Page 86 of All Scot and Bothered
He made his own sound of distress, meeting her glistening eyes with his astonished ones. “Ye’re… ye’re a…” He couldn’t say it. He stood and turned away from her, stuffing himself back into his trousers and tucking his shirt in as well.
A virgin.His mind screamed the word he couldn’t bring himself to say.
When he whirled to face her, she’d closed her legs and righted her skirts, her hands folded primly in her lap though his face had feasted there only seconds ago.
“But…” He gestured toward the high walls of the loft. “But Phoebe…”
“Is my ward,” she explained, still unperturbed. “ThoughI have every intention of raising her as my daughter. She deserves that much.”
“But ye just…” Panic seemed to have stolen his ability to finish sentences, so he just jammed his finger toward the door in front of which he’d thrust his cock into her welcoming lips. “I just made ye…” Oh holy Christ, he was headed straight to hell.
“No, no you didn’t.” She stood, holding placating hands out to him. “I wanted to—to do what we did. To bring you pleasure. I needed to show you—”
“If ye say gratitude, I’ll fucking shoot myself.” He jammed his fingers through his hair, tugging in frustration.
“Why?”
He felt like he was drowning. Drowning in guilt as the alignment of reality shifted beneath his feet, causing the earth to become unstable on its very axis. “Ye canna tell me ye never did that before.”
She glanced at the door, the peach in her cheeks already flushed with pleasure deepening in a most fetching, sensual manner. “All right, I won’t tell you that,” she said agreeably. “I mean, Ihadn’tdone anything we just did before, but we needn’t discuss it just now.”
“Bloody Christ,” he bit out, pacing a room that was becoming tinier by the moment as his mouth filled with every curse in every language he knew. “How did you know what to do?”
“I read it in that book your constable found in Henrietta’s study.” She moved to block his path. “Why are you angry?”
“I just stole yer virginity.” Since he couldn’t roar that to the child who slept in the attic loft above them or the dear old broken butler in his bed, he kept his voice to aminimum, and made up for it with large, exaggerated gestures.
She held up her hands, pressing them against his pounding chest. “No you didn’t. I gave it to you… I mean, I think I did, anyway. I’m not altogether certain I’m rid of it, all told.” She patted his chest in a manner that might have been condescending if it had come from anyone else in the world. “If it makes you feel better, no other man has ever really showed my virginity much interest, and I can’t say it’s ever done me any good. So please, don’t feel guilty on my account. I’m old enough to be rid of it, aren’t I?” She flashed him a winsome, rather tentative smile.
Had the world gone fucking mad?
Had he?
Had every man whohadn’ttried to get up her skirts in the past decade? Surely there had been someone at university who’d been drawn to her pillowy curves and delightful dimples.
Not that he should think about that now.
Or ever,everagain.
He was such a fucking hypocrite.
“You don’t look so well,” she fretted. “Should we… would you like to sit down?”
“I have to go.” Ramsay retreated to the door, swiping his coat from the hook.
“But—”
He whirled on her, his lips pulled back in a snarl. “Ye’ll be safe tonight. Ye have my word. But so help me, ye’ll stay in this house and doona ye dare follow me, is that understood?”
Her expression darkened, her jaw flexing forward in a stubborn motion for a moment, before she deflated with a heavy shaken breath.
He wished he could at least take the pleasure of slamming out of the cottage, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to wake Phoebe or Jean-Yves. And so he closed the door behind him on a very audibly ominous click.
She didn’t follow him.
But her flavor lingered in his mouth, and the pleasure she’d given sang through his veins.
Her virginity stained his body. His soul.
