Page 23 of Plaid Attitude
Coira wrapped her arms around his neck and held him to her as they kissed. His throbbing hardness probed demandingly against her pelvis, and she found herself grinding against him, her hips making frantic little back-and-forth movements as his lips trailed along her jaw.
When his hand closed around her breast—even through the wool of her gown—she gasped in pleasure and thrust her hips forward.
“Aye, lass,” he growled against the skin of her throat. “Use me. Come for me.”
He pinched her nipple then, and she humped his cock, and when he nipped at her earlobe, her pleasure had burst over her with enough force that she cried out in surprise.
His lips had found hers then, and he’d been smiling.
Doughall became an addiction.
Each day, she woke thinking of him. Each meal, each time she left Da’s solar, she looked for him. Each hour, she found herself staring at the list of numbers or stacks of correspondence, wondering what he was doing.
Wondering when they might kiss again.
As the days passed, their kisses changed. At first, she’d been interested in what pleasure she could find from him, but soon, she became more obsessed with the pleasure she could givetohim. She took great delight in touching him, in making him groan with need.
Blessed Virgin, but she loved the way he would say her name—each vowel longer than necessary—when he pulled away from her, panting. It made her proud to know she was tormenting him the same way he tormented her.
One might’ve thought that all this kissing—and pleasure—would make things awkward between them, but somehow, it didn’t.
Aye, they still worked well together, and instead of blushing when he stood at her side as they discussed guard rotations or trading missions, she found herself wanting to touch him. She nudged him, she teased him, and once when he took her hand as they debated, she was the one to twine her fingers through his.
It was strange.
It wasnice.
It wasn’t going to last.
The day before Easter, Coira was bent over her tallies in the solar, muttering to herself and trying to ignore her stomach’s growling. She was likely supposed to be fasting, and the salted herring Fen had served had made it easy to skip a meal, but she didn’t have to be happy about it.
There was a knock at the door and she lifted her head. Da hadn’t heard the knock—he rarely heard a thing when he was engrossed in his treatises—so Coira called, “Enter!”
Bessetta stuck her head in, and it was clear from her red, swollen eyes she’d been crying.
“Bess? What is it? Are ye ill?” Coira asked, already pushing herself off her stool.
The lass looked at the laird and back to Coira and sniffed.
“Right,” Coira said. “Da, I’m going out for a bit.” Clearly Bess didn’t want to speak of her troubles in front of the laird. “Dinnae wait up. Or look up. Or even acknowledge me.” She paused, just in case her sarcasm penetrated his concentration. “Good, thank ye. Just as I wanted,” she muttered as she rolled her eyes and stalked toward the door. “Come along, lassie, let us go for a walk.”
Bess didn’t say anything as they made their way down the stairs and through the hall, but Coira couldn’t help but notice she was still sniffling. And carrying a duck.
As they stepped into the courtyard—the sun was blessedly shining today—Coira tilted her head back and took a deep breath. “So…can I ask about the duck?”
The noise her young friend uttered made it clear she’d forgotten about the bird in her arms. “Oh, Madeline?” She shrugged and continued walking, so Coira followed alongside.
“Madeline the duck,” Coira prompted. “She just needed to go for a walk, and ye were heartbroken, because ye hate walking? Or did she bite yer nose and make ye cry? Or have ye been cutting onions for her dinner snack?”
They’d reached the portcullis—Coira nodded to the guards, then gestured to Bess to follow her down the path. Thankfully, the girl was smiling damply now, looking like she was trying not to cry.
“Ducks dinnae eat onions,” Bess informed her, sniffing forlornly. “And Madeline doesnae bite. I’m carrying her because yer sister Fenella explained that according to Church rules, aught which spends more than half of its life in the water is officially a fish, and thus can be served during Lent.”
“Officially a fish?” Coira repeated, slowing to a stroll.
The lass huffed out a sigh. “Eels, squid, oysters—they’re all fish, as far as a chef in Lent is concerned. And now ducks? I suppose if we’re only allowed to eat fish, Fen and Brodie must get bored with the same things over and over again.”
“Ye dinnae eat fish, do ye?”
