As he thrust, she met him, and soon, they were both panting, mewling, clenching. She felt her muscles tightening, and she knew what was coming. “Alistair! Aye! Aye!”
With a growl, he slammed upward, and her pleasure burst over her in a million white-hot sparks behind her eyelids.
Never before. Never before had she orgasmed so hard, with such blinding perfection. And the waves were still crashing over her when he rasped out her name, and she felt the warm flood of his seed flood deep within her.
Aye! Aye.
Limply, she collapsed against him, and was gratified when he wrapped her in his arms. They lay, entwined together, as he softened and shifted, before removing himself from her completely.
There was a moment of loss, but Lara knew, now that she’d finally experienced it, there was no way they wouldn’t make love again.
Taking advantage of him, eh?
Her lips curled into a smile.
“Lara, I—”
“Nay.” She couldn’t bear for him to apologize. Lifting her head long enough to capture his gaze, she commanded, “Dinnae say aught. This was…” Her fingertips glided over his chest. “This was perfect.”
So he said naught. Instead, he blew out the candle and pulled her back into his arms, tugging them both under the coverlet. With a sigh, he rested his head against the pillow where she lay each night, and Lara was happy to curl up against him, her cheek pillowed on his chest.
Dinnae say aught.
He didn’t, and neither did she, not even when he woke her in the middle of the night to make love to her again, slower this time. ‘Twas exquisite torture, and when she climaxed, she whimpered against him.
But neither of them spoke. Instead, he kissed her gently, softly before they fell back into slumber.
Chapter 7
Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty.
With a grunt, Alistair stretched his arms, holding his plank-straight body off the floor of his solar for as long as he could. When his arms began to shake, he blew out a frustrated breath and rolled over onto his back.
This was the moment where he’d exhale, and all of the tension he’d been carrying would disappear. A moment of clarity he’d come to crave over the last years.
But since that first encounter with Lara, here in this very room, nothing had been the same. The calisthenics didn’t relax him, not the way coming at her command had.
And last night there’d been a moment, right after he’d spilled his seed against her womb, when everything had become so damnably clear. He’d relaxed in a way he’d never had before.
‘Twas like his responsibilities didn’t matter. His work, his stress, his plans just didn’t matter. All that mattered was having her in his arms and keeping her there.
She’d been his, if only for a short time. Aye, she’d been someone else’s first, ‘twas true. But now she was his, and he didn’t want to give her up.
Cursing himself, he rolled to his feet and padded barefoot toward the basin of water and drying cloths the servants kept for him. As he washed the sweat from his neck and arms, he wondered if she’d been the one to arrange this. Lara had been helping with the household for as long as he’d been helping with clan business.
She’d been taking care of him for years, had she not?
Blankly, Alistair stared down at the rag in his hands. Had he made the right decision? Leaving her this morning had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. She’d been so perfect in his arms with her legs wrapped around his, and her hair spilling across his chest. He was hard and aching as soon as he’d woken, her scent teasing him.
But he’d known the household woke early, and although ‘twas before dawn, he didn’t want to take any chances. If someone saw him exiting Lara’s room, they might think the worst of her. And that was something he didn’t want.
So he’d untangled himself, brushed a kiss across her brow, smiled when she’d murmured and rolled over, then he’d slipped out the door.
And now, he couldn’t concentrate on anything. His morning ride hadn’t helped, the sparring with Rocque hadn’t helped, and when he’d sat to add the columns in his ledgers, the numbers all seemed to run together.
Which is why he’d stripped out of his plaid and had begun his first round of exercises.
Four rounds later, he had to admit, naught worked. He was doomed, all because he couldn’t stop thinking of her.
And how good he felt when he was with her.
With a sigh, he dragged the wet rag across his skin, hoping ‘twould last until he could go to the loch to bathe again. He was just reaching for his kilt when there was a knock at the door.
“Just a moment,” he called, swinging the material around him and securing his belt. Ignoring the pleats for now, he tossed one end of the plaid over his shoulder and reached for the latch. “Who’s—”
He pulled the door open before finishing his question, and when he saw Lara there, his words stuck in his throat.
She smiled brightly, a little too bright to be sincere, and brushed past him, carrying a slate. He turned to follow her with his eyes and saw the way her gaze dropped briefly to his hurriedly donned plaid, and her smile turned more genuine.
“I’m glad I caught ye. I wanted to discuss the menu for yer da’s celebration.” She pulled that same stool nearer to the desk and sat down.
“Lara,” he said, knowing he sounded like a fool.
She glanced at him, and he caught the flush of her cheeks. She was speaking of the celebration plans, but Alistair didn’t want to speak of that. From her blush, he wondered if she was hoping not to speak of last night.
Dinnae say aught.
Well, to hell with that.
As he began
