Page 32 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
What? Nay! Whose side are ye on?
The side of whichever argument was going to allow him to kiss her.
Except….
He swayed closer, then shut his eyes. “Lass?” he croaked out.
“Aye, Kester?” Her voice was the barest whisper, her breath tickling his lips.
“Robena, I….”
She leaned toward him. “Aye!”
And his eyes flashed open. “I cannae take ye seriously with that caterpillar glued to yer upper lip.”
Her brows shot up, and he imagined he could see anger in her eyes as she stepped back. But to his surprise, he began to chuckle, and lifted her hand to her lips.
“Ye’re right, of course,” she declared. Then, “Ow!Shite, that hurts!”
He was already reaching for her to help when she—still laughing—twisted away from him.
With a flourish, she placed the hated mustache, glue and all, atop the boulder. Then, afore he could ask what she was doing, Robena bent to unlace her boots.
He folded his arms and watched her, deciding she’d likely explain herself afore she reached her underclothes.
He was wrong.
Instead, he stood there and watched her unbelt her kilt, watched her gather and fold it carefully, the hem of the linen man’s shirt she wore falling barely to her thighs, and offering tantalizing glimpses of her arse when she moved. He swallowed, remembering how her bare leg had felt under his palm.
And then she reached for that hem and yanked the whole thing over her head. She placed the shirt carefully on the boulder—moving the mustache atop the folded linen so as not to lose it, huzzah—before Kester could remember how to work his own damn voice.
With her back to him, she began to unwind the length of soft material she’d wrapped around her chest to hold down her small tits.
“Lass?” he finally asked in a choked voice. “What are ye doing?”
She turned just enough to peek over her shoulder at him. “I’m undressing.” She was grinning.
“Aye, I can see that.”
The twin globes of her arse cheeks were taunting him, and he had to curl his hands into fists to keep from reaching for them—her.
As the last loop of linen unwound from her chest, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Ah. Ye cannae imagine howgoodthat feels. Why wouldanyonewant to spend their days confining their breasts that way? Can ye just imagine how ridiculous that would be? To have to wear something so restrictiveevery day, under yer clothes, just to give yer body the silhouette some arbiter of fashion declared necessary?”
She was…words were coming out of her mouth, Kester was almost certain of it. Butwhatshe was saying exactly…he couldn’t seem to focus.
Because she was standing naked before him.
Naked.
On the shores of the loch, the moonlight haloed around her.
Naked.
Bits of her were thrown into shadow, but other—equally important bits—were on display, and his mouth went dry.
Naked.
“Robena?” he croaked.
