Page 84 of Sutherland's Secret
He raised an eyebrow at her endearment. “Ye’ve been learning the Gaelic, have ye, now?”
“Aye. That I have.”
“What will yer parents say when I send ye home wearing breeches and wielding a sword and speaking Gaelic?”
She stood on her tiptoes to look him in the eye, though he was still quite a bit taller than her. “I don’t care what they say, just like I don’t care what Thomas thinks. And I’ll never, ever be ashamed of anything that happened while I was in Scotland.”
The smile faded from his eyes. “Ah, lass. I know ye believe that now, but when yer friends look on ye differently because of everything that happened, ye’ll think otherwise.”
She dropped down on her heels and regarded him in disappointment. “I’d hope you would know me better than that.”
He pulled her in for a quick hug. “I know ye well enough to know ye speak the truth on this. But yer countrymen are not like ye, and they will change ye back to what ye were. Ye need to be a proper English miss, not a heathen Scot.”
She’d rather be a heathen Scot, but she kept that thought to herself because she feared Brice was right.
“Make love to me,” she whispered, desperate to cling to what was left of the heathen Scot inside her. Already she felt it slipping away, with her brother here to remind her of what and who she really was.
—
Brice kissed her with a desperation born of fear and anger and sadness. He held Eleanor tight, crushing her soft curves. He wanted to always remember the feel of her in his arms, the way she sighed after she was well kissed. The way her lips looked so rosy and juicy. He wanted to memorize the exact yellows and golds of her hair and the specific blue of her eyes. He wanted to never forget, even though eventually her image would fade in his memory and the sound of her voice would be whisked away from him.
He held her tight because he knew all of this and yet he didn’t want to admit the truth of it. This was their last night together. He knew in the depths of his soul that there would not be another one. Her brother was here to take her away, and she would go with him because she had a family and life in England, people who loved her and needed to know she was safe and well. He understood, but that didn’t mean he liked it. Damn it, he needed her, too, and he needed to know she was safe and well.
He took her hand, twined their fingers together, and pulled her toward the bed. He sat on the edge and spread his thighs so she could stand between them. He looked up at her, running his hands up and down her hips, her thighs, her waist. She was still dressed in her breeches, her white shirt far too big for her slight frame. He loved her best like this, with her hair wild and untamed, the outdoors her perfume.
“Tha mo ghion ort,”he whispered. I love you.
She smiled down on him. “I don’t know what you said, but it was beautiful.”
He grinned back and slowly unbuttoned her shirt, pushing it off her shoulders. He was already aching for her, so hard it was painful, but tonight he would go slow, take his time. He would pledge himself to her, without words, silently. Forever and always he would be hers, even as he sent her off to her world.
After unfastening her breeches, he slid them down her legs until she was standing before him, naked. Her skin glowed in the morning sun as if lit from within.
He leaned forward and took a breast into his mouth, circling her engorged nipple with his tongue. She tasted of sunshine and love and Eleanor.
She placed her hands on his shoulders and arched her back. A low moan escaped her. It was deliciously sensual, being completely clothed while she was completely naked. His hands roamed over her as he tasted and nipped at her breast.
She gasped and said his name, but when he looked up, her head was thrown back, her eyes closed, ecstasy written in every line of her face.
“That feels so good,” she moaned.
Thank God that he was wearing a kilt, for his erection would split the seams of breeches. His kilt was tented, and the brush of the fabric against his sensitive skin made him squirm. He ached to be touched but didn’t voice that need. Not yet.
He put his hands on her rear end and pulled her forward. He slid off the bed until he was kneeling before her. She looked down on him, her eyes alight with desire and excitement, her lips parted in expectation.
He drew her closer, parted her folds with his tongue. She gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Brice…”
With his tongue he found her secret spot, that small nub that was just as erect as he was, and he played with it, using only his tongue.
She cried out softly as he licked and sucked, tasting her juices that leaked down his chin. He pushed his finger into her channel, hearing the wetness suck him in, feeling her muscles contract around him. He moaned, barely able to control himself.
Above, he could hear her panting. He sucked harder, catching her rhythm, his finger moving in and out. She was close, so close. So was he, but he held back, not wanting to reach his completion without a single touch from her.
And then she exploded in his mouth, crying out, her fingers digging so hard into his shoulders that he knew his newly healed wound would ache, and he didn’t care. The muscles around his finger pulsed.
Her knees gave out; he caught her before she fell. She bent over and kissed him hard, their teeth scraping, tongues colliding. The thought of her tasting herself excited him so much that his penis began to throb in preparation for its own release.
He turned his head, panting, his eyes clenched, his body fighting the release that was upon him. “Wait,” he forced out, holding up a hand and throwing his head back. “Don’t touch me. Please.”
