Page 50 of Taken By the Devilish Highlander
His body responded to the press of Feya’s body against his own. He felt a stirring between his legs and slipped his hands down her backside to pull her into him. He wanted her to feel it, to know that she was driving him crazy.
Feya gasped and looked up at him, pulling away from his mouth so she could look into his eyes. Archer smirked at her and continued to rock his hips against her own, delighting in the arousal that coursed with urgency through his body.
He let his hands ride further until they found the back of Feya’s thighs. He lifted her, making Feya squeal in surprise as she grabbed tight to his torso to keep from falling backward. Archer held her in the air as she straddled him, and he walked back a few steps, looking for the log he had just rested on. As Feya dropped her mouth back to his, pulling his bottom lip between her teeth, he misjudged the landscape. With a grunt, he fell backward, holding Feya against him as he dropped hard on his backside.
Feya laughed as Archer’s shoulders hit the ground. She was on top of him now, her hips still wrapped around his, her elbows painful in his chest. But then Feya caught his eye, and she pushed herself up, pressing her knees into the dirt on either side of him. With what he could only attribute to instinct, she pressed her palms into his chest and began to rock her hips back and forth.
“What—” he couldn’t get the words out. Looking up at Feya as she rocked against him was too much for him. He grew even harder, straining against the fabric of his breeches and wishing they could feel each other without the hindrance of clothes. Feya closed her eyes and began to lose herself to these sensations, delighting in the power she had to spark her own desire.
“Lass,” Archer groaned. He didn’t know how much of this he could take. The pressure was building to something verging on painful, something desperate for relief. His mind swirled with thoughts of Feya’s hands on his length, the possibility of her mouth around him, and suddenly he grabbed her hips and lifted her off him, depositing her hard onto the ground next to him.
“Hey,” she cried, surprise and outrage making her eyes spark with frustration.
“Ye cannae tease me like that, lass,” he said with laughter in his voice. “Unless ye are ready for what comes next.”
Her cheeks flushed a darker scarlet, and she looked down at the ground. But Archer wouldn’t let her hide from him. He put a hand on her cheek and forced her to look at him, pressing his mouth against hers in a chaste version of the kiss he had surprised her with earlier. Feya smiled sweetly, and he pulled her toward him, letting her rest her head on his chest. She felt perfect there, fit snugly against his side as the coolness of the earth pressed through the fabric of his shirt.
“I think we need more of this treatment,” Archer mused, staring up at the gently moving leaves in the canopy above them.
“Which type?” Feya asked sleepily. “The kissing or the wood chopping?”
“Both.”
He took a strand of hair and wound it around his finger, letting the cool breeze lull him into contentment.
“It’s good to let your feelings out,” she said, but it sounded like she was working out a new argument, as if she were testing a theory. “Holding it all in is only making ye sick.”
He didn’t respond. Archer hated to talk about his illness…if that’s even what it could be called. To him, it felt like nothing more than a weakness, something that needed to be hidden and suppressed. And yet, Feya had been right about the wood chopping. Throwing all his anger into that action had let him let go of it, had made him feel productive instead of helpless.
Archer ran his fingers up her spine and sighed, letting his body relax into the earth as his eyes drifted closed.
They stayed there for a long time, lost in the space between dream and waking. The weather was perfect, warm enough that she felt comfortable in her day dress but cool enough that the warm press of Archer’s body against her own was a welcome sensation. Feya let her mind wander to the birds in the sky and then to the small cabin that sat beside them.
What if she and Archer lived in a place like this? What if he could be free of the pressure of being Laird, if their life could consist of baking bread and chopping wood? What if they could have a small life of their own, just the two of them?
“We should get back,” he said. The sky had been darkening above them, and Feya knew people in the castle would be looking for him. She sat up and brushed dirt from her sleeves and her skirts. Archer stood and then reached a hand down to help her to her feet. As they turned to walk back toward the castle, Feya sensed Archer’s contentment and felt a new sensation of peace.
This worked.
Her gamble with the wood chopping had paid off. She smiled at herself as they found the path again, pleased to know she was making progress. Forcing Archer to get that anger out of his body had been the key. And now she started to wonder, what if she needed to take the same approach with his memories?
“Can I ask ye something?”
He nodded right away, but Feya still hesitated.
“Would ye tell me the names of your men?”
He furrowed his brow, uncertain what exactly she was asking, and Feya tried again.
“The men you lost in battle. What were their names?”
She kept her eyes ahead as they continued to walk, and when he didn’t respond, she assumed he wouldn’t answer.
At least ye tried.
And she resolved to keep trying. Archer needed to talk about these men and these haunted memories if he had any hope of being free of them. She understood now that it was the true path toward healing.
“Sam O’Donnell.”
