Ainsley sat down on the chair. It was so high her feet didn’t touch the ground. ‘Mhairi would have a fit if she could see me. I’m probably bringing any amount of curses down on myself for daring to occupy the laird’s seat.’
‘I’m the laird now, and I’d be more than happy for you to occupy my seat.’
‘Innes!’ He was smiling down at her in a way that made her heart flutter. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that, but I am sure it is something utterly scurrilous.’
‘Scandalous, not scurrilous.’ He pulled her to her feet and into his arms. ‘Want to find out?’
‘Do you even know yourself?’
He laughed. ‘No, but I am certain of one thing. It starts with a kiss,’ he said, and suited action to words.
The second kiss of the day, and it picked up where the first had left off on the cold pier. Just a kiss at first, his hands on her shoulders, his mouth warm, soft. Then his hands slid down to cup her bottom, pulling her closer, and she twined hers around his neck, reaching up, and his tongue licked into her mouth, and heat flared.
He kissed her. She kissed him back, refusing to let herself think about what she was doing, concentrating her mind on the taste of him, and the smell of him, and the way he felt. The breadth of his shoulders. Her hands smoothing down his coat to the tautness of his buttocks, her fingers curling into him to tug him closer, wanting the shivery thrill of his arousal pressed into her belly.
Hard. Not just there, but all of him, hard muscle, tensed, powerful. She pressed into him, her eyes tight shut, her mouth open to him, her tongue touching his, surrendering to the galloping of her pulses, the flush of heat, the tingle in her breasts. Kissing. Her hands stroking, under the skirts of his coat now, on the leather of his breeches.
His hands were not moving. She wanted them to move. Took a moment to remember the last time, and opened her eyes to whisper to him, ‘It’s fine. I am— I won’t.’
‘Tell me,’ he said then. ‘What am I to do?’
She shook her head. ‘Can’t,’ she mumbled, embarrassed.
He kissed her slowly, deeply. ‘Tell me, Ainsley,’ he said.
She was losing it, the heat, the shivery feeling, but not the desire. John had never asked what she wanted. Despite all the vague advice Madame Hera doled out about connubial bliss and mutual satisfaction, she had neither the experience nor knowledge of either. ‘I don’t know,’ Ainsley said, sounding petulant, feeling frustrated. You do it, was what she wanted to say.
‘You do know,’ Innes insisted.
He kissed her again. He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. His own were not mocking, not cruel. Dark blue, slumberous. Colour on his cheeks. Passion, not anger or shame, though it was being held in check. She realised why, with a little shock, remembered how she had been the other night. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said.
‘Tell me where you feel it when I kiss you,’ he said, putting his hand in hers, kissing her. ‘Tell me where it makes you want me to touch you.’
‘Here,’ she said, putting his hand on her breast.
His hand covered the soft swell. Her nipple hardened. She caught her breath as he squeezed her lightly through the layers of her gown and her corsets. ‘Like this?’ he asked, and she nodded. He kissed her neck, her throat, still stoking, kneading, making her nipple ache for more, then turned his attention to the other breast, and she caught her breath again.
‘You like that?’ Innes said.
His thumb circled her taut nipple. ‘Yes.’
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