Page 56 of The Devil Wears Kilts
Sliding off the bed, he stood and swiftly unfastened the buttons of his trousers. Then, figuring now was good as later, he shirked the buckskins down his hips and kicked out of them. He watched her face, waiting for a maidenly exclamation, or… something. Though if she’d seen Greek statues she would have some idea of male anatomy.
Her lowered gaze lingered. Finally, hazel eyes lifted to meet his. “So that’s what you have under your kilt, Ranulf MacLawry.”
He laughed. “Now who’s being wicked?” he taunted, and returned to the bed. “Kneel, and lift up a bit.”
When she did so, he took the bottom of her gown and pulled it up, past her knees, up her thighs, above the tangle of soft golden curls, and lifted it up over her head and off.
“Well?” she prompted after a moment, sinking onto her backside again. She didn’t try to cover herself, or lower her eyes shyly.
Remarkable lass.“More lovely than sunrise, ye are,” he said aloud, still smiling. “I think I’ll come to ye, this time.” He moved over her, tugging at her legs until she lay flat on her back beneath him.
This time her kiss was as hot and openmouthed as his own. He kissed her until they were both out of breath and panting, then slowly moved down the slender length of her, teasing at first one breast and then the other, tracing her breastbone with his lips and meandering down to her belly button and then lower until with a dart of his tongue he tasted her.
“Good heavens!” she squeaked, nearly clobbering him with a knee. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
By way of response Ranulf slid a finger inside her, and she groaned. Mm. She was hot and wet—for him. “Sweet Christ,” he murmured, moving in with his tongue again.
This time she shuddered and pulsed, coming with a sweet rush that made her cry out and his cock jump convulsively. “That… Oh, my,” she managed, laughing breathlessly.
“My turn now, I think,” he rumbled, kissing his way up her body again. He’d been more patient than a saint, for the devil’s sake, and he badly wanted to bury himself in her tight depths.
At the last moment he remembered the French condom he’d dropped into his coat pocket on the chance that his plans for the day had proceeded as he wanted. With a curse he rolled off the bed, found his coat by the door, and dug the thing out.
“What’s that for?” she asked, lifting up on her elbows and already looking deliciously disheveled.
“To keep ye from getting with child,” he answered, slipping it on and tying off the ribbon.
“So that’s how it’s done. It’s very pretty.”
“Nae,” he said, returning to the bed. “A man’s cock is ‘grand,’ or ‘handsome,’ or ‘proud.’ It is nae pretty.”
Moving over her once more, Ranulf nudged her knees apart and settled between her thighs to kiss her sweet mouth again, teasing at her breasts with his fingers. When he had her moaning in pleasure once more he canted his hips forward, entering her slowly and with as much care as he could manage. The urge to simply take her, immediately and repeatedly, pushed at him again, but he held himself back.
“Ready?” he drawled.
She nodded silently, her eyes wide and her fingers kneading into his shoulders. He told her to take a deep breath and hold it. When she did so, he pushed forward, past the thin edge of resistance, and entered her fully.
Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, took a second shuddering breath, and looked up at him again. For a long moment he stayed where he was, kissing her until she relaxed again and swearing to himself that this was the last time he would ever cause her pain.
Finally he pulled back a little and pushed in again. “Better?”
“Yes,” she returned. “I want more.”
“Well, then.”
Ranulf rocked inside her again, then began a slow, full pump of his hips. She felt… exquisite and tight around him, her soft moans driving him faster and deeper. They both might know their philosophies as much as their lives made them incompatible, but it didn’t feel that way. Skin to skin, sweat intermingled, tongues tangled, they fit extraordinarily well.
She came again, pulsing around him, and finally he gave in to the urge to well and truly take her. Harder, deeper, faster, until with a surging groan he spilled into her.
Collapsing onto his back, he pulled her over across his chest. For a long moment they lay there, limbs tangled and her breath warm on his skin. Her carefully coiffed hair was a shambles, and one by one he pulled the pins from the soft golden mass, letting it fall across his chest like sunlight. Her blistered palm lay flat over his heart, and he wondered if she could feel it beating.
He’d never believed in fairy tales, in the phenomenon of love at first sight. That was what had driven his father to drag an English bride into the Highlands. She’d wanted a title, and he’d wanted her, and disaster had ensued. But he knew for certain that Eleanor MacLawry would never have run outside at night to help battle a fire on her own family’s property—much less anyone else’s. And she never would have stood her ground to the point that her hands blistered.
Charlotte had done more than that. She’d helped organize the chaos of men and buckets and water, and men who couldn’t possibly know who she was had listened and obeyed. She was lovely and kind, but stood her ground and spoke her mind—even to him, when no one dared do so.
Most tellingly, she’d come to his bed after he’d agreed not to run off and attack Berling. When he’d worn his proper, civilized attire and sworn to let logic and reason carry the day. Was that such a difficult thing to do? He’d been raised in a place where a man held power with both his fists and his mind. Was there a different way to proceed?
Ranulf frowned as he twined his fingers softly through her hair. He’d bedded his share of Scottish lasses. They were pretty, and enthusiastic, and otherwise forgettable. The woman presently in his arms was anything but forgettable. Were the two of them so incompatible, after all? What would he have to give up, but punching a deserving scoundrel or two? Evidently, since he’d gone to the bother of having sketches made and collecting evidence, he’d already decided that he was willing to utilize legal means to stop Berling. Whether he removed Donald Gerdens or the law did, the results would be the same—with one crucial difference. Charlotte Hanover.
