Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jeane could not breathe, and her heart was racing. Fergus was so close that he could lean down and kiss her again any time he wanted. And she wanted him to. She wanted him to so badly that her fingers itched to reach out and clutch at his tunic.
“Are ye askin’ me to stop?” Fergus asked in a growl, stepping closer.
Nay.
But she did not say it. Could not say it. He did not touch her again, just stood in front of her, his hands by his sides now.
Jeane felt flushed all over, heat pooling in her lower belly, and she could not figure out why. What was it about Fergus’ demands that made her want him so badly? She had been running from the idea of marriage since she came of age because of her father, but now the idea seemed a solution for her.
She just was not sure. And she was not sure that she would ever be sure because Fergus kept demanding, and she wanted him to want her. Wanted him to want to marry her, not just want her as a healer.
“I didnae agree to marry ye. I willnae,” she said fiercely, facing him but stepping farther away from him.
“Ye wish to marry someone else?” His voice went low and dangerous again, his expression shuttered, but his dark eyes nearly black with rage.
“I didnae say that. Daenae put words in me mouth,” she argued, but Fergus did not seem to be backing down.
“Be careful, lass. Any man who touches ye other than me will meet his Lord.”
“Ye cannae just threaten to kill anyone who touches me,” she said, exasperated, and Fergus just barked out a dark laugh.
“I can do whatever I want,” he said smugly, and she wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss him.
She did not know what she wanted.
“Nae to me, ye cannae,” she argued, but she did not pull away. “Ye have nay right to tell me who I can and cannae marry. I ran from me father because he wanted to tell me who I could love, and I willnae marry a man I daenae want.”
She knew the words were a lie as soon as they came out of her mouth.
She did want Fergus—more than she had ever wanted anything but freedom.
Fergus had threatened that freedom, and she wouldn’t let even him deprive her of that.
Not to mention, she did not want to be married to someone cruel—and she was not sure if Fergus was cruel or just jaded.
He had taken her by force. She could not even be angry about that anymore because it had allowed her to get away from her father, but it still made her wonder. What kind of man was Fergus?
She needed time to figure it out, to know exactly what her next step should be.
“Ye daenae want me, little mouse?” he asked in a low, almost hurt voice, and her eyes darted to his. She found them deep, so dark brown they were almost black, staring into her as if they could see right through her.
“Ye daenae want me!” she burst out, and Fergus glared at her, letting out a scoff.
“Daenae tell me what I want and what I daenae want, lass. Nae even ye get to tell me how to feel.”
“And how do ye feel?” she asked, huffing out a breath even as he kept an iron grip on her waist. “It isnae as if ye’ve told me.”
“I’ve told ye I plan to marry ye. Does that nae say I want ye?”
“Nae exactly,” she said and realized slowly that she was pouting.
Fergus’ expression softened. “Do ye nae ken what ye do to me, lass?”
Jeane shivered at his low voice, the way his fingertips dug into her through the fabric of her dress. She almost wished it was not in the way, wished that his fingertips could brush across her skin.
“I’m just yer healer,” she hissed, but she did not even try to wrench away from him. She could not; she felt frozen in place, not by fear but by so much desire it physically hurt. “Ye daenae want me for anythin’ else.”
Jeane knew she had no choice. She knew she would give in and marry Fergus if that was what he truly wanted. And not just because she would be safe from her father. Because she wanted him so badly.
His eyes widened at her words.
“Mind yer tongue, lass. Ye ken ye mean more to me than that. If ye daenae listen, I will have to punish ye. Give ye a taste and then take it away. Ye willnae enjoy that, I can tell ye.”
She snorted. “Ye have a big idea about yerself.”
“I will prove it to ye, lass. And when I do, ye willnae have any more doubt that I want ye. I will claim ye as mine, and yer body will react to me whether ye like it or nae.”
“Ye’re mad,” she said, her eyes widening at his words. “Ye’ve got some delusion that I—”
“I will prove it,” he said again, cutting her off, and then his mouth crashed down on hers.
Jeane knew she should pull away, should pull out of his grip and slap him, but she did not. Could not. Her body was already reacting to the way his thumbs brushed over her hipbones, how his tongue slid between her lips and searched her mouth.
She made a soft squeak against his lips when he grabbed her around the hips, picking her up and placing her against the far wall.
He was between her thighs, rolling his hips to press his manhood against her core, and he was so big that she squeaked again.
She knew enough about intercourse from her friends to know that it was supposed to go inside her.
How would it ever fit? The pressure felt pleasant but also somehow terrifying.
She had never been this close to a man, never even dreamed of it, but it felt like her heart would gallop out of her chest, as if her head might just explode off her shoulders.
It was exhilarating, better than any stunt she had ever pulled, more exciting than any game she had ever played.
Fergus wanted her. Here was the proof—in his kiss, in how he was pressing up against her, his breath hot against her neck as he moved his head to kiss her there.
He left wet, open-mouthed kisses along her throat, and Jeane gasped in breaths, her head spinning.
“I willnae touch ye without yer permission,” he said quietly, looking down into her eyes. “Nae this way. So tell me, little mouse, do ye want me to touch ye?”
“Aye,” she breathed out, unable to even think about lying to him, not when she felt this good.
His hand instantly went to cup her breast, his large palm enveloping it. He groaned in the back of his throat as he bounced it in his hand, dragging his thumb across her peaked nipple.
Jeane moaned, loud and wanton, and then slapped her hand across her mouth.
Fergus chuckled low in his throat, taking her by the wrist and removing her hand. “None of that, mouse. I want to hear ye.”
Then, shockingly, making her head feel even lighter on her shoulders, Fergus dipped his head and fit his mouth around her nipple through the fabric. It was not enough. She wished there were no clothes between them, nothing but air between his skin and hers.
He sucked at her, and Jeane fell apart in his arms, going limp as heat flooded her lower stomach and between her legs.
“Fergus,” she managed, and he looked up like a man possessed, eyes dark with lust.
“Aye, Jeane?”
The way he said her name—her real name—made her heart beat even faster, even though she had not known that was possible.
“T-touch me more?” she pleaded, having lost all will to resist him, even if it did make her evil and wanton.
Fergus breathed out against the skin of her throat, and he started to bunch her skirts around her hips.
“What… what are ye—” she started, but he hummed in the back of his throat to silence her.
“Daenae worry, little mouse. I willnae take yer maidenhood. Nae yet, anyway.”
Yet. Did he plan on making love to her after they were married? Would it not just be a marriage of convenience to him? Just a way to help her?
Her thoughts were erased by Fergus’s hands sliding up her bare calves, under her skirts. No one had ever touched her there, and his hands just kept going up, spreading up her thighs and then between her legs.
He slid his fingers along her womanhood, and she nearly screamed. She had not known she had wanted his fingers there until he did it. She threw back her head and moaned, so wet between her thighs that it was almost uncomfortable. She feared she would start to drip down her thighs.
His fingers slid across the bud at the top of her womanhood, and she gasped for breath.
It was becoming difficult to draw in air.
He slid them across the bud again and again, and she panted out harsh breaths, something building in her abdomen.
Something she did not quite recognize. Something almost scary—what would happen? Would she simply explode?
Fergus groaned close to her ear, his face buried in her hair.
“So perfect,” he murmured. “So ready for me.”
Jeane could feel his manhood pressing against her hip, and a wild curiosity swept through her. She reached down to touch him, shocked by how hard and thick he felt beneath her palm.
Fergus growled, pulling away from her but keeping his fingers against her core, his fingertips sliding against this little bud that made her thighs tremble.
“Be patient, little mouse. If ye touch me like that, I cannae hold back.”
“Please,” she begged, but she was not sure what she was even pleading for until Fergus inserted one finger into her, just to the knuckle, his thumb making tiny circles on her bud.
“There ye go, lass. Let go, I’ve got ye. Hold on to me.”
She clutched at him, his tunic fisting in her hands, and he grunted, kissing her again. As his tongue slid across hers and his fingers kept working against her core, she fell apart, something snapping in her lower stomach, making her whole body heat up.
She froze, not sure what was happening, and Fergus let out a long breath against her neck, slowly lowering her to the ground.
Instead of stepping away, though, he kneeled in front of her, the strong laird on his knees between her thighs.
It was almost too much. He fussed with her skirts, grunting and growling when they did not obey.
Jeane let out a giggle that turned into a long moan when he pressed his face against her womanhood.
“Fergus!” she shouted.
He hummed against her core, the sound vibrating through her, and all the breath left her lungs.
“You taste so fine, little mouse. Like heaven,” he mumbled before going back to his task.
His tongue made a point on her bud, and Jeane clapped a hand over her mouth so that she would not cry out. Fergus silently reached up and tugged her hand down, keeping his tongue on her.
“I… I…” she stuttered as he kept lapping at her, something snapping again in her abdomen as she threw her head back. She banged it against the wall, but it did not hurt.
Fergus looped her knees around his shoulders, pinning her to the wall with his hands on her hips. He gave open-mouthed kisses to her womanhood, moaning muffled against her.
Jeane realized, almost terrified, that it was going to happen again. She was going to implode from the inside out for a second time.
“Fergus,” she breathed, and his mouth was relentless on her, his tongue dipping into her entrance before he latched around her bud.
He sucked in a breath, and she fell apart, writhing, rolling her hips to grind against his tongue.
At first, she did not think he would let up, but finally, he moved away, standing.
Jeane could not help but see the tent in his kilt. He adjusted himself so that his erection was hidden. She looked up into his eyes.
He looked down at her, his mouth parted, chin wet with her juices, and Jeane was speechless. He smiled at her, a half-smile but still more than he had shown other than a smirk or two.
“Ye’re mine, little mouse. Ye’d do well to remember that.”