Page 17 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander (Falling for Highland Villains #4)

CHAPTER 17

Cecilia gazed at the beautiful creation in front of her, so strange and ethereal and awe-inspiring that she could not believe it had been crafted with Murdoch’s hands. What had once been a solid block of marble, half her height, was transforming into a woman. Half a woman.

Murdoch’s hands rested on her hips, his body pressing lightly against hers. “Do ye remember what I said to ye in the huntin’ cabin?”

His deep voice vibrated through her, making her shiver in the most delicious way.

She nodded slowly. “I couldnae… easily forget it. It was… shockin’ to a nun’s ears.”

“Ye can leave if ye want,” he said, his hands fisting in her dress.

She did not move. Leaving was the very last thing she wanted to do, considering that everything he had whispered in her ear that night had ended up on her list of experiences. And now that she had some clarity about her mistake, she could not think of any reason to remove herself from the tower.

It wasnae Murdoch whom Tara was speakin’ about. I’ll have to ask her who it is when I see her again.

But, right now, she had no space in her mind to think of anyone but Murdoch and what he meant to do with her. Was he toying with her, or did he really intend to enlighten her with some of what he had mentioned that night?

Without a word, he gathered up the skirts of her dress and lifted the garment up and over her head, before tossing it on the low stool. It draped over the stool as if he had spent an age moving each piece into the right place, the red standing out against the neutral tones of the room.

He removed her shift next, throwing it off to the side. She stood with her back to him, breathing fast, in nothing but her stays and her drawers, with no blanket to ward off the chill of the room.

“I’ll have to ease yer undergarments over yer hips,” he purred, his voice like the pounding crash of a waterfall as he loosened the ribbon that held her drawers in place.

She could not catch her breath as he obeyed his own instruction, the fabric gliding over her hips.

“And down yer thighs,” he murmured, his calloused palms skimming over her smooth skin as he slid her drawers down her thighs and calves, sinking down with the movement.

He raised her legs, one by one, and discarded her undergarments. But he did not stand up again, running his hands over the contours of her thighs and calves and ankles, his warm breath tickling her skin.

Her knees nearly buckled as his lips traced a searing path up the back of her thigh, while his fingertips caressed her inner thigh, moving up and up until she was certain he would touch the burning, pulsing center of her pleasure.

But then he pulled away and stood up.

His fingertips made quick work of the laces of her stays and pushed the garment forward, off her outstretched arms. It joined the rest of her undergarments, and though she had never been naked in front of any man before, she was curious to find that she was not at all afraid. She waited for the shame that she had been warned about, but it did not come.

The heat of his body left her, and she knew he had taken a step back, as if to observe her from a distance.

“Ye’re nae leavin’, are ye?” she asked, swallowing thickly.

He made a gravelly sound that might have been a laugh, and that heat radiated through her again as he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her to him.

His hand slid up her stomach and the valley between her breasts to her throat, and his fingers closed around the fragile column. With just the strength of his forefinger, he nudged her jaw and turned her head to the side.

Then, he captured her mouth in a fierce kiss, hungry and unforgiving. She kissed him back in kind, but when she tried to turn around to face him, he pressed her harder against him and tightened his hand around her throat. Evidently, that was to be her punishment—to not be able to touch him or kiss him as she pleased, surrendering to his wishes.

But she had never been particularly good at obedience.

So, to satisfy her mischief, she raised one hand to cover the one around her throat and moved her other hand behind her, gripping the hard muscle of his thigh. His belted plaid was still in the way, but as she slid her hand up and touched the defined ridges of his abdomen, he did not stop her.

Instead, he seemed to take inspiration, loosening his grip on her waist. His fingertips trailed up her stomach to her breasts, kneading that pliant flesh as he kissed her harder, her breaths ragged as they mingled with his.

“Oh… Oh, Murdoch!” she gasped as he pinched her nipple lightly, making her long for the softer suck of his mouth.

His hand slid down again, mapping the curves of her waist and hips, before sliding over her mound. She shuddered against him, grabbing a handful of his plaid as he finally touched the bundle of nerves that had been aching with desire.

“Oh God!” she panted.

Apparently, that was not what Murdoch had wanted to hear, as he immediately withdrew his hand, leaving her trembling with frustration. Surely, he did not mean to kick her out of the tower again at that pivotal moment?

“Until ye’re bare to me,” he growled, repeating the words he had spoken in the hunting cabin.

She blinked in surprise, uncertain of what he meant.

Fortunately, he saw fit to instruct her. “Put yer hands on the stool.”

She obeyed, for though the piece of furniture looked tiny when he was sitting on it, it was at a comfortable height for her to put her hands on. She bent at the waist, finally realizing as she did what he meant by being bare to him.

With his hand, he nudged her legs apart.

Cecilia ran her teeth across her lower lip as she heard him step back and sigh—the sort of sigh that one let out when one witnessed something beautiful. Rather than embarrassing her, that soft sound had a strange effect on her, bolstering her confidence and heightening her anticipation for what he planned to do next.

Though, of course, he had given her a hint with his words. So familiar to her by now, having echoed over and over in her mind and countless dreams.

Nae all of what he mentioned, though.

She might have been reckless, but she was not that reckless.

He stood close behind her, one hand coming to rest once more on her hip. Meanwhile, his other hand reached for the nape of her neck, tracing a searing line down her spine that made her limbs tremble.

His hand glided over the swell of her backside and down the back of her thigh, before sliding between her thighs once again. He had not planned to deny her, he just had something else in mind.

“Oh… Oh…” she breathed as his fingertips brushed that bundle of nerves, teasing her.

As he slowly began to circle her swollen bud, everything that had been building up inside her—the hunting cabin, the kiss from that morning, the anger that had led her up to the tower, the anticipation that had cooled her ire—detonated at once in an eruption of burning embers that shot through her.

Her stomach tightened, and her limbs shook as pleasure sparked in invisible lines, fizzing this way and that, lighting up her entire being with a bliss she had not known existed.

“Oh God!” she cried out, gripping the sides of the low stool for balance.

But he seemed determined to keep her guessing, as he suddenly withdrew his hand from her slick folds. A moment later, as she was about to protest, he leaned over her. His hardness pressed against her backside, and his fingertips returned to where they had been, strumming and circling the crackling center of her pleasure from a different angle.

“Oh, Murdoch,” she moaned, her head swimming. “Och… aye, like that… Oh God!”

He trailed kisses up her back, nipping the softer flesh of her shoulder, his fingertips never ceasing their ministrations. All the while, she felt his straining desire against the heat of her entrance, denied by the irksome layer of fabric that separated them.

“I’ll slide me fingers inside ye, make sure ye’re ready for me,” he whispered, just when she thought he could not surprise her further.

Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers eased through her wet heat and paused at her entrance. As she exhaled, he slid his finger inside her, just as he had promised.

“I am,” she rasped, dizzy with desire and the peculiar feeling of something swelling inside her.

His teeth grazed her back as he slid another finger inside her and stilled for a moment, as if he knew he might overwhelm her. But he would not have been the first person to underestimate her, and as he curled his fingers slightly and his thumb resumed that intense circling, she let him know that it was precisely what she desired.

“Och… Och, aye… Murdoch, aye!” she cried, the pulse of his fingertips somehow eliciting a fresh wave of ecstasy, as if there was another bundle of nerves within her that only he knew about.

Between his touch, his kisses, and the whispered words that swirled around in her head, Cecilia was transported to a place that must have been paradise. A place where she had never felt more alive, more vibrant, more free in her life. A place where what she was feeling, her entire body ablaze with pleasure, was nothing sinful or shameful, but something that everyone should experience without fear.

Before long, that unfamiliar sensation of something swelling within her, like a miniature storm in the very center of her being, began to expand and rise and crackle with delicious thunder that rippled through every vein and nerve and limb.

Murdoch seemed to sense the feeling, his fingers responding to her gasps and moans, keeping the rhythm that seemed to control that glorious, building sensation.

Before she could even think of what that feeling might be, it revealed itself with all the force of a true storm. That rippling thunder became bolts of pure, wondrous lighting that crashed through her, tightening every muscle, trapping her breath in her lungs, making her head spin with the power of it—a deluge of raw euphoria rushing through every inch of her being, tearing an almighty scream of bliss out of her throat.

She did not know if she made any coherent words or if they were just sounds, but she cried out her ecstasy, moaning and gasping, her hands gripping the stool even tighter as the overwhelming, earth-shattering sensation pummeled through her.

And this is what I would have denied meself… I would never have kenned this could happen if I hadnae decided to find out.

She thanked the heavens that she had been reckless, not caring if it meant she was no longer ‘pure.’ If this was what it meant to be ‘impure,’ then that rule was made by someone who had not experienced the wonder of it. The paradise of it.

Slowly, and to her trembling disappointment, the powerful sensation began to ebb. With it, Murdoch withdrew his fingers and his skillful thumb. He wrapped an arm around her waist, closed his fingers around her elbow, and carefully pulled her back up.

Then, he held her as she shook, still overcome by the pleasure that had crashed over her. Smaller sparks and pulses still flared within her, but the wave of her conclusion had faded, leaving her so content and relaxed that she did not know if she would be able to stand by herself.

Murdoch bent his head and kissed the curve of her neck, before he eased her down on the dress-covered stool, his actions gentler than ever.

Leaving her there, he went to one of the few side tables that bordered the room and poured a cup of something.

“Drink this,” he said, handing her the cup.

She took it gratefully and sipped from it. It was spiced wine, and the warm liquid slid down her throat and into her stomach. As she took another sip to steady herself, she glanced back at the partially completed sculpture.

“I didnae ken ye could make somethin’ like that,” she said, uncertain of whether he was willing to talk about the sculptures or not.

There appeared to be several in the tower, all covered with dusty cloths. If she had been able to stand on her shaky legs, she might have allowed her curiosity to get the better of her and gone over to investigate.

“Sculptin’ helps… soothe me,” he revealed, after a brief pause.

She nodded, seeing how that could be true. It was an art, requiring strength as well as delicacy. The perfect medium for someone like him.

“When did ye start?” she asked, taking a larger sip of her wine.

He shrugged. “A while ago. Me former captain taught me how.”

“Captain?” She frowned.

He met her gaze, his gray eyes more wolf-like than she had seen them. “Did I nae mention that I used to be a pirate?”

Shock rippled through her with such force that she almost dropped her cup. “Pardon?”

“If ye’d kenned me back then,” he said in a gravelly voice, “ye wouldnae have dared to set foot in here without me permission.”