Once Upon a Highland Autumn (27 page)

Her eyes were shut, her face soft and sweet and rosy, and he shut his own eyes, reveling in the feeling of Megan in his arms, the rightness of it—and the wrong of it, too. He knew that, somewhere in the back of his mind, but it was a small thing compared to his need for her. Her tongue sought his, and he let her taste him, felt desire stir, a longing for more. He angled his head, deepened the kiss. Had a kiss ever felt like this before? He couldn’t remember, didn’t want to think about anything but her. Her soft moan went straight to his groin like a lightning strike.

Kit forced himself to pull back—back as far as only kissing her cheek, and her eyelids and her forehead instead of her mouth. “We really should stop,” he said, his lips pressed against her temple. She opened her eyes. They were wide and dark and soft with her own need. It didn’t help the situation. He was instantly hard and ready.

“I—suppose we should.” Her voice was smoky and regretful.

“Not that I want to.” He couldn’t seem to let go of her.

She fixed her gaze on his chin, and her fingertip began to draw distracting little circles on his shirtfront. “We could—well, I mean we have the
right
to do this, Kit, if we both want to. We are pledged for a year and a day, and that includes the nights, too.”

“But it’s scarcely past noon,” he said stupidly and shook his head. “I mean, do you understand what you’re asking? What about Eac—”

She put her finger against his lips before he could speak his rival’s name. There was fierce determination in her eyes as she looked at him. There was longing, too. “I don’t want to think about anyone else now. Just you and me. And since it’s still raining and we can’t leave . . .” She let the thought trail off.

He kissed her fingertip, held her hand in his, mesmerized by the sensual way her fingernails curled against his palm. “We don’t have to—um—we could sit and talk, or just sit without talking, if you prefer.” The look in her eyes told him she wasn’t interested in either of those activities. “Or—” He swallowed.

“Yes,” she whispered. “That.” She pressed closer still, and her hip brushed his erection, making him crazy. He tried to force his wits into line, to concentrate.

“That? Yes?” he parroted as his wits abandoned him. They weren’t truly gone, just residing in his damned cock. She moved her hips again, a sinuous swirl that made him grit his teeth and hiss.

“Kiss me again,” she said, and he let his eyes fall to her lush mouth, soft and expectant, and he kissed her ear instead, nibbled on the lobe.

“I won’t be able to stop if I start kissing you again,” he babbled, though he’d already started. She had the softest skin, and he found the sensitive pulse point beneath her ear, and nibbled.

“Good,” she said on a moan.

“But I will if you want me to, Megan—if you change your mind—I swear it.” Honor was everything. Or was it love? He couldn’t remember.

“Stop talking,” she whispered, and rose on her toes to kiss his eyelids the way he’d kissed hers, then his cheeks and his nose. She stopped and looked at him, a deep blush rising over her cheeks. “Oh. I suppose you’ll have to talk, at least to tell me what to do.” She said it as if she expected a tutorial in the matter, a lesson. Of course she would—she’d been taught how to dance, how to address a duchess, and how to plan a dinner party for twenty guests. And now . . .

He couldn’t help it. He threw back his head and laughed. “You’re doing just fine, sweetheart,” he said. He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “Tell me what you like.”

“I like—oh . . .” She sighed as he ran his mouth along the length of her neck. “Oh, I like that,” she murmured.

Kit smiled against her collarbone. He concentrated on learning the delicate curves there, kissed the throbbing pulse. He ran his hands over her back, felt the indent of her waist, the flare of her hips, and the sweet swell of her bottom through her thin wet gown. She shivered and pressed nearer.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“I’m on fire,” she replied, and put her hands on his buttocks too, following him touch for touch, learning by copying. It was erotic, teasing, delicious. Kit imagined the pleasures of the game without the impediment of clothes. He wanted her naked, her skin against his, their bodies twined, joined.

“We really should take off our wet clothes,” he said. Had he shocked her? He took off his coat, tossed it onto the post of the ancient bed, and immediately felt her hands on the buttons of his shirt. Not shocked, then.

“You’ll have to help me—my gown buttons up the back,” she said simply, and he reached over her shoulders, trying to ignore the tickle of her nails on his chest as she unfastened his shirt, opened it, let her eyes fall on his naked flesh. He seemed to have forgotten how buttons worked, and his fingers felt clumsy and slow on the ridiculously small pearls that closed her gown.

She slid her palms across his chest and over his shoulders, sliding the fine linen out of her way. He watched her eyes travel over him, fall on the muscles of his chest, the flat nipples, the small scars and marks of an active childhood. Had she looked at Eachann this way, naked, unclothed? She slid her arms around his ribs and pressed her cheek to his chest, and he held her there. “I can hear your heart beating,” she said, and laid a kiss on his skin.

He worked at her buttons, wanting her as naked as he was. His hands shook, but somehow he managed . . . one, then two, then three. He felt the soft silk of her chemise beneath, the lacey, feminine edge of her undergarments, and felt frustration that so many layers of clothing barred him from touching her.

He fought three more buttons, and wondered how many more of the bloody things there were. It was open halfway down her back. For now, it was enough. She shut her eyes as he slid the muslin off her shoulders, down her arms, exposing the soft smooth skin of her shoulders, kissing every inch as the fabric retreated before his questing lips. He undid the ribbon that held her chemise closed, and cupped the weight of her breasts in his hands, naked, soft, and warm. She gasped and dug her nails into his shoulders.

Was she alarmed, frightened? He looked at her, but her eyes were heavy lidded, her mouth soft with desire. “How beautiful you are,” he murmured, and rolled his thumb over her nipples, watched her flush, heard her sigh, felt her hands flutter on his shoulders. She stepped back, and he frowned. Now she would ask him to stop, he thought.

But she didn’t say a word. She wriggled out of her gown, let it fall at her feet, tossed the chemise and the stays away, too, until she was standing in a froth of silk and muslin and lace. Through it was cold, she didn’t cover herself. She stood naked before him, wearing only her stockings, tied up under her knees with blue ribbons, and let him look at her. She was perfect. He stared like a ninny. She wasn’t at all like the angels that graced the ceiling of his great houses—she was better by far. Could an artist capture such beauty, do it justice? Perhaps it was the Highland light, and the silver mist of the rain, the golden glow of the fire.

“What happens now?” she asked softly.

The room was cold, and he held out a hand to her. “Come by the fire,” Kit said. “No, wait—” He opened his pack and took out the length of plaid Leslie had given him and suggested he wear. He’d carried it for days, thinking it might do to keep the sun off at some point. Now, he folded it and laid it in front of the fire. He knelt on the edge and held out his hand again. “Come here, sweetheart.”

She came forward and stood before him. He set his hands on her waist, kissed her belly and her hipbones. He untied her garters, let her lean on him as he slipped her stockings off and tossed them aside.

She dropped to her knees too, put her arms around him, brought her mouth to his. Her skin on his was warm, soft, and he explored the lines of her back as he kissed her. Her hands roamed over him, too, tangling in his hair, smoothing over the muscles of his back, dipping into the waistband of his breeches. She paused only a moment before slipping inside to caress his buttocks the way he was touching hers. He gasped and gritted his teeth against the rush of lust.

Slowly he lay back, drawing her down with him, pressing the length of her body against his.

“You’re still wearing your boots, my lord,” she said softly. “And your—inexpressibles? We call them breeks here, but Miss Carruthers said we are never to mention any garment a gentleman wears below his waist.” She giggled nervously. “Though I don’t suppose it matters in this moment, does it?”

“Kit,” he reminded her. He reached to unbutton his flies, one handed, while kissing her. Would she be shocked by the sight of a naked man? She’d seen the village lads swimming, he recalled, and probably Eachann, too. Had she—and he—ever . . .?

Her fingers skimmed across his chest and pinched his nipples, making him gasp.

He gave up on the buttons and shoved his breeches off his hips. They caught on his damned boots. He wasn’t usually this awkward, or this clumsy, but then his sexual encounters were usually brief, and did not engage his emotions. This time, when he wanted to be perfect—the kind of lover Megan would never forget, he was tangled in his clothes and tugging on his boots like an idiotic schoolboy with his first lass.

Finally he was naked, and he looked back to find her lying on his plaid, her head resting on her elbow, watching him, her expression languid. “You’re a beautiful man,” she said softly.

“Are you sure you wish to—um, continue?” he said.

“Do all Englishmen talk this much?”

“Only the nervous ones,” he murmured. “Do Scottish lasses always ask so many questions?”

“When it suits us,” she said, a naked goddess in the firelight. Her hair had come loose, or perhaps she had taken it down while he fumbled with his clothes. It lay over her shoulder in glorious, silken waves. For a long moment he stayed where he was, leaning against the ragged post of the Laird of Glen Dorian’s ancient bed, gazing at the delectable sight of Megan spread out on the MacIntosh plaid with the fire reflecting in her eyes. He wanted to memorize this moment, so he’d always remember it, on other rainy days, far from here, and—

“Isn’t it chilly standing so far from the fire?” she asked.

Who exactly was seducing whom? he wondered.

“Yes,” he said.

He came to her, dropping down beside her, cupping her face in his hand. “I just thought it would be best to go slowly.”

She looked up at him. “Are you a virgin, Kit?”

He gaped at her in surprise. “Me? No, of course not. I just wanted this to be perfect for you, since I assumed you were—are—might be, a virgin.”

She swallowed. “I am. If you’re nervous, then I’m twice as nervous.”

“I doubt that,” Kit said. “I suppose I am a virgin when it comes to bedding a virgin. I’ve never—I mean, I assumed my wife would be untouched when I eventually married, but—”

She stopped his babbling with a kiss. The firelight played over her perfect breasts, crested in rosebuds, her skin as golden as cream in the firelight. She put her arms around him, drew him down until he lay full length against her.

He looked down at her face, saw the desire clear in her eyes as she looked at him. She moaned softly as he cupped her breast in his hand, moved his hips against hers. Rubbing, teasing, raising the level of desire, and pleasure, and need.

He was lost in the silk of her skin, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her flesh, the soft sounds she made. Her mouth tasted like honey. Her curves fit perfectly with his angles. Wherever he touched her body, she touched his—running her fingernails over his nipples, letting her hand wander over every inch of his body, exploring. If he sighed, she lingered. He was on fire, his control crumbling—and he was a man famous for his control in bed. As a rule, Kit gave pleasure before he took it. He was quick and considerate. But then, he had never had a lover like Megan. She broke all the rules. She squeezed his buttocks again, and he arched against her. Heaven help him if she reached around and found—he shouted when her hand closed on his erection, and clamped his hand over hers.

“Don’t move,” he managed, and counted to ten.

“It’s soft,” she said.

“It most certainly is not,” he countered. He gritted his teeth and let her explore until he couldn’t stand it a moment longer. He disengaged her hand and leaned over and to kiss her breasts, her taut belly, her hip. She drew a sharp breath as he kissed the hollow below her navel and blew on the dark curls between her legs. He laid his hand there, and her fingers fluttered over his, her eyes widening. He dipped his fingers between, and this time it was Megan who shouted.

He grinned and she looked at him in surprise. “That’s—” she began, then faltered as he moved his fingers, stroked her, made her cry out again. “Heaven,” she managed. He left his hand where it was, teasing her, and pressed himself beside her and kissed her, drew her nipples into his mouth until she moaned, rolled her hips restively, enjoying what he was doing. She arched her back, and gripped his shoulders, her fingers talons, her cries small and sweet and frantic as her need rose.

He caught her cry in his mouth as she bucked against his hand as she found her release.

He shifted, positioning himself between her thighs. “Will it hurt?” she asked, still breathless.

“I think it might,” he muttered, lost to everything but the need to be inside her. He rubbed against her, entered a scant inch, and gritted his teeth against the desire to thrust deeper. “I’ll go as slowly as I—”

Megan tilted her hips, shifted deliciously, and he cried out again, just as she did, unable to keep himself from burying himself in her body. She gasped, her eyes wide. He wanted to move carefully, with grace and control, but she wrapped her ankles around his hips when he tried to withdraw, urging him forward instead of back. She threw her head back, the firelight playing over the taut muscles in her neck, the sweet, lush softness of her mouth. “Oh,” she said, as if she’d discovered something marvelous, something she hadn’t expected, more precious than jewels or gold.

Treasure, he thought.

She was tight and hot and sweet, and he was lost when she moved, circling her hips restlessly, drawing her nails over his skin, pleading for more. He obliged. He thrust into her again, filling her, withdrawing and filling her again, holding on until she cried out again, though it almost killed him. He waited until he felt her body ripple around his, and let his release burst over him, intense and powerful. The room dissolved. The whole world dissolved, until it was just Kit and Megan, their bodies melting into pleasure.