Chapter 10 Remember to Breathe
AILEAN GAVE A low chuckle that vibrated against her skin. “Aye, lass … and I intend to use it.”
With that promise, he returned to pleasuring her. Fiona’s eyes fluttered shut; she couldn’t help it. With each flick and swirl of his tongue, she pushed herself against him—craving, demanding more. And he gave it.
Slowly. Steadily.
The pleasure coiled tighter until it became almost unbearable. Sweat beaded upon her skin; the words she’d whispered earlier dissolved into incoherent moans.
She was lost—and never wanted to be found.
Then ecstasy crested. Her cry echoed through the trees as it pulsed and twisted through her womb.
Panting, she lay boneless, floating.
A moment later, Ailean moved over her once more. Staring up at his face, she marked how dark his eyes were, how swollen his lips. Reaching up, she slid her hands down the hard planes of his chest, mapping every detail—the smoothness of his skin, his pebbled nipples.
Her hands wandered lower, over the flat plane of his belly, to where his shaft strained. Her fingers curved around it, and she marveled at its strength—the smooth, almost velvety skin stretched taut over steel.
His length jerked in her grasp, welcoming her touch.
Emboldened, she firmed her grip and stroked from root to tip.
He growled and gave a filthy curse that made heat rise to her cheeks.
What a dirty mouth this man had. She did it again, feeling him swell harder in her hand, excitement flickering low in her belly.
But Ailean gently caught her wrist and drew her hand away. “No,” he said, his voice strained. “I don’t want to spill … not yet. First, I want to sink into that sweet quim of yers … and swive ye until ye scream my name.”
Fiona’s belly clenched at his lusty words, but before she could reply, he drew her legs up over his shoulders, exposing her fully. An instant later, she felt the hot, smooth crown of him press against her slickness.
Then he slid into her.
For a moment, she languished in the sensation—the contrast of her softness against his burning strength. Then came a sharp sting that made her freeze, gasp.
Ailean stilled. Their gazes met, concern flickering across his face. He stroked her thigh gently. “Easy, lass,” he murmured—the same tone he’d used with the frightened horse weeks earlier. “We’ll take it slow. Gentle.” His lips quirked. “Just remember to breathe.”
She exhaled sharply before drawing in another, deep, breath. She willed her body to relax, though her muscles had locked tight. Holding himself above her, Ailean waited, stroking her belly, her hips, her thighs—as if he were a sculptor admiring his work.
Then his hand slid lower, finding that sensitive nub he’d teased earlier. He circled it gently. Pleasure trembled through her, and slowly, her body yielded.
“That’s it, Fi,” he soothed. “Open that flower up for me.”
She did. Her thighs widened, her body softened, and he pushed into her again. This time, there was no pain—only an aching fullness that made her groan.
“I’m not hurting ye, am I?” His voice sounded brittle with restraint.
“No,” she breathed. “Keep going.”
He did—rolling his hips, sliding deeper until he was fully sheathed within her. She felt impossibly full.
She expected him to thrust as she’d heard men did. Fast and rough, like animals rutting.
But he didn’t.
He waited. Sweat gleamed on his skin. He rolled his hips once more, and pleasure clenched low in her belly. Again—and heat rushed through her.
“God,” she cried. “What’s that?”
He laughed softly, although there was a strained edge to it. “Do ye want more?”
Pleasure gathered again, fierce and demanding. “Aye!” she gasped.
“Well then,” he ground out. “I shall plow yer soft … hot … furrow.”
He shifted her legs, folding her tighter, gripping her thighs as he began to move. Slowly withdrawing, then sliding deep again—so deep she ached.
Fiona trembled, a storm building once more. God, how she needed him. She wanted him to fill her, to take her over the edge again.
He took her in slow, deep strokes, each one measured, each one tightening the coil inside her—until he twisted his hips as he slid home and she shattered.
She arched up, clutching at him, spinning.
And she did cry his name then, although to her ears, it sounded more like a sob.
He rode her through it, drawing out every last tremor.
Then he suddenly pulled free, twisting aside. She watched, half-dazed, as his seed spilled in milky jets upon the moss beside her.
Bracing one hand on her knee, he bowed his head, chest heaving. The sound of their ragged breathing filled the woodland.
Ailean raised his head, still struggling to catch his breath.
Christ’s blood. How he’d wanted to spill deep inside this woman. It had been the lustiest coupling of his life. But sanity had prevailed.
He might enjoy a sweaty tumble, but he had no intention of leaving a string of bastards behind him. He was a rogue, aye, but even he knew that spending himself inside a woman carried consequences.
Wiping himself clean with a piece of moss, he glanced over at the beautiful woman lying naked on her back beside him.
He gazed upon her.
As long as he lived, he would never forget the sight of Fiona Mackinnon—her lush curves bathed in silver, her fair hair frosted in the moonlight. Her skin was flawless, pale as milk. And those magnificent breasts still heaved in the aftermath of her climax, their rosy tips swollen.
Hunger stirred in his gut once more.
How he longed to fall on her again like a ravenous wolf. Now.
He checked the urge. What’s the rush, lad?
This had been her first time. He needed to go easy on her.
Favoring Fiona with a sensual smile, he stretched out beside her, his hand sliding up her sweat-damp thigh, over the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, and the soft swell of her belly.
Then he met her gaze again. “Ye should have told me ye were a virgin,” he murmured.
She stared back at him, her expression unreadable. “Would it have made a difference? Would ye have left me alone, then?” There was a hint of challenge in her voice.
He sighed. The truth was that even a rogue like him had rules; self-imposed, perhaps, but rules nonetheless.
She was the first chaste lass he’d ever taken.
Innocent women weren’t usually to his taste.
Nor did he wish to confess that her worldly air had fooled him into thinking she’d already lain with another.
Such a careless comment would only earn him a slap across the face.
“I’d have gone slower,” he answered. “Been more careful.”
“Ye didn’t hurt me,” she replied. “Not after the first bit. And even that wasn’t so bad.”
Their gazes held for a long, intimate moment.
Too intimate.
In the aftermath of their coupling, Ailean felt strangely unmoored, as if he’d been knocked off balance and hadn’t yet found his footing. He didn’t welcome the sensation. He’d never felt it before.
Best not to dwell on it. Tonight was Bealtunn, after all. Fire, mead, moonlight, and a beautiful woman had carried him away. But it was time to claw his way back to reality.
“So, ye enjoyed yer first time, then?” he teased, trying to lighten the mood.
Her full lips curved faintly, though he caught the shadow in her eyes as the haze of lust faded. She, too, was returning to the real world. And he sensed—without her saying it—that regret was already creeping in.
She swallowed. “This can’t happen again, Ailean. I took a terrible risk tonight. If one of yer kin had seen us—”
“No one did,” he assured her, brushing a stray curl of golden hair from her cheek. “I checked before we left the bonfire.”
She swallowed again. “Even so. People saw us dancing together all night. Tongues will wag. I can’t afford that.
I love it here at Dounarwyse. This is a new life for me …
one I’m proud of.” Her eyes shone, as if she were close to tears—but then she mastered herself, jaw firming.
“Tonight never happened. And it can never be repeated.”
Disappointment flickered through him.
Her words made sense. He’d been warned since boyhood about the perils of meddling with any of the lasses who served their family.
His father would never tolerate it. For Rae Maclean, it wasn’t merely a matter of rank, but of propriety and respect.
A man of Ailean’s class was never going to marry a woman like Fiona, so he shouldn’t take advantage of her.
His belly tightened.
Guilt? Self-recrimination? No. He was immune to such things.
And yet—this woman had gotten under his skin. Her spirit, her pride, her sensuality blended into a heady potion. The thought of living within the walls of Dounarwyse with her nearby, never touching her again, sat poorly with him.
Still, she was right. Tonight couldn’t be repeated.
“I understand,” he said quietly.
His hand slid along her jaw and down her neck, fingers grazing the lush swell of her breast once more. His lips curved. “Although … that being the case,” he murmured, “we should enjoy this short time given to us.”
Fiona’s legs wobbled slightly beneath her as she followed Ailean through the trees.
The tender skin between her thighs throbbed faintly in the aftermath of their second coupling. There was a slight sting of discomfort—she’d be sore come morning—but she couldn’t bring herself to worry about that.
Not after such pleasure.
She felt drunk on it, as if she’d downed a horn of the strongest mead.
The man had completely addled her wits.
This time, he’d taken her on her hands and knees, plowing into her from behind while his hand slid between her thighs, circling that aching nub of flesh. She’d bitten hard into her lip to keep from screaming her pleasure.
It had been even better than their first coupling.
There’d been no pain at all, and the position had rubbed him against places inside her she hadn’t known existed. There was something animalistic about being taken that way. Primal. And devil take her, she’d loved every lewd moment of it.
As before, he’d withdrawn before the final moment, spilling onto the ground and wiping himself with moss afterward. She’d felt an odd, irrational, disappointment that he hadn’t spent himself inside her, yet was relieved too.
They’d dozed together for a while beside the bubbling burn, listening to the distant sounds of revelry around the Bealtunn fire.
Some folk would remain outdoors until sunrise.
But that wasn’t safe for them. They had to return to the castle … carefully.
At the edge of the thicket, Ailean halted and turned to face her. “Ye lost yer crown of hawthorn blossom.”
Fiona gave a rueful huff. “I lost far more than that.”
His expression sobered. “Ye don’t regret it, do ye?” He stepped closer, his nearness overwhelming.
She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart. “Not yet … although in the cold light of day, I might,” she admitted. “We shall see.”
“I shall never be sorry for it,” he said, his voice husky now. He leaned in, brushing her lips with a soft, lingering kiss that left her aching for more.
That’s because ye’re a man, she thought with a sting of bitterness. Ye have far less to lose than I do.
Ailean had been heady company, yet she noted that he seemed unconcerned about her position at Dounarwyse, or just how great a risk she’d taken tonight.
He handed her the lantern. The oil within was nearly spent, but it still cast a gentle glow. “Take this and go ahead. I’ll wait before following.”
She nodded, grateful for his caution. Though part of her wondered how practiced it was. How many other women had he led into these woods? How many lasses had he taken the same way?
Stop it, she told herself firmly. That path led only to suffering. Ye knew what ye were doing. Ye made yer choice.
It had been lust, pure and simple.
And yet she was conflicted. Part of her regretted her lack of restraint.
Another part reveled in the pleasure he’d given her, in the discovery of what her body could feel.
Not every woman was so fortunate. She’d heard the whispered complaints of her sisters and other lasses—of fumbling, selfish men, of rough couplings that gave little joy.
That hadn’t been Ailean.
He’d given her a night she’d never forget. And for that, she was grateful.
She hoped the memory would remain sharp in the years to come.
One day, she might take a husband; one who hopefully wouldn’t mind that she was no longer a virgin.
But that day was still far off. First, she had to make a name for herself as the finest weaver of The Western Isles.
This man, however, would never be hers. Some futures were impossible. Impractical.
And even if it had been possible, the Chieftain of Dounarwyse’s roguish son was hardly a good choice of husband.
Wordlessly, she nodded to him and drew her shawl tight around her shoulders. During their coupling, she hadn’t felt the cold, but she did now. Spring’s chill still lingered.
She turned away, emerging from the thicket and crossing the grass to the road. Fortunately, it was empty.
Bowing her head, she quickened her pace toward Dounarwyse Castle.
And she didn’t look back.