Chapter 21 Tilda #2
The kiss is everything I didn’t know I needed as the stubble of his beard scrapes my skin. His tongue traces the taste of the whisky still on my lips and I clutch at his shoulders, feeling the muscles shifting beneath my hands as he pulls me closer, deeper.
When he breaks away, we’re both breathing hard.
“Come here,” he says, his voice ragged, and then he pulls me onto his lap. My legs are straddling him as he holds my waist, pressed down on top so the rough fabric of his kilt is scratchy against my bare thighs, feeling the solid length of him beneath me.
“Careful,” I gasp, “I’ll squash you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, his voice low and rough.
His hands slide up my thighs, rucking up the fabric of my dress as I bend my head to meet his mouth and his rough stubble grazes my face again.
His hands are firm and steady, his touch deliberate.
There’s nothing hurried about the way he touches me – every inch is measured, as if he’s been thinking about this for as long as I have.
The fire crackles behind us, throwing heat against my back as it flickers, lighting up the room. My breath catches as his thumbs press against my inner thighs and I shift against him, feeling an ache building low in my belly.
“Finn—”
He pulls his head back enough to look at me, his dark eyes blazing. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
“Please no,” I say, breathless and hoarse as if I’ve been running uphill.
The noise he makes comes from deep in his chest, a groan of need before he pulls me against him, his mouth finding mine. He kisses me again, harder this time.
I gasp into his mouth, half-embarrassed at my own need but he tightens his grip and groans before he sits me up, throwing cushions onto the rug. I tug at the buttons of his shirt, and he stills my hand, catching and turning it to press a kiss on the soft skin of my wrist before letting it go.
“Slowly,” he says, but his breathing is as ragged as mine.
“Easy for you to say,” I say.
His mouth quirks. “Not easy at all.”
He pulls the dress over my head in one smooth movement and I’m suddenly sitting on his lap in nothing but my black lace bra and knickers.
“Christ, Tilda.” His voice is reverent as his huge hand cups my breast, his thumb grazing my nipple through the black lace.
I close my eyes and pull in a sharp breath, arching into his touch as my head falls back.
Then he takes his hand away and my head snaps back up see what’s wrong.
He tugs open the buttons of his shirt, shrugging it off to reveal the broad planes of his chest and the tangle of dark hair on his chest that trails downward—he shifts his weight, moving me to one side as he straightens to standing, and for one horrible moment my stomach drops.
Oh no. This is it, the anticlimax. He’s changed his mind. He’s going to tell me it’s a mistake and—
But then I see him reach into the leather sporran, taking out a silver packet.
Relief and desire flood through me in equal measure.
He catches my expression and his mouth curves. “Did you think I’d had second thoughts?”
“For a second,” I admit.
“Not a chance.” He unfastens the belt, and the heavy kilt falls away, pooling at his feet.
I gasp this time, not even hiding it. He’s magnificent – all muscle and total unselfconsciousness in his nakedness. And hard, achingly hard. Almost without thinking I reach out and take him in my hand, feeling the solid length.
“I wouldn’t,” he growls, half laughing.
Finn moves back to the huge sofa. He’s on top of me, his weight on one arm. His mouth finds my breast, tongue circling my nipple as the other hand slides over my hip. I gasp, arching against him.
His fingers slip beneath the edge of the lace edge of my knickers, tracing a line that makes me push up against his hand, clutching against his shoulders.
“Beautiful like this.” He murmurs the words against my skin as his mouth trails downward, and then his fingers dip beneath the edge of the fabric. He looks up at me as he slips his fingers lower. The words and the steady movement of his fingers are almost too much.
“I need—”
“There is” – I feel his thumb brushing almost impossibly slowly over my core, as if he’s deliberately keeping me waiting – “plenty of time.” He rears back on one arm, looking down at me. “I’ve waited long enough for this. I’m not rushing it.”
I open my mouth to say, you have? but the words don’t come out. My pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it everywhere.
“Last chance,” he says, his voice low. “Do you want me to stop?”
My hand reaches downwards. I brush the tip of his cock with the edge of my thumb, feeling the tell-tale slickness. His eyes roll back, and he takes a ragged breath in, concentrating hard.
“Don’t you dare stop,” I say, a tiny smirk forming on my lips.
In answer he lifts my hips, somehow managing to haul my knickers off in a one-handed movement.
“Very impressive.”
He laughs. “You’re impossible.” And then he parts my legs and I’m lost for words.
His mouth trails down my stomach, and I gasp out loud a moment later.
I lift my head and all I can see is the dark tangle of hair between my legs and his big hands holding my thighs.
I reach down, catching a hand in his curls as I feel the pressure of his tongue increasing.
It’s slow and measured, and a second later I feel his fingers moving inside me, curling to touch the spot that makes me cry out in surprised pleasure.
It's almost too much and I buck upwards, but his firm hand stays resting on my thigh, pinning me in place.
“Do you want me to stop?” he growls this time, and I feel his breath on my skin as he laughs.
“Oh god,” I say, as his tongue circles and then he closes his mouth on me, tipping me over the edge. “No. Please, don’t stop.”
I can’t breathe. I clutch at the fabric of the sofa and my fingers let go of his hair and tighten on the muscles of his arm. I think I might pass out. This is insane. I am actually seeing stars behind my eyes as I come, the orgasm washing over me like a huge wave that seems to go on and on.
A second later he props himself up on his huge arms and looks down at me, one brow slightly raised and that same wry smile on his face.
I pull him towards me and kiss him, tasting myself on his mouth as his beard scrapes against my skin. As I catch my breath, I reach down to check that, yes, he’s still rock hard. I hook a leg around his, pulling him in towards me, forgetting for a second—
“One sec,” he says, and I remember the condom he’d pulled out of his sporran pocket.
He moves away from me and slides it on and a second later he’s back on top and he shifts my legs so they’re wide apart as he edges inside me, each thrust going a little deeper as I gasp.
He’s measured at first, his hips rolling steadily as I open up to him.
And then something primal takes over. He groans my name, and I dig my fingers into his back, feeling the hard planes of his back flexing as he thrusts deeper and deeper.
I lock eyes with him – those dark brown eyes almost black now - and he slows, shifting his body weight so he’s moving against me, and I feel the coiling heat building inside me again. He knows exactly how to unravel me.
“Fuck, Tilda,” he breathes against my lips, and for a split second I think he’s going to stop but then he snaps his hips forward and takes me harder and faster, the rhythm relentless.
Our bodies slide together, slick with sweat, and the sound of it mingles with my gasping breaths and his low groans.
The pressure builds until I come apart again, clenching around him, and he follows, his head thrust back in release as his body goes rigid before he collapses against me.
We lie there, the fire crackling, whisky glasses forgotten on the table as our breathing evens out.
Finally, he pushes himself back, brushing the hair back from my damp forehead with a rough hand as his mouth quirks.
“And you didn’t squash me after all.”
I let out a laugh. “I’m glad.”
He kisses me again, slowly this time, then stands up. A moment later he’s found a soft blanket, and he brings it over, pulling it over my shoulders as he reaches for the bottle of whisky.
“Shall we have one for the road?”