Santa in a Kilt

by Donna Kauffman

  All he had to do . . . was accept it.

  And that was where the obstacle loomed, enormous and all-imposing, beyond his powers to scale and conquer.

  “I don’t know that any of us gets eternity,” she said, her voice a little rough, but her gaze steady on his.

  He tried to calm his own ragged breath, pull his thoughts from their primal, chaotic swirl, and organize them into something rational, or at least sensible.

  “And you have nothing to prove to me,” she said. “I know who you are, Shay.”

  And he understood her meaning. That knowing had little to do with sharing thoughts and dreams, and revealing every quirk and foible that made them who they were, in the day-to-day realm.

  She knew him.

  “And that’s all I need,” she said.

  “But is that all ye want?”

  “Doesna matter. It cannot. No’ really.”

  “It should.”

  “You could be struck by lightning the moment you leave this cottage. Should I not take what you’re offering, because it might be the only thing we share? Life isn’t fair, Shay. I know that better than anyone. As do you. So maybe we’re better advised to take what we can get, and find a way to be satisfied with that, happy with that, revel in it, for God’s sake. Because it sure as hell beats standing on the sidelines . . . or hiding out in a secluded cottage.”

  “Does it, then? What of the hurt to come, the disappointment, the . . . loss when you’ve allowed yourself such great wants, only to see them go unfulfilled? It’s no’ the end that comes at the hand of fate that concerns me. ’Tis sad, heartbreaking, but though life may have come to an end, that love endures. It’s the end by choice I’m speaking of. The promises broken, the dreams and faith abandoned. There’s such cruelty in it, even if no’ intended, and it comes at the hand of choice, no’ fate, which makes it that much harder to bear. I don’t want anyone to make that choice against me . . . but more important, I never want to be in a place where I need to make that same cruel choice.”

  “Aye, that does happen, and aye, ’tis cruel, no doubt. But what of it? It’s a terrible dark time, that’s for certain . . . but it won’t kill you, either. I’m testimony to that, aren’t I?”

  Now he framed her face with his palms. “And how is it you’ve been through it, to the hell and back of it . . . and yet you’re willing to risk that journey again?”

  “Because I’ve also been to the heaven of it. And it’s worth it, Shay. Even if you only have it for a time. It’s worth it. The pure and utter joy of loving and being loved . . . ’tis a thing to be cherished. Squandering such a rare offering because ye’re wary it might be snatched away seems a sad waste, doesn’t it?”

  “You’ve a rare strength, Kira, and you’re surely braver than me. I dinnae think I could stand myself if I were the cause of inflicting pain on you.”

  She surprised him by smiling, and it was so direct, so surely given, she amazed him. “You’d never hurt with intent. And I believe I’ve been fairly warned. So I’ve only myself to blame, then, haven’t I, if I’m no’ to have the happy ending?” She drew her fingers along his cheek, and then feathered them across his lips.

  He shook a bit harder under her delicate, yet sure touch, as if the ground was about to vibrate the floor right out from under them. “So that is what ye want, then, after all. The happy ending.”

  “Well, I’m not cut out, or able to close off parts of myself to enjoy dallying for the sake of dallying.”

  “What of the take-what-you-can-get philosophy, and be happy with it?”

  “Oh, I meant that,” she said, easily, “because I havena any other choice. It has to begin somewhere.” She smiled into his eyes, so easily, so fully, but there was a trembling in her hands now, too. “That doesna mean I don’t have my hopes that I’ll end up with more. I wouldn’t involve myself otherwise.”

  “And if yer hopes are dashed?”

  “Then I hurt . . . and I heal. But ’tis no’ only about me, this, is it? What of your pain, Shay, what of your disappointment? What if I’m the one who can’t see it through? Why are you so certain I’m the one who’ll be hurt?”

  “That’s just it, I dinnae think there is any way to escape unscathed, on either side. I see the ravages of it, every day. Even those who don’t mean to hurt the one they loved, do it anyway. A person can’t help feeling . . . and then losing that feeling, even if it breaks the heart of someone they otherwise cherish.” He saw the flicker of knowing, of remembered pain, flash quickly over her face, and felt horrible for bringing her own past to mind.

  But the expression went as swiftly as it came, and her voice was as sure as it had been before when she said, “It’s a risk, aye, the hope that both parties will forever want the same things, want each other. But you’re forgetting . . . not everyone wants to escape. You’re surrounded by great evidence of that, an island full of them, in fact.”

  “Aye, I know, but—”

  “I dinnae know how you do wha’ ye do, Shay. I truly don’t. And I clearly see how it would take a toll on you or any man, to be such an intimate part of other people’s pain, day in and day out. I question, though, why inflict it on yourself? Why do it? It clearly takes a toll on you. So much so, it’s informed your life choices, made you cut yourself off from what I think it is you might really want.” She tightened her hold on his face, making him aware all over again of the intimacy their bodies shared. “I know it was your father’s work, but it doesnae have to be yours, does it? And this isn’t a judgment of your father, but I think maybe ye need a colder, or perhaps a more singularly practical heart for that kind of work.”

  “What makes you think I’m no’ cold and practical ?”

  “This,” she said, simply, and leaned in and kissed him.

  He realized then that he honestly had no choice in the matter at all. She was here. So suddenly now in his arms, in his life. He’d taken the critical step . . . and there was no turning back. No pretending he hadn’t done this, tasted her . . . and finally wanted what he’d never allowed himself to want.

  She kissed him . . . and he took her. Laid claim. A full out siege, in fact. She teased him, just once, with the tip of her tongue, and he hungrily pulled it into his mouth, suckling on her, taking her inside him the way he wanted to be taken inside of her.

  Her gasps quickly turned to moans and she writhed against him, arching away from the wall, thrusting her hips forward. He pressed her back to the wall, sliding his hands behind her thighs and urging her legs around his waist.

  No more thinking, only acting. Only taking. Stepping farther down the path . . . whether to his salvation or his destruction, it no longer mattered. It was a journey already undertaken. Retreating now wouldn’t change anything.

  She dug her heels into his buttocks, finally able to press herself directly against the hard, rigid length of him, her thin nightgown only molding her more perfectly to him. His thighs shook under the restraint of not driving himself forward between her thighs. His hands shook as well as he slid them up her waist until he could cup her breasts.

  She cried out against his mouth, her hips moving rhythmically against him now as he filled his palms with the soft weight of her breasts, rubbing, gently rolling her tightly budded nipples between his fingers. He was moving his hips, too, no longer able to control it, not entirely sure he was going to be able to stop, or contain himself, as his body was already begging for release.

  She was pulling at his shirt, trying to tug it from the waistband of his belted trousers. And when she finally managed it and tugged open buttons, pulling up the white cotton undershirt he wore beneath it, and her hands finally touched his hot flesh . . . what restraint was left, snapped.

  He slid her farther up the wall and broke free of her mouth, only so he could close lips wet from hers over first one rigid nipple, then another. She cried out again, twisting against him, her hands knotting in his hair, pressing him closer, urging him to take more.

  Her thin nightgown tor
e easily under his teeth when he yanked. She didn’t even flinch. Her thighs merely tightened against him and she groaned, from somewhere deep in her throat . . . a sound as primal as the way he felt.

  Her nipples were perfect rosebuds of dark pink against pale, soft skin, and the taste of them, the feel as he drew the tip of his tongue over them, making her shudder and twitch, was the sweetest thing he’d ever known.

  He wanted all that pale, creamy skin bared to him, wanted to run his tongue over every inch, every freckle, every dimple and curve. With only that goal in mind, he ordered, “Hold on,” and slid his arms around her, holding her to him as he blindly moved into her cottage, thinking he only needed a surface big enough for them to lie on.

  “The door, there,” she panted.

  The hot thrill of knowing they were of the same mind, without question or pretense, made his need for her that much fiercer.

  He took in absolutely nothing of her surroundings, other than the shadow of a bed in the dim lighting of the curtained room.

  “It’s a bit lumpy, I’m afraid—” she began, but he cut her off with his mouth on hers, as he propped one knee on the mattress, then lowered them both down upon it.

  He made quick work of her nightgown and robe as her hands moved frantically over him, pulling off his shirt, tugging the undershirt over his head. He shucked trousers and boots in short order. But, once naked, rather than the growling, animalistic coupling he’d imagined, she instead pushed him to his back, startling him into a moment of inaction.

  Her cheeks were most beautifully flushed and her hair was mussed and wild, the way it would be when a man’s hands had been in it. Her man’s hands. His hands. Another primal thrill shot through him and he wondered what in the hell he’d become. But it was her smile that caught at him, as it always did.

  “What is it?” he asked, when she didn’t immediately speak. “Oh,” he said, as it occurred to him why any woman would halt a man about to do . . . what he’d so clearly been about to do, “if it’s about protection—”

  She laughed then, a short little lilt, but rather than make him feel dundering for the awkward mention, he found himself smiling along with her.

  “I’ve no doubt you’re always well prepared, Mr. Solicitor. For anything,” she teased, still breathing quite unevenly, hair wild about her flushed face.

  I wasn’t prepared for you, he thought.

  “But, ye needn’t worry on that score,” she assured him. “I’m already protected.”

  “Are ye now?”

  She lifted an eyebrow at that, but she didn’t look insulted. In fact, she laughed again. “Why, Mr. Callaghan, could it be you’re a wee bit put out at the notion that I might have felt the need for protection, when I haven’t been with the likes of you as yet?”

  “Well, no . . . of course no’, you’re a grown woman, free to do as ye like, I didnae mean—”

  “It’s okay,” she interrupted him. “I rather like it that I stir up your possessive instincts.”

  “Ye’ve stirred me up, all right, but I’ve never—”

  “Shay,” she said, her voice softer, her gaze as steady as her smile. “Would it make ye feel any better to know that I’m no’ happy to know you’re carrying protection about when ye haven’t been with the likes of me as yet, either?”

  He might have smiled at that. A wee curve of the lips, anyway. “So, what is this all about then? Why did you stop me?”

  She brushed at the hair on his forehead, then traced a finger over his lips again. “On the off chance this really is the most beautiful dream I’ve had of you yet, and I simply haven’t woken up from it, or that you’ll do as you threaten to do, and take off for the hills once we’ve . . . done what we can do, I thought I’d rather like to slow all this down. Savor all the . . . bits. And the pieces.” She slid down a little lower then and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, glancing up to meet his gaze with a particularly wicked twinkle to her eyes that he wouldn’t have thought her capable of.

  It was a discovery he didn’t mind making in the least.

  “And, what of my, erm, bits and pieces?” he asked, wanting to be playful for her, with her . . . but not entirely sure how. His hunger was still an almost savage, commanding thing. It was all he could do to lie still.

  “I don’t know,” she said, then pressed another kiss, then yet another, until she was close enough to surprise him with a quick, soft nip of her lips over his nipple.

  The little sizzle of pleasure that gave him was a distinct surprise, but before he could say, or do, anything about it, she began a trail of soft little kisses along the narrow line of hair that arrowed down the center of his abdomen, and murmured, “But I daresay I plan to find out.”

  “Kira, ye dinnae have to—oh . . . God . . . almighty. . .” The words trickled off to a long, strangled growl, right before he slammed his head back against the mattress, and closed his eyes. Her tongue, brushing the very tip of him . . . “Och, luv, but I dinnae think I—I canno’—”

  And, oh, aye, though he was quite wanting to let her, he gritted his teeth and resisted the need to simply let go. “This is no’ how I plan for things to go.” He reached down for her, pulling her up, then rolling her under him. “No’ this time.”

  “This time?” she queried, smiling merrily up at him.

  “Aye,” he said, certain, at least, of that much. “This time.”

  And, with that, he laid claim to her mouth again, glorying in teasing, tasting, dueling tongue to tongue. It was both urgent and languid. He kissed her with absolute intent . . . and yet felt he had all the time in the world to get there.

  He splayed his fingers into her hair, raking through the silky strands as they continued to kiss, ardently, thoroughly, as if that mating alone was their only goal. And though their bodies were in full contact, and he wanted desperately to slide inside her . . . at the moment, he found the longer they took, just kissing, the more intimate he felt with her, the more he felt he began to know her, feel what made her arch against him, what made her gasp, what made her growl . . . what made her soften, and what made her turn aggressor.

  And by the time she wrapped her legs around his hips and lifted herself to him, it was as if a lifetime had passed, unspoken between them. He pushed into her, slowly, deeply, and she took him, oh so fully and completely, but it was her gaze on his that told him she was taking far more into her body than just his own. She wove her fingers into his hair, and turned his mouth back to hers . . . and never once, in his entire life, had he had such a pure sense of what it was to finally come home.

  Chapter Five

  This time, when he opened his eyes, it was to find the late afternoon sun spearing gold daggers of light through the slit in the bedroom curtains.

  They’d dozed after that first time, partly he thought from their exertions, but mostly because both were sleep deprived. She’d fed him a late breakfast of bangers and mash, and it had felt remarkably normal and not even the least bit awkward, sitting in her tiny kitchen in nothing more than his trousers, watching her fuss at the stove wearing nothing more than his striped shirt. As if his entire life hadn’t just taken a very abrupt, utterly fantastical turn. They’d talked of nothing important, more interested in feeding themselves and each other. Then he’d taken her to the shower . . . and taken her there, as well.

  Damp and a bit giddy with such saturation of pleasure, they’d tumbled straight back into her bed, and taken a very long, languorous time exploring each other . . . and he’d learned exactly how it would feel to let her finish what she’d begun that first time.

  In fact, he was thinking now that it was certainly only fair that he return the favor, when he felt her stir next to him. He tipped his chin down to find her looking up at him, that same, steady smile on her face, and in her eyes. And that’s when it struck him, what it was about her that made him feel so distinctly at ease, so . . . at home. She looked at him with complete faith and trust, that he’d be exactly what she thought he would be. And
rather than make him want to run for the hills, as she’d said earlier . . . her trust made him very much want to be that man.

  Because she had an ability to love that he absolutely did not question. A man would be the luckiest on earth to have all of that given to him, and so freely, without artifice or guile.

  The only thing he questioned was being able to give her all of those things in return. Because it would be the worst kind of travesty if he took from her, and could not equally give.

  Her smile grew, and he sincerely doubted it was because she could read his thoughts. “What’s amusing?” he said, feeling as if he had sandpaper for a voice.

  “I was just thinking that last night I fully believed you didnae want me. Wouldn’t even dance with me. Wouldna even look at me.”

  He pulled her to his side and half under him again. He buried his face in her neck and nipped the lobe of her ear. He’d become someone entirely different with her. There was nothing refined about any part of him now. Nothing held back, nothing reserved. “I want nothing so much as I want you,” he said, his thoughts still lingering where they’d been a moment ago.

  She shivered then, and he reveled in her instinctive response. It made him want to pull her closer still, into the protection of his body. The feelings coursing through him grew more primal, the more time he spent with her. In fact, in that moment, he’d have taken down with his bare hands anyone who dared to harm her or threaten to take her from him.

  It was complete insanity, the intensity of his feelings, this drive to want, to have, to possess.

  And yet, he didn’t wish to escape the asylum.

  He lifted his head to look down into her eyes, questioning everything he thought he wanted from love . . . quite well aware that all that had changed.

  “I want nothing more than I want you, Shay Callaghan,” she said, stroking his cheek.

  He was sure that the depth of his rioting needs was reflected in his eyes. And yet, she looked into them, unflinching, baring those same needs and desires to him.

  “How have we come to this place?” he asked her, quite sincerely. “I’ve only just made it known I fancied you. It’s been less than a single day that I’ve known your thoughts ran on similar lines. Had I pursued it, I’d have thought of dinner, perhaps. A drive. Maybe taking the ferry over to Castlebay. I’d have courted you, and hoped for . . .”