Chapter 13
It was a moment made for a kiss.
Here, in the moonlight with Callum, with the slender branches of the willow tree sighing around them, Freya couldn’t have denied him any more than she could deny the moon its glow, or the stars their shimmer.
Who was she, to argue with Fate? Because somehow they’d been destined to find themselves in this magical place, his lips finding their way to hers.
“Freya.” He cupped her cheek in his broad palm, his voice a husky whisper.
He touched her with a gentleness that should have been impossible in such a big, rough man—a gentleness she hadn’t sensed in him until this strange, hushed moment between them, his fingertips careful as they brushed the sensitive shell of her ear.
A shiver coursed through her, her breath catching as his hand drifted lower.
He explored her as if he’d imagined touching her everywhere, learning every aching inch of her skin.
Then slowly, oh so slowly he drew closer and pressed a small, chaste kiss on one corner of her mouth, then the other. His skin was cool from the water, but his mouth was warm, the imprint of his kiss lingering like a brand on her skin.
And dear God, how could such a small kiss make her heart pound with such frantic abandon? Her blood was racing, her heart throbbing as if she’d been running through Dunvegan Wood for miles.
“Freya,” he murmured again, both a plea and a warning in his voice, his breath hot against her ear. His hand dropped away, and he stood before her quietly, waiting.
Waiting for her. Whatever she decided, he’d accept it. She could turn him away, and he’d go without question. She should turn him away.
That’s what a proper young lady would do. The magic that surrounded them—the moonlight and the stars twinkling above them—didn’t change the rules of propriety. A respectable young lady didn’t kiss a gentleman she hardly knew, and one she wasn’t sure she trusted.
But what had propriety ever done for her? She’d been plagued by smugglers these four months and more. People who’d once been her friends had turned on her. Half of Dunvegan believed her to be a witch. She’d lost her father and both of her sisters, and she’d been driven from her beloved castle.
She’d lost her home.
All her restraint, all her prudence hadn’t saved her from any of it. For months now, she’d been tiptoeing through her life, startling at every shadow in her path and quailing at every sound.
She’d locked herself up inside her castle and shut herself away from the world, and for what? None of it had kept her safe. It had only made her lonely. And she was tired, so tired of losing things. Just this once, she wanted to take something for herself.
She didn’t turn Callum away. Instead, she reached for him, letting her curious fingertips wander over the back of his neck. The ends of his hair were wet still, and droplets of cold water fell on the back of her hand.
“Do you want this, Freya?” He drew back, his gray eyes lost in the shadows of the willow branches moving across his face. “Do you want me?”
She did. She did want him.
She’d never kissed a gentleman before, yet she knew the ache in her lower belly, the insistent tug between her legs was desire.
Because she’d dreamed of this, hadn’t she? In the privacy of the darkened cottage, burrowed deep into the blankets on Brodie’s bed, hadn’t she imagined how Callum’s lips might taste, and imagined the slide of his skin under her fingertips?
She had. A dozen times over, in dream after dream, some waking, and some sleeping. Ever since they arrived at the cottage, she’d fallen asleep to the imagined brush of his lips over hers, his hands in her hair, his warm palm against her throat—dreams so real they were more like memories.
Impossible, yes. She couldn’t remember something she’d never had.
But she could have it now. All she had to do was reach out and take it.
What good ever came of fighting against fate? It would have you in the end, one way or another, and she didn’t want to fight this. She wanted to sink into it, just as she’d sunk into the pool of water beside them, and let it envelop her.
“Yes.” Tentatively, her hand trembling, she reached for him and lay her hand against his cheek, a secret thrill rushing through her at the prickle of his emerging beard against her palm. “Please, Callum.”
He went still, but then the tight control that had been holding him back snapped loose. A low groan fell from his lips, and then he was there, close against her, pressing soft, sweet kisses to her temples, her eyebrows, and even the tip of her nose.
And then … then he returned to her mouth, and dear God, had anything ever felt as good as the wicked tip of his tongue teasing at the seam of her lips, urging her to part for him?
She didn’t think. She didn’t reason. She simply gave herself over to it, opening her lips to him even as her cheeks burned. “I’ve never … I don’t know how to … like this?” Goodness, was this how gentlemen kissed?
“Yes, Freya.” He chuckled, the warm drift of his breath against her mouth tearing a sigh from her throat. “Just like that.”
He eased her against the slender trunk of the tree at her back and pressed closer, the long length of his body so tight against hers she could feel the strength in him, the tenseness in his muscles, the heat and desire he held ruthlessly at bay as he touched her with the care one took with something that was precious to them.
He stroked his thumb over her cheekbone before sliding his rough palm down her neck, his fingers lingering at the pulse point fluttering there. “May I kiss you here?”
“Yes.” She rose to her tiptoes, a desperate whimper on her lips. God … dear God, she’d never imagined a kiss from a man could taste so sweet and so wild at once, like the wild cherries that grew in the hedgerows at home.
She’d always loved those cherries, the way the sweetness lingered on her tongue.
She twined her arms around his neck and pressed closer, and it was strange that she could be so much smaller than him, yet their bodies could align so perfectly. It was as if she had been made for him, his hard angles fitting her soft hollows like a hand sliding into a glove.
“So pretty.” He traced the outline of her mouth, catching her lower lip between his thumb and forefinger and giving it a gentle, teasing tug before leaning close and pressing a soft kiss there.
His tongue lingered for an instant, probing at that tender skin until her fingers tightened in his hair, a wordless plea falling from her lips.
It didn’t make sense, that inarticulate plea, but he understood it, and it seemed to release something in him, to free the desire he’d been holding in check, his big body trembling with the effort.
Then his mouth was on hers, more demanding this time, his tongue hot and slick and devastating as he conquered every inch of her mouth, filling all the lonely places she’d never known were inside her until he touched them, and made them his.
He groaned as she met his every stroke, every caress of his tongue and lips, so sweet she wanted to lose herself in it, drown in it. Her heart fluttered with it, her head swam with it, her knees weakening with every touch of his fingers, every caress of his tongue.
And after all she’d endured—the smugglers, the fire, the wrath of the villagers—would it be his kiss that would make her swoon, at last?
He kissed her, then kissed her again, their tongues twining, his hands sinking into her hair as he plundered her, his hot tongue stroking and teasing into every recess of her mouth, searching for every hidden corner of sweetness there.
And he found them. He found them all, and it was so heady, his kiss, the wicked, tempting glide of his tongue against hers. How had she never known a man’s kiss could steal her breath, her thoughts, her reason?
Or was it only Callum’s kisses that tasted so sweet? Each brush of his tongue was like kindling laid on a fire, until the sparks between them caught and burst into a flame, setting every part of her alight.
“God, Freya.” He dragged his hands down her back to her hips and held her there as his mouth played over her throat, his tongue tracing her pulse point before his hot lips slid lower, dropping kisses onto her collarbones and the tops of her breasts.
A sensuous languor spread through her, moving from the depths of her quivering belly into her chest, her nipples stiffening with the slow heat of it. Her eyelids felt heavy, her eyes dropping closed under the weight of them.
“Callum.” A whimper tore from her chest. “Please, I …” Dear God, she didn’t even know what she was begging for.
But he did. He knew, and he gave it to her, gave her everything, his big hands moving in restless strokes over her hips as he caught her soft sighs and whimpers on his tongue. “So sweet, Freya. The sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Sweet? No. There wasn’t a word for what this was. There were only sounds—his deep groans and her wordless pleas, their breath mingling—and sensations—the heat of him against her, his strong thighs pressing into her belly, the desire pulsing deep inside her.
This was madness. Pure madness, his mouth on hers, and like all madnesses it would have to stop.
Soon, soon, soon …
But not yet. No, not yet.
She nipped his lower lip, her teeth sinking into the plump flesh, teasing and goading him at once, because she wanted more—she wanted everything—the rough drag of his hands over every inch of her, the heavy weight of his body on top of hers, and … and …
She didn’t know! She understood what happened between a man and a woman.
Her sisters had explained it to her, but they’d never explained this, the desire that set her alight, the searing heat that arose in the wake of his every caress, the emptiness he’d awakened deep inside her, an emptiness only he could fill.
There was no explaining this. There was only feeling it.