She was still breathing heavily, but she nodded approvingly and brushed her hands down the front of her kirtle, smoothing out whatever wrinkles had been caused by her own touch. She licked her lips once more, then nodded again and stood.
“Thank ye, Alistair.” He wasn’t sure why she was thanking him, and mayhap it showed in his expression, because she clarified, “For trusting me enough to give up control to me.”
Is that what had happened?
She’d told him to touch himself, and he had.
She’d given ye a command, and ye followed it. Ye gave her control over ye and look where it got ye.
Sated and relaxed, in a way fooking his own hand didn’t usually leave him.
He didn’t respond—he didn’t know how to respond.
So he watched her as she pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve—Who the fook keeps a handkerchief up their sleeve?—and placed it gently on the desk beside him.
Then she glanced up and met his eyes, just briefly, before glancing away and offering him a shy smile.
Shyness? Now? After what she’d just done to him?
After what ye allowed her to do to ye? For ye?
“Lara.” His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears, and he couldn’t seem to make himself lift his head off the back of the chair.
But she stepped away from him, out of his reach, even if he’d tried to reach for her.
And she didn’t meet his eyes again.
“Have a good afternoon, milord,” she murmured, as she curtseyed. Curtseyed! As If she hadn’t just—just…
Given ye the best orgasm of yer life?
He licked his lips and lifted his head. “Lara,” he tried again.
But she just backed away. “I’ll start working on the menu for yer da’s celebration. Please let me ken how else I can help.”
Ye can rub my shoulders again. Ye can demand I give up control.
Ye can touch me.
Not once, not since she’d placed his hand in his own lap, had she touched him. He’d touched himself, and St. Elzear’s tits, it had felt good!
But before he could tell her that, she’d slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her, leaving him confused.
With a sigh, he forced himself upright and reached for the handkerchief she’d left. He cleaned himself with it, tossed his kilt down over his thighs, then crumpled the white linen in his fist.
Staring at the door, he remembered the way she’d cajoled him, explaining things so reasonably. Then she’d commanded, and she’d been right; it had felt good to give up control.
How in damnation had she known? How had she known exactly what he’d needed?
Shaking his head, Alistair had to admit something to himself: His little sister’s best friend was not the lass he’d thought she was. Nay, he was coming to suspect she was verra much a woman who knew her own mind, and her own body.
And now he knew that about her, there was no way he could forget it.
Chapter 4
Thyme! She needed more thyme!
Lara chuckled to herself as she darted toward the far corner of the kitchen’s herb garden. She always needed more time, it seemed like. Since she was a young girl, she’d helped her mother run this household; cleaning, supervising Cook, coming up with menus, overseeing servants.
And now she had two more jobs: planning Laird Oliphant’s birthday celebration, and helping Alistair relax.
But she’d make time for that!
Smiling to herself, she began to snip off springs of thyme with her fingernail and drop them into the small basket she had looped over her arm. Alistair was worth all her time, and more. If she could just teach him to slow down, to enjoy life, she’d consider that particular task a success.
It had been two days since she’d scurried from his solar, embarrassed and proud of what she’s accomplished, all at once. She hadn’t set out that morning to track him down and force him to masturbate…it had just seemed like the right thing at the time.
When she’d given him the idea of giving up control, she hadn’t been quite certain how to prove the effectiveness…until he’d directed her to get on her knees. The command had been humiliating, aye, but she’d done it to show him how. And his reaction—his confession he hadn’t liked that kind of power—had been all the impetus she’d needed.
And besides, watching him fook his own hand had long been a fantasy of hers.
How many times had she snuck through the secret passages, hoping to find him alone in his solar, touching himself? The naked calisthenics were almost as good, but Lord bless her! When he’d taken himself in hand, she hadn’t been able to look away.
His member was almost as long and thick as Treenis, and watching his hand stroke himself had almost been her undoing. It had been so coarse and crude, and utterly and completely enthralling, Lara had almost come undone then and there herself, with her hands on her nipples.
She’d had to hurry out, aye, not because she didn’t want to be around him, but because she needed to find some privacy in order to relieve her own arousal.
Lara realized she was crushing a sprig of thyme between her fingers, and her breaths were coming in harsh pants. Just the memory was enough to send liquid heat pooling between her legs! Blessed Virgin, ‘twould be difficult to see Alistair again and not think of him in that chair. ‘Twould be difficult to work with him on his father’s birthday celebration!
“I hoped I’d find ye here.”
His voice!
Lara whirled around, the thyme still clenched in her fist, her breath suddenly stuck in her throat. ‘Twas him! Alistair was sauntering toward her along the path from the outer gate, one corner of his lips tugged upward.
He looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen him.
Had she done that?
“Mi—milord,” she managed, dropping a quick curtsey.
To her surprise, he rolled his eyes, and his smile turned wry. “Dinnae treat me like that, Lara,” he declared, as he stopped before her.
And then he touched her.
‘Twas a simple touch, just
