Page 51 of Never Kiss a Scot
She finished her tea and then headed back downstairs, hoping to find the library. Given how Brock loved books, she rather hoped he would have an extensive collection. Joanna tiptoed down the hall and began to open doors one after another. Most were drawing rooms or parlors. Finally, a door she tried opened to reveal the library.
Two-story bookshelves covered the walls, reaching up to the ceiling. Several tall windows allowed moonlight in, and she gasped when she saw that most of the shelves were tragically empty. Only a few books remained. She moved deeper into the library, her heart sinking to the floor. There were barely any books, perhaps only a dozen, in a room that could have held thousands. She spied a tall figure standing before the fire, one hand resting on the mantel as he gazed into the flames. Brock. Joanna debated trying to slip back out of the room, but he must’ve heard her because he spoke.
“I wasna planning to show you the library until I had a chance to buy more books.” Shame colored his tone, and her heart ached for him.
Joanna sighed and walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around him from behind. She rested her cheek against the back of his shoulder. His warmth seeped into her, and she could feel the strong muscles of his abdomen clench beneath her hands even though he still wore a shirt and waistcoat. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at her.
He nodded at the skeletal shelves. “I’m sorry you had to see this, lass.”
“I’m not,” she replied. “Do you want to know why?”
He nodded.
“Because it means that you and I will have the pleasure of visiting bookstores together, choosing every title we wish to read and bringing them home with us. This will beourlibrary, one we’ll build together.” She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, hoping she could offer him some comfort.
“The shelves were once so full. Each and every book contained the magic my mother taught me and my siblings to cherish. She loved to read and would spend the nicer days out by the lake reading in the shade of an old tree. On days when it was cold or rainy, she would sit here by the fire, spellbound by each book that came into her hands. She taught me the power of words, how to transport oneself far away from one’s troubles.” Brock placed his hands over hers. “When my father turned cruel, these books helped me forget the bruises, the lingering pains.” His misery was so acute it caused her throat to ache with grief, thinking of what he must have suffered.
“When she died, he began to sell things—the furniture, the jewelry. And then I started to notice the books disappearing from the bottoms of the shelves, where they’d be less likely to be missed. The house seemed to grow thinner with every passing day, and then one day I caught him here in the library. Half the books were packed in wooden crates.” His voice was low, tormented, each word full of utter agony. “I asked him what he was doing, and he struck me,hard, with his cane. I fell, right there.” He pointed to a place by the fireplace. “There was a fire poker there, and I hit my head against it. I passed out on the floor. He left me there, bleeding and unconscious. Rosalind was the one who found me and helped me.” Brock reach to touch his temple. “I still have a wee scar there.”
Her growing sorrow for him finally shattered her fragile self-control. “Oh, Brock, I’m so sorry.” She came around to stand in front of him and hugged him again, burying her face against his hard, muscled chest. He clasped her body tightly to his, his hands gripping her lower back. As she held him, her Highland warrior with a broken heart, she realized it was impossible for her not to fall in love with him. She wanted to give him all the love he had been denied since his mother died.
I am lost to him.
She reached up to the buttons of his waistcoat, slipping them free one by one. He didn’t stop her, nor did he interfere or try to take over. When she was finished, she pushed his waistcoat off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. When she tugged his shirt out from his trousers, he finished by pulling it off. He stayed still while she placed her palms on his chest, exploring his smooth skin and the patch of dark hair in the center of his chest. She then discovered the thin line of dark hair from his navel down beneath his trousers. She hadn’t noticed it the first time they had come together.
She trailed a fingertip around his flat nipple, and his breath caught. Were men as sensitive here as women? She felt no shame for being wanton as she leaned forward and kissed him there, flicking her tongue against his nipple. He sucked in a harsh breath, and she smiled in silent triumph as she moved to the other side, repeating the wicked little kiss. He stayed still and silent, except for his responses and the sound of his breath as she explored him.
If she stopped, turned away, and went to bed now, what would he do? She wasn’t cruel, so she wouldn’t do that to him, but she wanted to know what it would take to shatter the control inside him. She reached for the buttons on her garments, staying close to him as she loosened the bodice, then shrugged out of her evening gown. It gleamed in the moonlight at her feet like a fairy pool. She began to unfasten the ties of her stays, and he watched, silent, hungry, unmoving. There was a brooding look in his eyes, but he made no move as she let the stays fall to the ground. She then removed her petticoats. Would it take her being completely naked to make him let go? She loosened the ties at the front of her chemise, then slid off first one shoulder and then the other before it to fluttered to the ground. She now stood completely bare before him.
“I thought you didn’t want me to come to your bed tonight, lass.” The words were low and husky, and they sent a shivering thrill through her.
“This isn’t my bed…and I changed my mind.” She licked her lips, feeling wild and wanton as she challenged him. She’d promised to share his bed, but after feeling so vulnerable that afternoon, she’d longed for the privacy of her separate bed chamber. But again, she’d changed her mind, her desire burning too hot to keep her away from him. “Now, what are you going to do, husband?”
His fingers curled into fists at his side, and his nostrils flared. “I’m worried I can’t be gentle, lass. Not when I feel so…” He didn’t finish. “I dinna want to hurt you.”
She tilted her head. “Can’t a man and woman make love roughly without pain?”
“Aye, ’tis possible.”
“Then let’s try.” She pressed her body to his, her nipples scraping against his muscular chest felt so good. She moaned as he cupped her bottom, his large hands always so capable in any situation.
“Lass, you are—” The rest of his words disappeared as she kissed him. His lips opened in surprise, and she slipped her tongue inside. The excitement of being the aggressor was new and arousing for her.
“Take me. Make me yours,” she whispered. “We both need this.” Only rough pleasure would sate them both now. She hungered for it as much as he did.
He lifted her up, and her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her over to the nearest reading bookshelf that had a ledge. He sat her down on it and fumbled with his trousers. She placed kisses on his chest and throat as he freed his cock. She had but a moment to prepare as he spread her thighs with his palms and then thrust inside. The tenderness was there, but she was wet and ready, and he pushed mercilessly into her with little effort. Her breasts bounced as he rammed deep into her, and then he paused, watching her face. She knew he needed to see that she wanted it like this. She met his gaze and nodded. Whatever resolve he had been holding on to seemed to disintegrate. The savage, wild Highland lord she’d envisioned in her darkest fantasies was finally here.
Their breath mixed, and his eyes were now blind with the same desire she felt. There was nothing outside the fusing of their bodies, the ancient rhythm of flesh, breath, and pleasure, dancing like leaves on the fall wind. Endless, natural.
He curled his fingers into a fist in her hair, pulling her head back as she leaned against the wood of the shelves. The wood dug into her, but the pain was eclipsed by the exquisite earthshattering thrusts he made into her body. Brock made love like a firestorm, all wind and flames, completely consuming. She throbbed around him, welcoming him inside her with a sharp pang of need. Joanna dug her nails into his shoulders, urging him on, deeper and harder.
Let go of your fear,she tried to say with her eyes.Let go and be who you truly are. You won’t hurt me.
He plunged into her over and over, his shaft huge, but she craved the slight edge of pain it gave, knowing that if she could take this and enjoy it, then she would never fear that he would hurt her. Brock was not his father. He spoke kindly, touched kindly, and even this savage lovemaking still held some tenderness to it that she felt deeply without being able to fully explain it. White-hot pleasure exploded through her, and she screamed. Brock covered her mouth with his, stifling the sound. She went limp, bone-tingling pleasure reverberating through her. Brock, still alive with savage energy, kept thrusting while kissing her. His hands tightened in her hair and on her hip until at last he groaned low and deep as he went rigid.
Joanna was vaguely aware of his release, of him giving up part of himself to her, and she gave it back in sweet kisses as he panted for breath. He stayed inside her, their bodies still joined. It was the most intimate thing she could have ever imagined and so wonderful.
“Ach, lass,” he sighed, his gaze heavy as he brushed the backs of his knuckles over her cheek. “Did I hurt you?”
