Page 70 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
“What now?” She willed him to look into her eyes and see what she was really thinking.
He pulled her into his chest and touched his lips to her forehead, then down the plane of her nose. She tipped her head back to invite his mouth upon hers. As his kiss truly found her, she let go, opening to every tug and sip, and the gentle intrusion of his tongue.
His arms came gradually tighter, until he was lifting her, resting her behind in the crook of his arms, so that it was she, now, who looked down at him. The advantage of height let her take control of the kiss, and she delighted in it, weaving her fingers through his hair, pulling back his head so that she might look him full in the face. She tasted him everywhere, brushing her lips to his eyebrows and eyelids—to his lashes even. To the coarse stubble regrowing on his jaw, and his mouth. She was falling into him, wanting to be held like this forever.
A kiss like that should never end, but she knew there was more. The way he was holding her—his arms so strong, lifting her up—was making her heart beat fast, heating her up inside, and she had the strangest feeling; a desire to wrap her legs around his waist and push herself against him.
She’d never read of such a thing. Had never thought of it before. But her body was telling her what it wanted.
Rye.
Chapter Sixteen
Late afternoon, 19th December
There had beena chapter in that book of Miss Abernathy’s, about seizing opportunities and not wasting the life you had. If there was something she wanted, she had to take it, or risk never knowing what might have been.
As she led Rye towards the bothy, she knew what she was doing—as much as it was possible to know. She’d never been with a man before; of course, she hadn’t. But she knew she wanted more than Rye’s kiss.
She wanted to feel his skin again. She wanted to drag off his shirt and run her hands over his back. She wanted to kiss not just his mouth but his neck and shoulders, and his chest. She wanted to feel the hardness and softness of him all at once, and she wanted his hands on her that way too.
She’d run away to where no-one would find her, and where no-one knew who she was. She’d told herself it was an adventure, in which she got to play at being someone else, and didn’t need anyone’s approval, except that she wasn’t being someone else now. She was being herself.
And she wanted to know what it would feel like to be utterly herself with Rye.
She wasn’t hurting anyone. He wasn’t engaged yet. He hadn’t chosen, although he was going to. Whatever happened here, it had nothing to do with the choices he’d make later.
She wasn’t asking him for love. Wasn’t asking him for anything but this moment between them. This would be hers. Her decision. Because she could.
Inside, the bothy was just as they’d left it.
He worked quickly to get the woodburner lit, throwing on all the kindling in one go and then heaping up the peat.
She’d already removed her jacket and her skirt, and her fingers trembled over the buttons of her shirtwaist.
Still kneeling by the stove, he looked up, watching her. “You don’t have to…”
But she carried on, drawing down the sleeves of the blouse and casting it off, until she was standing in her combination and corset.
“I want you to kiss me again, Rye, and then everything else a man does with a woman.”
“Everything?” He looked taken aback.
“I’m not a strumpet—or not until now. I’ve never done this before.” Somehow, it seemed important to say it; for the sake of honesty—although he probably knew already. How could he not?
“I could never think badly of you.” He stood up.
“In that case, help me.” She turned, showing him the laces. They weren’t tight—only pulled as far as she’d been able to manage on her own that morning.
He tugged, loosening them far enough that she could step out.
With her back to him, she paused. His hand was resting on her hip, warm fingers on soft cotton.
“You’re sure,” he said again.
“I don’t want half. I want all of it. I trust you, and I want you to show me.”
She was very much aware of him standing behind her—of his breath on the bare skin of her shoulder, where the yoke of her chemise had slipped to one side.
