Chapter 8
The silence persisted until Dougal suggested they play a game.
“A game?” Skye asked dubiously.
“Aye,” he said with a smile. “Truth or dare. It’s a way for us to get to ken each other better.”
She hesitated. “And where do ye propose to play this game?”
“In the drawing room, of course.”
Skye wanted to get to know Dougal. It was essential if she was going to finish her story, or else she would forever be stuck on that page, unable to finish the story that had captivated the Highlands.
She especially wanted to know about that precious little girl Lily.
A man who kept himself locked behind stone walls and rumors, who let people believe him a murderer rather than correct them, had a little girl tucked away who called him Da and begged him for a goat.
It didn’t fit. Or perhaps it fit too well, and that was what unsettled her. Skye was captivated by the story and wanted to find out more, but feared that she might overstep. Dougal was protective of the girl; that much was clear in the way he acted around her.
She thought of the careful way he’d cut the child’s meat into pieces small enough for her little hands, the patience in it, so at odds with the man she had written about. Which one was real?
Both, she supposed, though the thought did nothing to steady her.
Who was her mother? Why the secrecy? Was it because of enemies, shame, or something else entirely?
The questions piled up faster than she could sort them, each one snagging on the last. She thought of her unfinished story, the Lion she’d invented, cold and solitary, answerable to no one.
He’d never once had a daughter in her story. But this had always been more than a story. Dougal was a real man, after all.
Skye pressed her palm flat against the tabletop, willing her mind to settle. It didn’t. Whatever Dougal was hiding behind that mask, she was beginning to suspect it went far deeper than a scar.
They moved into the drawing room. Dougal sat down in front of the flickering flames and motioned for her to follow. She hesitated again, but only for a moment because she didn’t want to end the night quite yet.
“Truth or dare?” she asked, settling onto the rug before the fire, the unfinished story tucked beside her.
“Truth.” Dougal watched her the way he watched most things—carefully, like he expected a trap.
“Lily. Tell me about her.”
The moment Skye had seen the girl, she wasn’t sure what to think.
Dougal had never given an inkling that he had a child.
So, walking into dinner and seeing him cut the girl’s food had taken her by surprise.
Her first thought had been that Lily was a relative, perhaps the child of a deceased sibling he had taken in and decided to raise as his own.
But then Lily had called him Da, and everything she had thought she knew about him—admittedly little—had flown out of her mind.
Dougal wasn’t the least surprised by her question. He seemed to have expected it. Then she remembered his warning never to speak a word of what went on within these walls. It likely had to do with Lily.
For some reason, Dougal was keeping her existence secret. Skye could not fathom why, unless he was trying to protect her. He had enemies, and a daughter could be a target, but even that explanation didn’t make much sense the more Skye thought about it.
“She’s nae mine by blood.” He said it plainly, without flinching. “But she is mine in every way that matters. I took her in when she had no one else, and I’ve raised her since.”
“That’s a kind thing to do for a man so many call a monster,” Skye said gently.
This man, she decided, had never been a monster. How could a monster raise a child that was not his own? He cared for Lily. That was obvious in the way he looked upon her with such love and adoration. He was besotted with her, as a parent should be with their children.
No, Dougal was not a monster. He would insist he was one, that much Skye was sure of, but she wasn’t going to accept that as truth.
“Monsters can still raise children, lass. They do it quietly, where nobody’s watching to ruin it for them.”
She didn’t press further, sensing the careful edges around the subject and letting it settle instead. Perhaps after she had spent more time here, she could find out more, but for now, she felt it was better to let things be. It was safer that way for everyone.
“Me turn, then. Truth.”
“Why do ye write about me?”
She should have expected that.
“Because everyone whispered about ye, and nobody ever told the whole story. I wanted to imagine the rest of it.”
“And what have ye imagined so far?”
She hesitated, then reached for the pages beside her. “I’ve imagined ye weren’t the villain they made ye out to be. I can read it if ye’d like.”
“I would.”
She read aloud, her voice unsteady at first, then steadier as she reached the part where the Lion caught the lass he’d pursued through moonlit halls, restraining her gently against the wall of his chamber. She trailed off where her pen had stopped.
“And then, what does he do to her?”
“I… I daenae ken. I hadnae decided.”
“Hmm.” Dougal rose to his feet, slow and deliberate, and crossed the small distance between them. “Maybe I can help ye decide.”
Before she could answer, his hands closed gently around her wrists and pinned them lightly against the armrests, making her breath catch in her throat.
“No kissing,” she reminded him, her voice barely above a whisper.
“No kissing,” he agreed easily and knelt down before her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Then let me do this.”
His hands moved to the hem of her skirts, slow enough that she had every chance to stop him, but she didn’t. She only had to say no, and he would stop, but she didn’t want him to.
That was what scared her the most.
Dougal lowered himself between her thighs and slid his hand over her sex. He chuckled as his fingers slid easily through her wetness.
It was the same wetness she felt between her thighs whenever she woke up from those dreams, panting loudly, her chest rising and falling erratically.
“Oh,” she whimpered, grinding against the finger he slipped inside her.
It was a bit of a stretch. Dougal had thick fingers, but he went slow, giving her time to adjust. A second finger followed, and she let out a soft gasp, feeling full.
He slid his thick fingers deeper into her sensitive sex, and she clapped one hand over her mouth, terrified the needy sounds building in her throat would escape.
Her other hand shot down, fingers twisting desperately into the fabric of her skirts before moving to clutch at his hair, pulling him closer without thinking.
The slow, deliberate slide of his fingers stretched her so perfectly it made her toes curl. Every flex and stroke brushed that sensitive spot inside her, sending sharp bursts of pleasure radiating through her belly and up her spine.
She rocked her hips frantically, grinding against his touch, silently begging him to pump his fingers harder, faster, to chase the building heat that threatened to consume her.
It felt dangerous to want more. Felt so wrong to ache for this from him, the man she should fear. Yet her body betrayed her completely.
He stroked a calloused thumb over her swollen bud, circling it with firm pressure. The added sensation tore a series of broken cries and whimpers from her throat.
Her hips moved wildly of their own accord now, grinding shamelessly against his hand as waves of pleasure crashed through her. She couldn’t control them anymore; her thighs trembling, lost in the rising tide of ecstasy.
The pleasure hit her suddenly.
She clutched at him, burying her face in his shoulder and letting out whimpers of pleasure.
The sounds were music to his ears, he might say. She didn’t even know why she was imagining what he might say. His breath went ragged, watching the little gasps of pleasure that escaped her as he slowly pulled out his fingers.
Then he lowered his face to her sex.
She couldn’t believe that she was doing this.
The first swipe of his tongue against her had her nearly crying out. She had already climaxed once, now that she feared it wouldn’t take much to make her climax again.
Egged on by her moans, Dougal pushed his tongue into her sex, and her inner muscles clamped around him. She felt something building inside her. With the persistent thrusts of his tongue and the press of his thumb against her bud, he was pushing her closer and closer to the edge.
“Please,” she whispered, her desperate tone shocking even her.
She rarely begged. She didn’t quite know what to do with herself. All of this was new to her, but she wanted to see it through.
When he sucked hard on her bud, she finally came undone. She threw her head back with a loud moan, her hands. But he didn’t stop. He kept lapping at her, pushing her closer and closer to another climax.
Her cheeks were flushed from more than embarrassment. Dougal had said he wouldn’t kiss her, but then he placed his lips somewhere far more intimate.
She wondered, distantly, what else he might consider fair game if a kiss on the mouth was off the table.