31. Edie
EDIE
It’s exactly what I’d have expected. Understated wealth and history combined – dark wood furniture that’s ageless and priceless glowing softly.
Thick curtains that could shut out the Highland light when it stretches into the early hours in midsummer.
And a fire burning in the grate, tended by unseen hands, reminding me if I needed it that this man lives in a world a million miles from mine.
I barely have time to register it before Rory kicks the door closed behind us, his hand still wrapped around mine.
He turns me around and I’m backed against the panelled wood, his arms caging me in.
The heat of his body is overwhelming. In the distance I can hear the faint sounds of the ball downstairs, muffled beneath the rush of blood in my ears.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say, tilting my chin up towards him.
His mouth twitches in that half-smile that makes my stomach flip, and his eyes fix on mine. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Maybe I should—” I begin, but I don’t finish the sentence because his mouth is on mine, hard and demanding.
It’s nothing like the kiss we shared in the library.
This is something raw and primal, as if he’s abandoned all his usual self-control.
I gasp against his lips, and he takes advantage, his tongue sliding against mine.
My hands fist his dark shirt, pulling him closer.
He breaks away for a moment, his voice low and rasping. “Tell me to stop.”
I shake my head. “No.”
The word is barely out of my mouth and his hands are in my hair, cradling my head as he kisses me again.
I feel the pins coming loose and red waves tumble down at my shoulders.
His fingers tangle in it, tipping my head back gently as his mouth trails down my neck, his stubble grazing my skin.
His hand tightens on the long rope of my hair, and I hear a low sound of approval from deep in my throat.
“I’ve thought about this every night,” he murmurs, “When you were here, right under my roof.”
“So did I.” I wriggle free and tug the shirt loose from the waistband of his kilt, desperate to feel his skin.
“You did?” He pulls back, his green eyes dark with desire. “Did you touch yourself thinking about me, Edie?”
Heat rushes to my face but I meet his gaze and nod.
Something flashes in his eyes – satisfaction or hunger, or both. His brow crooks wickedly.
“Show me.”
I take his hand and guide it to the neckline of my dress. “Here,” I say, as his fingers trace the edge of the fabric, dipping just below to brush against the swell of my breasts. I draw in a sharp breath.
“And then?”
“Then here.” I move his hand lower, over the velvet of my dress, past my waist. His hand is splayed out, his thumb straying close to my core. He presses me harder against the door, his thigh between my legs, creating a delicious pressure exactly where I need it.
The heavy leather sporran is pushed up against my thigh and I glance down for a moment.
“Especially designed to disguise how hard I am for you,” he says, laughing.
“Really?” I look down at it for a moment. He takes my hand, guiding it downwards until I feel his cock, solid under the rough fabric of the kilt. Okay, no.
He shakes his head, laughing as he unfastens the belt holding it in place and throws it across the room. “For the elimination of doubt, Edie,” he says, his mouth against my ear. “I don’t think anything could disguise it.”
“Ruined for life,” I say, echoing his New York words back at him.
“Don’t even fucking go there,” he says, with a half laugh, half groan.
And then somehow, he’s pushing me back against the bed and the long skirt of my dress is rucked up and he pauses for a moment, looking down on me with an expression that makes me feel both powerful and utterly vulnerable.
“I want to see you,” he says, reaching for the zipper at the side of my dress. I nod and shift slightly to help him as he peels the velvet away, revealing the lingerie I’d chosen with more care than I’d like to admit – black lace against my pale skin. His eyes darken further.
“Christ, Edie.” The words are strained. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
I’m about to say something flippant, something to break the tension, but then his hands are on me, and I forget words entirely. His thumb grazes my breast for a moment, brushing against the hard pebbles of my nipples before he unclasps my bra.
“Fuck,” Rory says, dropping his head to my breast. His mouth sends a jolt of pleasure through me.
He undresses with quick efficiency, tossing aside the dark shirt and waistcoat so he’s standing before me in nothing more than the dark kilt.
His body is exactly as I remembered it – broad shoulders, a muscled chest dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail disappearing into his waistband.
The thistle tattoo on his forearm seems to move as his muscles flex as he kneels at the edge of the bed, his hands sliding up my legs, pushing them apart.
“I’ve thought about the taste of you since that night,” he says, his voice low. “I want to know if you’re as sweet as I remembered.”
My breath hitches as his finger catches at the edge of my underwear, and I’m aware just how wet I am as my hips lift almost involuntarily. He hooks the sides and draws them down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. And then he pushes my thighs apart and bends his head.
His movements are slow and unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world. A trail of kisses land on the soft skin of my inner thigh, and my hips lift up to meet him.
The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out in surprise. I feel the pressure of it, steady and measured, as if he’s memorising me. My hands reach for his hair, holding him against me as pleasure builds low inside me. It’s too much and not enough all at once.
“Rory.”
I feel the tip of his tongue before his mouth closes on me, sucking gently before he dips downwards, trailing through my centre lazily, as if he’s taking his time at a feast. And then his fingers join his mouth, two pushing inside me as his tongue circles slowly, steadily.
He crooks them inside me, and my thighs start to shake against his shoulders as the pressure builds, tension coiling low in my belly.
He’s unhurried, slow and relentless. I feel as if I’m being broken apart, all the pieces of me coming loose as if I’m melting into the bed.
I’m balancing on the edge until?—
“Come for me, baby,” his voice is low and rough and then his mouth is on me again and I’m gone. Pleasure crashes over me in waves.
He stands after a few moments, his eyes dangerously dark and his mouth glistening.
I shuffle up onto my elbows as he unfastens the kilt so it drops to the floor and he’s standing in front of me, his cock thick and jutting upwards.
I reach towards him and wrap my hand around his length, feeling the silken skin over the steel-hard flesh.
He’s hot and heavy in my palm as I brush the beading of pre-come at the tip with my thumb.
His breath hitches and his hand covers mine as it rises and falls, stroking him.
“If you keep that up, this will be over before it begins,” he says, his voice thick. His jaw clenches with restraint.
With a wicked smile I take him in my mouth, adjusting myself on the bed, reaching out to steady myself.
“Fuck, Edie,” he grits out, his hands in my hair. “I mean it.”
I pull back, letting my tongue swirl slowly and deliciously around the swollen tip for a moment, revelling in the feeling of being in control. I look up at him and he laughs for a second. “Enough. ”
He pulls away for a moment, reaching into a bedside drawer to produce a condom.
And then he’s over me, his body caging mine against the mattress. I can feel the solid heat of him pressing against my entrance as he kisses me then pauses for a moment, his eyes searching mine.
“Are you sure?”
I nod, my hands sliding up his solid arms to his shoulders. “I want this. I want you.”
I look at him for a moment – this beautiful, complicated man who’s been haunting my dreams for months. This is wrong for a million different reasons, and tonight – for this one night – I don’t care.
He pushes into me in one long slow thrust that steals the breath from my lungs. I feel impossibly full, stretched around him. He holds still, giving me time to accommodate him, but I can see the strain in his face, the effort it’s taking him not to move.
“You’re so tight,” he groans. “So hot, baby.”
I roll my hips experimentally and he groans again, the sound vibrating through his chest. Then he begins to move, drawing himself almost all the way out before thrusting back in, setting a rhythm that has me gasping with each stroke.
The friction is exquisite, his cock hitting spots inside me that make stars burst behind my eyelids. I dig my nails into his shoulders, meeting him thrust for thrust, my body building quickly towards another peak.
He shifts, changing his angle slightly, and I cry out, pleasure spiralling through me, building until I’m trembling on the edge again.
“Come for me, Edie,” he commands, shifting as his hand slides between us to brush the edge of my clit. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”
His words would have been enough. I come hard, clenching against him. He follows moments later, buried deep, his release pulsing inside me as he growls my name against my throat.
We collapse together, breathing hard, sweat-slicked skin against skin. For a long moment there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing and the distant music from the ballroom downstairs.
Reality should be crashing back now. I should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea – Anna reading the diaries, Fenella’s cutting comments, the vast gulf between his world and mine. I should be calculating my escape route, just like he did that night in Manhattan.
But as he rolls over, taking me with him so I’m tucked against his chest, all I can think is that for the first time in months I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.