Page 39 of Wed to the Highlander
“Pleading and tears will nae dissuade me.”
Her trembling hands gripped the stool, her backside bared, pride stripped with it.
“My intent is no’ tae harm you, lass,” he murmured, his woolen trews brushing her hip as he took position at her side. “My aim is to ensure you never do anything so insanely foolish again.”
His hand settled low on her back then came the first smack. Firm. Hot. Echoing off the stone.
Maggie yelped and wiggled because his hand was big and hard, and it stung.
“Hold still,” he said quietly.
She gritted her teeth. Another fell with a crack. Then another.
He kept count aloud. By the fourth, the initial sting turned into a burn. At the eighth, she was dancing on her toes and panting. By the twelfth, she was flushed with regret, her cheeks—both sets—burning with shame and something else she couldn’t name.
“’Tis finished,” he said low, as he rubbed his palm in slow circles over the searing heat of her bottom. “No name-calling or insulting my ancestors. Unlike in the Sommerville library, you took this punishment well.”
“Can we not do it again?”
“That’s up to you,” he answered, voice husky.
When he lifted her into his arms, she stiffened.
“No,” he said hard. “I’m not sureIwill ever stop seeing you buried in rubble. So forgive me if I need to hold you for a good long while.”
He carried her to the bed, kissing her temple, her jaw, her trembling lips. Then he made them comfortable, sitting with his back to the headboard, her kneeling astride his thighs, and continued his embrace.
With his face buried in her neck, he whispered, “I nearly lost you.”
“I’m here,” she breathed. “And I promise not to scare you, or myself, by being soinsanely foolishagain.”
He held her close while she burned, unable to sit still.
“Duncan. I’m on fire.”
His head came up. “I have a cooling balm.”
He started to get up, but she braced her hands on his shoulders. “I don’t mean from the spanking. Well, some from that, but mostly from having your hands on me, and all the rubbing and kissing.”
She whimpered with disappointment when he lifted her from his lap.
“Hush.I’m no’ leavin’ you.”Then he growled an order. “On your knees and grip the headboard—tae spare your tender bottom. I’m burnin’ for ye, Maggie—and this blaze won’t wait.”
Kneeling behind her, he pushed her thighs wider apart and entered her from behind in one long, moan-inducing stroke. She soon saw the benefits of this novel position. With her steadying herself in this way, his hands were free to roam.
As he moved deep inside her, every hot thrust an intimate brand, he cupped her breasts in his big hands, rolling and tweaking her nipples. One hand strayed lower, and his thumb found the bud at the front of her sex, rubbing and circling until she cried out with need. All the while, he murmured a mix of Gaelic and English endearments as he placed open-mouthed kisses on her neck, shoulder, and nipped her earlobe.
When they found release, they did so together. One of her hands released cool, unfeeling wood at the culmination to wind behind his neck as she turned her head for his kiss.
Their joining wasn’t just flesh—it was fire and forgiveness, soul-stirring and sacred.
Kneeling together, fused in the aftermath, Maggie said the words she didn’t get a chance to say in the meadow that day or the night of the peat fire.
“I love you, Duncan MacPherson. Always have. Always will.”
***
Much later, tangled in the sheets, languid but not sleepy, Duncan traced lazy lines across her back and hip.
