Chapter 13 #2
“Yes,” she breathed, her climax hovering so close, just beyond reach. “Now, my love.”
And with a wordless roar—one almost certainly heard through the open windows—Hunter came. She felt a rush of liquid heat against her womb; that, along with the wicked knowledge anyone could guess what they were doing up here, sent Helena over the edge.
“Hunter!” she screamed, arching as she came, the waves of pleasure rolling over her again and again.
Good God, surely this was the meaning of life? To share something so incredible, so intimate, so raw with someone you loved?
Loved?
Oh yes.
There was no doubt. Helena loved this man with everything in her, and prayed they could figure out a way to have a lifetime together.
Could I give up my distillery to move to his London life?
Mind already racing with thoughts, she collapsed against his chest, breathing heavily.
A long moment passed before Hunter kissed the top of her head. “Christ, I’ve missed ye, sweetheart.”
Lips curling, Helena wriggled against him, adoring the feel of his cock still buried deep inside her. “You mean you missed this?”
She expected a chuckle, but instead his hands skimmed up her back, then slid to her sides, as if holding her against him, and Hunter sighed. “Aye, but it’s ye who havenae been far from my—my mind these days. I’ve worried for ye.”
What had he been about to say? She lifted her head, careful not to put weight on his bandage. “I was worried for you, Hunter. I thought if I left, no one would try to hurt you again.”
His lips curled ruefully as he lifted a hand to brush a tendril of hair away from her forehead. “I’m here now and ye cannae be rid of me. Yer men think I’m yer husband, and ye called me so in front of Peter what’s-his-name.”
Oh, hell. She’d made a ninny of herself with Hunter in front of her biggest competitor, hadn’t she? Blowing out an exasperated breath, Helena stacked her fists on his chest and rested her chin there, even as she squeezed her inner muscles around him.
His cock was softening, allowing his seed to coat her skin as it dripped out. But she didn’t move. She loved this. She loved him; how could she not love this moment of intimacy?
Still, he’d asked a question.
“Peter Huffington,” she explained. “Owner of the Peater Distillery next door—spelled peat, as in what we use to smoke the barley—and our biggest competitor for the Best of Islay. He was visiting today to express his condolences on my loss—your death, apparently—and offer his own hand.”
Beneath her, Hunter stiffened, his head snapping up. “What?”
She rolled her eyes, hoping to convey how uninteresting she’d found Huffington.
“Imagine me, marrying him? He has this plan to join our operations, merge our distilleries, and something about India? That part was unclear. Apparently he approves of what I’ve done here, and wants me to manage his operation? ”
Hunter’s hands moved to her thighs as he tucked his chin to meet her eyes. “And did ye tell people I was dead?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why’d he think I was dead?” His eyes narrowed. “Huffington, eh?”
“Do you know him?”
“I wonder. The name…” Hunter dropped his head back against the pillows. “Do ye think he’s gone, sweetheart?”
She chuckled and wiggled against him again. “I certainly hope he is. Why?”
“Because the bastard tried to have me killed and I want to punch him in the nose.”
Helena shot upright. “What?” But before he could answer, she found herself scoffing at her own naivete. “Oh, of course. He wants to marry me, but first he had to get rid of my ‘husband’—and since my husband has never been in Scotland before, this would have been his only chance.”
“Well, he certainly looked eccentric enough to pull it off.” Hunter’s hold on her tightened. “His build didnae match the arsehole in the train though, and unless he rode like hell, he likely wasnae the one who shot me, either. Hired men, I suppose.”
The truth hit her in all its cruelty. “This is my fault again,” Helena groaned, dropped her forehead to his shoulder. “I will call on him tomorrow and tell him the truth: you and I are not married. He will stop trying to kill you.”
Hunter merely hummed, dragging his hands up her side. The touch was soft, gentle…and made her shiver with distraction.
“Perhaps that’s the best,” he murmured. His palms skimmed over her shoulders, down her arms, back up again. “Ye feel good, sweetheart.”
Yes, she felt very good. Helena caught her breath as his hands cupped her breasts.
“I—I don’t have to go—I could write him a letter instead,” she managed, completely distracted. “Explain everything that way.”
Hunter caught her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. When he rolled them, she felt an electrical current run straight to her core and she moaned, arching her back so her breasts were thrust closer to him.
“He’ll try to woo ye,” Hunter warned her. “Court ye, once he learns ye’re unmarried.”
What was he talking about? Oh, yes, Huffington. Would he bring his parrots again? “He—he can try,” she gasped. “I will tell him my heart is taken.”
Hunter froze. “Is it, love?”
How could he doubt it? She shifted, rubbing her still damp cleft along his cock. She was growing wet again from his ministrations, and Hunter’s seed still coated them both. “Is this not answer enough, Hunter?”
His grin was slow, lazy. “Good lass. Ye can write to him…”
He trailed off when she leaned forward, her breasts dangling over him. “Tomorrow?” she prompted.
Hunter cupped her breast, pulling it toward his mouth. “Tomorrow.”
Which was the last coherent thing either said for a long while.