nodded, but kept trying to remove his clothes.
He had to stay her hands once more, this time a bit more forcefully. One of the candles must have burnt out, for suddenly the room was a tad darker, but still there was enough light for her to easily make out his monstrous skin, scaled-looking, almost like reptilian hide.
“Ye see my scars?” He didn’t know why he asked again. But he had to know.
She stopped touching him. Then wrapped her dainty fingers around his hands and placed them on her hips. Her own hands then hooked into the top of his trousers and drew him nearer.
“I see,” she whispered against his neck. Then she leaned forward and kissed him over his breastbone, next along his collarbone. Her dexterous hands fluttered up his body, gliding around his chest as she kissed and licked his aching skin. He hated how good it felt to be touched like that, hated that he needed it, hated how damned vulnerable he felt. And yet loved it all the same.
She found one his nipples in her mouth, then suckled slightly, sending a bolt of energy down his body. He moaned and tilted his head up. Her fingers kept swirling and caressing all over his chest, then down to his stomach, where her wrist rubbed against his engorged length.
He hissed and looked down at her, her eyes still wide, this time with innocent wonder. She smiled then reached up and kissed him quickly on his lips.
“I see your scars, Jake. And I see so much more.”
His heart warmed and grew, and he fell into kissing her again, letting her take off his shirt, while he tried to unlace her stays. Vowing he’d make sure they remained undressed for the rest of the night, he let her do whatever she wanted, pulling at his pants, unbuckling the last of his belts, and then he felt her reach in his trousers to hold him in her hand.
“Oh, Meredith,” he moaned, sure his brogue had taken over completely. But he didn’t care. It was hard to care about anything other than the way she touched him.
She stroked him, and he grew frantic with finally unlacing her stays and pulling the stupid contraption down her body. In so doing, she’d had to stop caressing his cock, which might have been for the best. As it was, he was worried he’d come too soon again. Lord, he’d been embarrassed about that, but he hadn’t lain with a woman in so long, hadn’t allowed anyone to touch him. Then she...waking up the way he had...God that had been good.
He tore her shift up and over her head, then flung the white garment to the side. Looking down at his fae, he was a bit heartbroken she tried to cover her perfect body with her hands and arms. Her breasts were bountiful and she squished them, trying to hide herself. Her legs had come together, concealing everything but a small tuft of dark curls at the apex of her legs.
“Oh Lord,” he moaned and fell on her, kissing along her shoulder then down for that beautiful globe she tried to hide.
She leaned back onto the table, softly chuckling.
“Ye're so beautiful, Meredith. I want to see all of ye.”
She moaned a sound, almost protesting, but it slowly ebbed into approval. Jake thought he especially had her consent as she arched her back when he licked around her breast, then nipple. Her fingers tunneled through his hair, slightly pulling, heightening the already rigid tension mounting in his body. He sucked in her nipple, simultaneously licking quickly. Her back arched more. Her legs parted, and he was back, nestled between her creamy thighs. Still in his trousers, Jake was a bit surprised she had somehow gotten his cock out, which now nudged at her hip.
One of his hands explored her other breast, while the other roamed down her soft belly. He had no idea why she’d hide herself from him. She was perfect. Her tiny waist, her hips and breasts flared out in exquisite femininity. It was a woman like her that made men want to pick up a paintbrush or chisel and try to replicate her heavenly nonpareil.
“Ne plus ultra,” he whispered in the valley between her breasts.
She moaned again. “Oh my God. You speak French too?” Her voice was once more breathy and desperate. The way he ached for her to be.
In an attempt to be anything like his father, Jake had begged and stolen much of his education. Well-learned men of his time spoke English and French, so he’d tried to learn the languages as best as possible. Of course, everyone spoke Gaelic, a touch of Scots, and a wee bit of English in the Highlands. But it was a certain kind of English he’d tried to learn by listening intently to the English officers whenever they happened to be in his lands, which was rare when he was a lad. However, there was one kind soldier, missing his own family, who had taken to young Jacob, teaching him French, proper English, Latin, and a little Greek too. Jake had longed to be more like his older brother, a man known for his skills and wealth, rather than the son of Albert Cameron. Anything other than to be associated as his father’s son.
“Hey,” Meredith pulled on his hair, forcing him to look at her. “Where did you go?”
Ach, hell. Why think such melancholy thoughts when the world’s most beautiful woman was under him? He smiled and resumed kissing her lips, then reached down between her legs and found her folds slick and warm. She moaned in his mouth. He located her love pearl and swirled around the little nub. Her legs opened more for him.
Vaguely, he realized she was reaching down his body too. She struggled with his trousers, yanking them down, but when he inserted a finger into her hot core, she gave up and grabbed his cock. Now it was his turn to moan and feel helpless against his growing desire, the tension already filling his lungs and body. Removing his finger while she placed him just so against her, Jake pushed just a wee bit and was inside her. Oh, she was so warm. His thoughts flew, only pondering about her heat, the tight sensation of being inside her.
He was losing his mind a little by the time he started to slide more into her body.
“More,” she begged, holding onto his shoulders now.
He gritted his teeth and prayed he’d make this good for her. Thrusting again and again, he barely held onto control as she asked for more. She kept asking, moaning that word every time he moved. He wanted to give her more. He wanted to give her everything he had.
She removed his hand from her, and had him grip the table around her, asking, “More.” Then he let go. Gone was his sensible side. Out came the animal in Jake. He growled and thrust over and over again, rocking the table, moving it across the floor. Finally, he had to hold the table in place, to keep up with his desire. He pounded into her, sometimes kissing her, feeling her tongue in his mouth, driving him mad. Sweat began to drive down his face, his chest. She kissed or wiped it away, one hand holding onto his shoulder for dear life, it seemed. He dug the table into the wall, then reached for her hand, placing it down on her nub, circling her fingers for her. He wanted her to come, because at this rate, he couldn’t hold out much more. Once she started to move on her own, he griped the table again, wondering if he might tear it apart.
Oh, but it was good to be an animal. To let loose all his desire for his wee fae woman. “Tha thu bóidheach,” he whispered, not caring what language he spoke to relay how bonny she was. Her cheeks had taken more rosy color in them, and her brown hair fanned around her like a rebellious curling fan. He loved it, loved seeing her eyes turn into a purple fire.
She moaned. “Say it in French now.”
He thought for a moment of saying it informally, but she was his wee fae. Best to be proper. “Vous êtes belle.”
She moaned again, tilting her head back on the table. “More.”
“Vous êtes belle. Vous êtes belle.”
She let out a long moan, rocking her hips into his. Her internal muscles squeezed him, and he let himself dive off the cliff and into insanity. Hot air swam out his lungs, out his belly, and felt as if it accumulated in his bollocks, where the pressure exploded. Oh, but Lord, he was inside her.
He pulled out quickly, trying to come on the floor, but knew he’d enjoyed himself too much and had begun inside her. Jesus.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I wanted you to.”
He bent his head beside hers, his breath coming in quick gulps, wondering at her meaning. Did she mean for him to come? Or to come inside her?
His first sexual encounter had been such an eye-opening experience, learning how to release himself outside of a woman, to try to ensure a lack of pregnancy. And he and Meredith hadn’t discussed children yet. Hell, he hadn’t even proposed. Mayhap he should.
Deep in his thoughts about her, Jake was taken aback when she wrapped her arms and legs around him. He liked that she wanted to remain close. He wanted to. He wished he were still inside her, actually.
“Maybe next time we should try this on the bed.” She giggled.
His serious thoughts vanished when she laughed. “I’m scared I’d break it. Lord, I’m sorry if that was rough. Too much so?”
He felt her shake her head. “No. I liked that. I mean, we can try different rhythms, but that was good. Really good.” She took a breath against his chest. “Good for you?”
He lifted himself on weak arms, smiling down at her. “Nay, sweetling, that was wonderful.”
The smile she gave him then broke free any kind of cynicism or pessimism he had. He wanted her, and that was that. He just had to figure out how to ask her to be his forever, to be his wife.
Chapter 8
Jake moaned again, making Meredith feel warm inside.
“This is so good.” He was finishing his fourth piece of cold fried chicken Meredith had made earlier with Laura and Chen.
“Even though it’s cold?”
Jake nodded with a wide grin, flashing her his perfect white teeth.
Although many of the candles had burnt out, there was enough light from the stove and two beeswax candles close by to see him dimly. He sat on her bed, deliciously naked, yet swirled with her white sheets around his legs and hips, eating the chicken and green beans she munched on herself. She couldn’t help but love it that he was trying so hard not to leave a crumb on her bed, even though he was obviously ravenously hungry. He did eat a lot, which was an amazing feat, considering how his flat stomach contracted into six stunning bands of muscles.
“Why is fried chicken good even when it’s cold?”
She softly chuckled. “I suppose it’s the extra fat it’s cooked in.”
“How do ye cook it?”
There it was. His accent yet again popping up. When they’d been having sex, he’d even spoken in what Meredith could only guess was Gaelic. Poor Irish man, he tried so hard to hide his brogue, and she understood why, what with everyone and their cousin hating Irish immigrants currently. She wondered how she could tell him he didn’t have to hide from her; she’d accept him no matter where he’d come from. In fact, she’d always wanted to go to the Emerald Island. Maybe she’d drop hints.
She smiled. “The chicken is breaded then dropped in fat to cook.”
“How do ye bread it?”
“Bread crumbs and eggs. With all the bread I bake I had a lot of crumbs.”
He softly chuckled. “Ye like to bake?”
“Yes. Oh, that reminds me, I baked you a sweet bread today. It’s actually a dark fruit bread. I hope you like it.”
He placed his piece of chicken down on a plate, wiped his hands on a napkin, and reached over, kissing her heatedly. “Love fruit bread. Reminds me of—” He broke off from whatever he was going to say, then caressed both of her cheeks in his huge hands. “Love it.” He settled himself away, resuming munching on the chicken.
Meredith nearly laughed, loving how affectionate he was about fruit bread. To try to keep from reaching out for him again, she began talking absentmindedly. “I do love baking. It’s weird, because I’ve never baked before now.” Then she realized she sounded...anachronistic. Most women baked in this time. Shit.
“Never baked before?”
She’d learned a very hard way to not talk about the fact she’d c
ome from the future, where women didn’t need to bake, but had grocery stores to help. She knew Laura and Tom had doubts about her sanity and didn’t blame them. If she were in either of their shoes, she probably wouldn’t believe it if someone said they’d come from another time.
Swallowing, Meredith tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t be an outright lie. “Um, yes, I guess you could call me spoiled, since I’d never learned how to bake before now.”
He swallowed slowly. “Are ye...are you...were you rich? Born into wealth?”
She’d been brought up in a middle-income family, maybe close to high middle income, but by 1880s standard, her life would have been considered prosperous with the instant ovens, air conditioning, indoor plumbing, and malls. Shrugging, she said, “I guess so. I never really thought about it that way.”
He nodded and took another bite of his fifth piece of chicken. “I was born poor.”
“Oh?” She liked when he talked about himself. No, she loved it when he shared.
He kept nodding, swallowing a bite. “Born in a dirt-floor, sod-roof home. My father hardly ever worked a day in his life.”
She could hardly imagine and had a difficult time seeing the strong man sitting across from her in such an existence. “How’d you get by?” Instantly, she chided herself for asking such a personal question. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”
He shrugged. “My ma was a heal—nurse. She bartered for most of the food we had. My older brother plowed the fields when we boys were too young. Then, when we were old enough, we started to work the fields too.”
“You were farmers then? What did you grow? How old were you when you started to work?”
“Oats and barley, we grew. I was four when I started helping my brother, Duncan.”
“Four.” She noted the sound in her voice. It sounded like pity, but that wasn’t what she felt. She was amazed. Sipping in a breath, she said, “How many brothers do you have? Any sisters?”
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