—July 1876
Isabella stared at the mound of cream on Mac’s blunt fingers, and her mouth went dry. She kept her gaze on the cream so she wouldn’t have to look at his wicked smile and the gleam in his eyes.
Mac didn’t think she’d do it. He thought she’d tell him to go away, or burn him with some acerbic witticism. He didn’t think she’d dare reach over and gently lift a fold of his kilt. But she did.
“What did you say a Scotsman wore under this?” she asked.
Mac’s pupils widened, black swallowing copper. “Isabella.”
“If you thought your dare would make me blush like a schoolgirl, then you do not know much about schoolgirls.”
Mac laughed. His laughter died as Isabella rose, walked to the drawing room door, and turned the key in the lock. Mac remained on the sofa, watching her with a stunned look.
“The cream is melting,” she said.
Mac snapped his gaze to the dribbles of cream running from his fingers. Isabella came to him, caught his hand, and licked his fingers clean.
Mac always tasted agreeable. Isabella savored the smooth sweetness of the cream overlaid with the tangy salt of his skin.
She sat down, touching the tartan again. “Show me?”
Mac swallowed, his laughter gone. He took the hem of his kilt, drew in a breath, and scooted the fabric up to his stomach.
He was bare beneath, his c**k dark and hard as it rested on his tight abdomen. He was breathing rapidly, the c**k moving a little with his pulse. Isabella remembered the exact feel of it in her hand, how long it was and how thick, exactly how far she had to pull her hand up to complete one stroke. She also remembered precisely how it tasted and felt in her mouth.
Mac had always enjoyed the way she touched him. He’d sometimes joked that she must have studied c**k pleasuring at Miss Pringle’s Select Academy, because she did it so well.
You taught me, Mac, she’d whisper.
He’d also never gone bare under his kilt. Isabella knew full well that Mac usually wore drawers beneath, claiming that it was all very well to be traditionally Scots, but he had no intention of freezing his goolies off to satisfy tradition. He’d worn nothing today for her. To tease her.
Time for Isabella to turn the tables. “Stand up,” she said.
Mac got to his feet in a comically short time, the kilt still lifted. Isabella reached for the bowl of clotted cream, dipped her fingers into it, and smeared cream on his tip.
“Vixen.” Mac’s voice was ragged. He liked to call her that whenever she instigated play.
The word slid into a groan as Isabella leaned forward and closed her lips around him. His hands balled to fists over the fabric. Mac didn’t reach for her, didn’t touch her, just held the tartan out of the way in a white-knuckled grip.
Isabella suckled his tip, letting her tongue trace all the way around the flange. She dipped her tongue to the underside of the shaft to catch the cream that had dribbled there.
Mac rocked a little on his heels, but he didn’t try to pump into her; he barely even moved. Not that Isabella didn’t react herself. She was hot between her legs, and her br**sts were tight, her heart pounding behind her corset.
They used to play games like this with each other—stealing pleasure without removing their clothes, seeing how far they could take each other. Even more enjoyable when they did it in an unusual place, such as in a deserted hall outside a ballroom, a summerhouse, Mac’s studio. Isabella remembered how they’d tried to stifle their sounds of pleasure and their laughter.
Mac wasn’t laughing now. “Little vixen,” he whispered. “Naughty minx. My beautiful, wicked wife.”
Isabella reached for more cream. Mac’s cheekbones were flushed, his eyes desperate. Isabella focused on his c**k again, slathering it lovingly with the cream.
Mac furrowed her hair with one hand. “I can’t hold out, love. It’s been too long.”
Isabella couldn’t answer, too busy nibbling and licking and suckling. She swallowed the cream she’d coated on him, and now she enjoyed the hot, velvety taste of Mac himself.
Mac touched the nape of her neck. “Pull back, sweetheart. I’m about to lose myself.”
He used to warn her like that in case they were in danger of being caught, or were too near a public place, or in case Isabella didn’t want to take the game to its conclusion. The courtesy warmed her, and she responded by sliding one hand to his bare bu**ocks and staying put.
She felt him move in little pulses, and then his warm seed spilled into her mouth. He bunched her hair, his hips rocking as Isabella took all of him. “I love you,” he said brokenly. “I love you, my little Sassenach vixen.”
Isabella savored him until he had no more to give. She pulled away and Mac collapsed to the sofa, breathing hard, his kilt draping him modestly once more. Isabella reached for her teacup, but Mac jerked the cup from her hand, clattered it back to the table, and wrapped his arms around her.
They sat together a long time, Mac holding her, Isabella’s head on his shoulder. Isabella felt the thrub-thrub of his heart under her ear, his warm lips on her hair. If it could only be this way always, the two of them quietly absorbing each other, they could possibly live in peace. But they were both too volatile, too selfish, and Isabella knew it.
“Three and a half years,” Mac was saying. “Three and a half years since I’ve felt that. Since I’ve felt you. Thank you, love.”
Isabella looked up past Mac’s sandpaper chin to his copper-colored eyes, which were tired but fixed on her. “You seemed to need it.”