58. Bea
BEA
My body is on fire. Brennen’s words—his threats—ignited a spark somewhere in the deepest parts of me, and it cannot be doused. I roll to my side, pressing my legs together to try to ease the ache, but the friction only makes it worse.
It’s unbearable.
I listen for movement outside, but it’s completely silent other than the crackle of the fire. And so, for the first time in so long, I slide my hand between my legs. Even I’m surprised how warm my skin feels as I spread myself with my fingers and find the delicate bundle of nerves at my center.
My cheeks flush at my own brazenness. The object of my fantasies is just outside the tent, but the idea of stopping is unfathomable. The pressure is too great, the need to ease it unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
I have to bite back a moan as I press and circle, imagining it’s Brennen’s fingers touching me instead of my own.
A pleasant heat spreads from those nerves through my core, and my toes curl, my breaths going shallow.
The tent flaps rustle as they open, and I pull my hand away, my heart leaping into my throat.
Brennen pauses before entering, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Is it possible he knows what I was doing in here?
He doesn’t say anything as he enters, tossing his sword into the corner, but his movements are stiff.
His presence fills the tent, spreading until it’s suffocating.
I can barely breathe as I lie there, frozen.
My body tenses when Brennen lowers himself behind me, sliding beneath the thick blanket. Energy buzzes between us, and he shifts. Did he move closer, or further away?
The bedroll crinkles as he lifts his head, and his gruff rasp breaks through the dark. “You’re playing with fire, little lark. Go to sleep,” he rasps, and my mouth goes dry. So he must know what I was doing. But how?
I cannot bring myself to answer in my embarrassment, squeezing my eyes shut. I sense him cross his arms and lay his head back down, and I focus on slowing my breathing. My heart still bangs against my ribcage, but I close my eyes, taking slow inhales and exhales.
Brennen doesn’t move again, and as his breaths begin to even, I relax a fraction, but the ache inside me persists. Grows until it’s unbearable. I can smell him beside me. Feel his heat.
I wait another minute. Then ten. Then twenty, but Brennen’s breathing remains steady. It’s not until I’m certain he’s deeply asleep that I slowly move my hand back between my legs. I hold my breath as I begin to move my fingers once more.
Brennen shifts.
“Don diabhal e,” he growls. To hell with it. There’s no time to react as Brennen’s hands wrap around my waist, and he pulls me back against his chest. He’s hard as the riverbed behind me, his breath hot on my neck, and I gasp.
He’s careful not to touch my skin as he pulls up my dress, leaving only the thin fabric of my shift between his hand and my center.
His touch is fire, even through the wind-chilled linen. “Brennen,” I pant his name, arching into him.
“Mo chreach,” he rasps, my ruin, pulling my legs apart.
He begins to rub, rough, greedy circles, and any thoughts forming from his words dash from my mind.
I lean my head back as his fingers work, warmth flooding my entire body.
“You can stop— You don’t have to—” I can’t even finish the sentence, the words shifting into a moan as bright colors dance behind my eyelids.
“No. I cannae stop,” he growls, his other hand gripping my hip tight enough to bruise, and I do not have the strength to try to convince him he’ll regret this.
I groan as he changes his rhythm, his thick, hard length digging into my backside as he rolls himself against me.
I groan at his evident desire, pushing back against the proof of what I am somehow doing to him.
He presses harder, a rumble leaving his chest as I grind against him.
I moan his name, and he curses, his hand coming up to cup my breast as pressure unlike anything I’ve ever felt before coils deep inside me.
I don’t have time to think of what this means or why Brennen gave in as his other hand slides from my hip to my belly, pinning me against him like I might slip away if he eases his pressure at all.
It is my undoing, the feeling of his desire against my back, the rumbles in his chest as his fingers work in delicious circles.
I cry out as release slams through me, violent and sudden.
But Brennen doesn’t stop. He continues to swirl his fingers over the soaked fabric until I still, breathless.
His breaths are ragged against my neck, and I twist in his arms to look at him. I need to see what he’s thinking. How he’s feeling.
His eyes are dark, and he leans forward as if to press his forehead against mine, but stops just short.
“Brennen—”
“No,” he stops me, closing his eyes. His nostrils flare as he takes several deep breaths, as if searching for a single scrap of control. “Sleep now, Bea.” He tucks my hair behind my ear tenderly, so careful to avoid my skin.
“But—”
“Please. I have far less restraint than you realize.” There’s pain in his voice. A tension I don’t understand.
My ruin, he’d called me.
I think he just might be mine, too.
I roll over, my body tired, but Brennen is restless. He shifts back and forth, and I’m just about to ask if he regrets what happened when he stands, softly stepping over me so as to not wake me.
“Where are you going?” I ask, and he pauses.
“I need to take a walk,” he rumbles. “Sleep. I’ll be back.” But as he disappears through the tent flaps, I cannot help but notice the stiffness of his movements and his fingers flexing at his sides. I sit and listen, pulling a tartan around me.
Has it happened already? Has shame settled onto his shoulders, his conscience revolting against what he chose to do, and now he needs a moment away from me to process it all? I don’t like how the idea makes me feel. I’m not something to be ashamed of, nor does he deserve that guilt.
I know what just transpired between us didn’t change anything about his orders, and I won’t let him wallow in self-depreciation because of it.
Pulling the tartan tighter, I slide outside the tent. Brennen is standing to the side, close to the river, one arm braced against the trunk of a pine. His head is bowed, and sadness tugs at my heart.
“Mo chreach,” he says, rough and uninhibited, and I freeze. It doesn’t sound like he’s processing his guilt at all. It sounds like…
For a second, I consider turning around, but my body doesn’t allow it. Quietly, I make my way to his side. My heart pounds, my mind racing and my mouth going dry when I see exactly how wrong I was.
A mixture of stunned amazement and recklessness floods my entire body. His kilt is lifted, and he holds himself in his hand, thick and heavy, pumping furiously, his eyes closed tight. I suck in a sharp breath.
He stops, his gaze shooting to mine.
“Bea,” he pauses, but he doesn’t let himself go.
I watch his ragged breathing. The wildness in his eyes, and it makes me feel bold. Beautiful and wanted.
“You were right,” I stalk forward. “You’re not a robin.
” His eyes follow me. “Nor a lark. You’re not a bird at all.
” I see it now. In the way he watches and waits.
Always controlled, until he isn’t, waiting to pounce until his animal instincts demand he make the kill.
A predator through and through. “You’re a wolf.
” I unlace the front of my dress, pulling the collar down over one shoulder, then the other.
Brennen’s eyes darken, and I lift off my dress and shift, tossing them to the ground. I am bare before him, wearing nothing but moonlight.
This time, there’s anything but disgust in his expression. His gaze slowly rakes across my skin, so intense it almost feels like the rough scrape of his fingertips.
“Keep going,” I whisper, slowly pushing my hair behind my shoulders so he can see all of me.
There’s a single moment where I once again see the war inside him. The battle between what he perceives as right and wrong.
And then he glides his hand up and down.
I do not shy away from watching as he increases the speed of his strokes.
His length is impressive, and he’s so hard, I think it must be painful.
The swollen tip glistens, and my stomach clenches, something stirring deep in my chest. Not at the way he slowly begins to stroke himself, but how he’s looking at me. The way his body is reacting to me.
My lips part as my breasts grow heavy, heat curling in my core once again. He pauses, as if afraid he’ll frighten me, chest rising and falling like he cannot get enough air.
“Don’t stop,” I say, running a hand along my breast, then slowly trailing it down my own body.
He hesitates before moving his hand again, but not for long. Tentatively at first, he slides his palm up and down, his eyes never leaving the trail of my own fingers. I move them back to my breasts, squeezing.
“Yes. Touch yourself, Bea,” he says, his voice gruff, and this time, I don’t feel shame or embarrassment.
I hold his stare as I lower my hand to my center, groaning when I touch the sensitive bundle of nerves.
I swirl my fingers, then push one inside myself.
I imagine it’s Brennen, matching his pace, and his mouth drops open on a near growl.
“Brennen,” I groan as pressure begins to build inside me once again.
“No. It’s no enough. I need to touch you,” he rasps. The primal tone of the words sends shivers down my spine, and I look around, my eyes landing on my shift. I lift it from the ground, then hold it out to him.
He lets go of the tree, sliding his hand inside the thin fabric, and then, he takes his wish.
He pulls me against him, rubbing his fabric-covered palm across one breast, then another.
He twists me so I am pressed against his hip, his other hand still sliding up and down his length almost violently, and I lean against him, bringing my fingers back to find my own release.
The pressure builds, overwhelming, almost unbearable.
He pinches my nipple, thrusting into his own hand until he stiffens, but this time, I am not his ruin.
“Mo chridhe,” he whispers. My heart.
I explode into millions of shiny pieces, my knees nearly buckling as my release slams through me, his words amplifying the pleasure still pulsing inside me.
I don’t think he said them on purpose. Not when his breaths are still ragged, and his eyes are hazy with pleasure.
But I hold onto them anyway. Even if he didn’t mean it, I can still pretend.