to the party?’ Ainsley whispered.
‘If they do, I’ll tell them they’re in danger of incurring a year of bad luck for interfering with the ancient and revered tradition of the Bonding,’ Innes replied.
He felt the soft tremor of her laughter. ‘Will you run up a special flag to declare it over, in the morning?’
‘I haven’t thought that far ahead. You know that you can change your mind if you don’t want to do this, don’t you? You must be tired.’
‘I’m not the least bit tired, and I don’t want to change my mind,’ she answered. ‘I think we’ve waited long enough.’
He kissed her again. She tasted so sweet. Her skin was luminous in the moonlight, her eyes dark. He kissed her, and she wrapped herself around him and kissed him back, and their kisses moved from sweet to urgent. Panting, Innes tore his mouth from hers. ‘I meant it,’ he said. ‘I am not expecting you to— We don’t have to...’
‘But you want to?’ she asked, with that smile of hers that seemed to connect straight to his groin.
‘I don’t think there can be any mistaking that.’
And she laughed, that other sound that connected up to his groin. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘because I want you, too.’
It was the way she said it, with confidence, unprompted, that delighted him most. He grabbed her hand, not trusting himself to kiss her again, and began to walk, as quickly as he could, towards the Home Farm. Ten minutes. It felt like an hour.
‘Does this Bonding take place in the laird’s bed or his lady’s?’ Ainsley asked as Innes opened the front door.
He kicked it shut, locking it securely, before he swept her up into his arms. ‘Right now, I’m not even sure we’ll make it to the bed.’
* * *
They did at least make it to her bedchamber. A fire burned in the cast-iron grate. Mhairi must have sent someone down from the castle to tend it. The curtains were drawn. A lamp stood on the hearth, another one on the nightstand, lending the room a pleasant glow. Ainsley stood, clasping her hands and wondering what she ought to do now. The excitement that had bubbled inside her dissipated as she eyed the bed, and memories of that other first night tried to poke their way into this one. She shivered, though it was not at all cold.
‘You can still change your mind,’ Innes said gently.
He meant it, too. A few days ago, Ainsley would have assumed that what he meant was that he had changed his mind. Even now, despite the fact that she knew how much he wanted her, she had to work to believe it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to change my mind. I don’t.’ She looked at the lamps, wondering.
‘Do you want me to put them out?’
Like the last time. Like all of the last times. She shook her head. She would not have it like any other time.
‘Do you want me to leave you to undress?’ Innes asked.
‘I want...’ She studied him, focusing on him, drinking him in so that he was the only one there in the room with her. ‘I want you inside me,’ she said, meaning in her head, not meaning it how it sounded, though when she saw the results, the leap of desire in his eyes, the way he looked at her, with such passion, she meant that, too. ‘I want you,’ she said, closing the space between them, ‘and I want you to show me just how much you want me. That’s what I want.’
Innes pulled her tight up against him, lifting her off her feet. ‘I think I can manage that,’ he said, and kissed her, and she realised that he already had.
He picked her up, but instead of laying her down on the bed, he pulled the quilt onto the floor and laid her down by the fire. Quickly divesting himself of his jacket, his waistcoat, his boots and stockings, he stood over her wearing just his plaid and his shirt. The firelight flickered over the naked flesh of his legs. She caught a glimpse of muscled thighs as he knelt down beside her, pulling her into his arms again to kiss her. There was heat inside her. There was heat on her skin from the fire. There were little trails of heat where he touched her. Her face. Her neck. His mouth on her throat. Kissing his way along the curve of her décolletage, his tongue licking the swell of her breasts, his hands splayed on her back, feathering over the exposed skin of her nape, the knot at the top of her spine, then down to pick open the buttons of her gown.
He kissed the tender spot behind her ears. He slid her gown over her arms, kissing her shoulders, the crook of her elbow, her wrists, tilting her gently back to work her gown down, over her legs. When he took off her shoes, he kissed her ankles through the silk of her stockings. And her calves. The backs of her knees. His mouth, thin silk, her skin. She watched him, her eyes wide open, not wanting to miss a moment, enthralled, astonished that simply watching could be so stimulating. His cheeks were flushed. His blue-black hair, grown longer since he came to Strone Bridge, was ruffled. She ran her fingers through it. Soft as silk. She pulled him down towards her, wanting the weight of him on her, and claimed his mouth. Hot, his mouth was. ‘Sinful,’ she murmured, lips against lips. ‘I want to be sinful.’
Innes laughed, rolling to his knees again, pulling her with him to work at the ties of her stays. His eyes were dark in this light, midnight blue, his pupils dilated. His shirt was open at the neck. The firelight danced over it, showing her shadows of muscle, making her ache to touch him. While he worked on her corsets, cursing under his breath at the time it was taking, she tugged at the shirt, pulling it free from the leather belt, sighing as her palms found his flesh, sighing again when he flexed and his muscles tensed. Flesh. Heated flesh. She pressed her mouth to his throat and licked his skin, feeling the vibration of his response. Then his triumphant growl as he finally cast her corsets aside and tore at her shift, leaving her in just her pantaloons and her stockings, the bright pink of her garters, which perfectly matched the flowers on her gown.
A fleeting urge to cover up her breasts faded as Innes devoured her with his eyes and then feasted on her with his mouth. Sucking. Nipping. Stroking. Setting up paths of heat, making her blood pulse and the muscles inside her contract. She fell back onto the quilt, tensing, heating, watching him kiss her, touch her, watching his hands on her skin, tanned, rough hands, covering her breasts, flattened over her belly, then pulling at the drawstring of her last undergarment. She looked so pale in the firelight. Her skin milky. The curls between her thighs seemed tinged with autumn colours.
Innes smiled at her. She smiled back. Sinful. Sure. He pulled his shirt over his head, and she watched, clenching inside, the revelation of flesh and muscle, the smattering of dark hair on his chest, the thinner line from his navel to the belt of his kilt. The plaid tickled her thighs and her belly as he knelt over to kiss her. She could feel the tip of his shaft nudging between her legs. She tilted towards him, her fingers gripping into the muscles of his shoulders, and it touched her, the tensest part of her. ‘Yes,’ she said, not meaning to, not quite sure what she meant.
He sat up, still straddling her, and reached under his kilt, which was spread over the two of them. She could not see what he did, but she could see the intent in his eyes. Stroking, up and down, slick sliding, unmistakably not his hand, sliding. He was watching her. ‘Yes,’ she said, quite deliberately, ‘again.’
Stroking. Sliding. She must be wet. She was tight. She was getting tighter. Stroking and sliding. And then more stroking. And more sliding. And she came. Suddenly. What she now knew was a climax, though it felt like an explosion. He lifted her, his hands under her, cupping the bare flesh of her bottom as she cried out, and the pulsing took her over, and he pushed
