Page 17 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)

17

W hether it was seeing Lennox and Jane riding back to the castle together, with Jane held tightly in Lennox’s arms, or if it was the threat of Father Hepburn that still left a sour taste in Jackson’s mouth, he did not know, but his only thought had been of Eloise on his return from the village. He had known what he would have to say to her, for her own safety, but that had not made it any easier to speak aloud.

When did it change? He could not recall a moment, exactly, but it amused him and troubled him in equal measure that he had gone from wanting her to leave, to refusing to allow her to leave, to now wanting her to stay with him, but her not being able to. It was a strange, cruel twist of fate. One he could not let himself think about, when she was right in front of him, for who knew how much longer.

“Kiss me,” Eloise told him, gazing up into his eyes.

He smiled and dipped his head, catching her mouth with his. Grasping her to him, he kissed her as if it really was their last night together, crushing his lips to hers with a feverish desire. It was a little peculiar to be surrounded by the stories of his family, while he kissed the woman he longed for, but there was a charm in it, too. The notion that she had wanted to know more about those he had lost had not failed to move him, though he knew it would make it even more difficult to let go of her, when the time came.

“When did this happen?” He could not help but ask, as he took a breath between kisses.

She paused, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“This. Us. Me wantin’ ye to stay a while, and ye seemin’ to want the same,” he replied, kissing her again, grazing his lips to hers until he could barely contain his need for her.

She drew her kisses away from his mouth, fluttering them down the side of his neck and along his jaw. “I’m as stumped as you are.” Her voice carried a note of laughter that chased away his remaining sorrow. “I was certain I’d be on my way through the woods by now, but then… you inspired me, and you listened to me, and you showed an interest in what I was doing. You can’t understand how much that means to me. I can’t explain how… different you are, and how welcome that difference is.”

“Ye’re speakin’ in tongues again,” he teased, though he more or less understood what she was saying.

She chuckled and brought her lips back to his. “No, my dear Jackson, this is speaking in tongues, and I think you’ll understand this.”

She kissed him hard on the mouth, caressing his tongue with hers as she pulled him closer. So close, indeed, that he lost his balance for a moment, the two of them tumbling down onto the rug that stretched before the fireplace. He put a hand down to soften the fall, worried he might crush her, but as she lay there, peering up at him with shining eyes, he lowered himself until their bodies were flush together.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, gripping him against her, stirring his loins to the point of madness. It took all of the willpower he possessed not to gather up her skirts and plunge inside her, for if they were to leave for the Cairns soon, and the stones did steal her back to a time in the distant future, he did not want to rush anything. She deserved a slow and sensual worshiping, and he was only too happy to serve diligently at the altar of her body.

“Nay, Lass, this is how ye speak in tongues,” he said softly, teasing his kiss away from her lips, following the curve of her throat down to the ridges of her collarbone.

Eloise closed her eyes, caressed by a wave of heat that swept over her from all directions, radiating from the roaring fire and the inferno of Jackson’s lips on her skin. She didn’t want to assume what he meant by speaking in tongues, but as his kiss moved lower, over the peaks of her breasts and down over her fluttering stomach, she had a feeling understood him perfectly.

“What if someone comes in?” she gasped, as he pushed her skirts up to her waist and traced his kiss across her bare abdomen, making her shiver with excitement.

He smiled against her skin. “The hour is late, Lass. Nay one will disturb us.”

“Is your… Grandma asleep?” Eloise’s breath caught as he kissed over the sharp peak of her hip and along the smooth muscle of her thigh.

He glanced up, flashing her a look of mock annoyance. “Can we nae talk about me grandmaither while I’m tryin’ to please ye? I promise, nay one will intrude.”

“Sorry.” She smiled at him and relaxed back into the soft, fluffy rug.

The truth was, there was something so very intimate about what he was about to do, something more intimate, in a way, than sleeping together. It was an act that Peter had never performed, claiming he didn’t like doing it and didn’t see the point. She’d always accepted his aversion as everyone had their preferences and distastes, but as Jackson shimmied her underwear down her legs and discarded them, she was eager to experience what she’d been missing.

A breathy cry slipped from her lips as Jackson touched his fingertips to her nub, beginning the slow, tantalizing circles that had been so rudely cut short before. His tongue tasted her inner thighs, his kiss never leaving her skin as he took his time to build the anticipation. Yet another thing that Peter had never done; he’d always been in a rush to get it all over with, greedy to have his own satisfaction first.

His mouth explored every available inch of her bare skin, pausing to kiss every freckle that marked her. He even kissed her ironic ‘A’ tattoo—her “scarlet letter,” which couldn’t have been more appropriate.

“It becomes ye,” he whispered. “It makes me believe that ye were sent by the Old Gods.”

Eloise chuckled. “I swear, it’s just a tattoo.”

“Let me believe what I want to believe,” he chided playfully, returning to his exploration.

As his head dipped between her thighs, his fingertips slipped lower, pausing for just a moment before sinking into her eager warmth. Eloise grazed her lower lip with her teeth, her back arching as he tasted her for the very first time: a slow stroke of his tongue that spoke of more wonders to come.

Of the very, very few men she had ever encountered like this, Jackson was the only one who knew what he was doing. Precisely what he was doing. His tongue danced in circles and caresses, while his fingers moved to even slower rhythm, lavishing her body with the kind of pleasure she’d thought people just made up.

It was like she no longer had control of herself, as she thrashed and writhed on the rug, so feverish that sweat beaded on her brow and glistened across her chest. Her blood was like wildfire, the heat tearing through every cell, every limb, every muscle, every single part of her, until the sensation was almost too intense to bear. She needed to douse it with the only thing that could ease the fire: the bliss of her climax.

All the while, Jackson seemed to be listening intently to the sounds that escaped her throat, altering what he was doing if they became less than euphoric. She was an instrument in his hands, and he knew exactly how to play her, and what tune she’d play best.

Then, for a blissful moment that almost tipped her over the edge, he sucked gently in between his perfect circles. Eloise’s hands clawed at the rug, grabbing fistfuls as she strained toward the peak of her pleasure, rising higher and higher like Icarus himself. But when she finally tumbled back down to Earth, it wouldn’t be a tragedy, but the beginning of more soaring flights to paradise. At least, for as long as they were able.

“Yes, Jackson! Yes, keep doing that!” she called, his tongue lavishing her with measured strokes, precise and powerful.

No sooner had she spoken than the peak of her ecstasy came rushing toward her, crashing like a sudden storm against the rocks of her desire. Her body seized, her back arcing up off the ground, her mouth half open in readiness for the scream of pleasure that had gotten lodged somewhere in her throat, while her limbs shook violently, embracing the rush of euphoria that charged through her.

“Oh, Jackson! Jackson!” She found her voice, crying out his name as she braced against wave after wave, the tide controlled by his expert hands.

He softened his talents, easing the push of his fingers, slowing the roll of his tongue to a gentle savoring. And like a puppet, happy to be guided, the powerful swell of Eloise’s bliss faded down and down until it was nothing but a spray of sparks, still glowing inside her; her body so relaxed she could’ve drifted off to sleep there and then, bathed in the warmth of him and the library.

This is what I’ve been missing, her mind sighed. All this time, I could’ve been feeling like this. She allowed herself to forget that time itself was the problem. Namely, that she was hundreds of years away from hers, and coming to his was just a lucky, necessary, glorious accident.

“Are ye satisfied?” Jackson withdrew his fingers and kissed his way along her inner thigh, moving up over the rise of her hip and taking a moment to kiss her stomach once more.

She could barely get her head to nod. “Very satisfied.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” He smiled and followed the previous path he’d set for his lips, kissing the route back to her mouth. “I might nae ken how much longer we have to be… near to one another, but there’s one thing I do ken.”

“And what is that?” she purred, holding his face and gazing deeply into his eyes for a moment, spying mischief in their warm brown shade.

He grinned. “That I willnae let ye forget me, nay matter how many centuries ahead of me ye are.”

Eloise guessed it was supposed to be a joke, but as they continued to hold one another’s gaze, she saw her growing sadness reflected in his face. Surely, he already knew that, no matter where she was or how many years went by in her own century, she would never forget the night when she was young and falling in love with a Laird she had no right to be falling for. In fact, she had a suspicion that he might have just ruined her for all men, as who could ever match up to him—the one man it appeared she wasn’t allowed to have?

So, why send me here, only to break my heart all over again? Only the stones had the answers to that, and she doubted she’d ever be able to squeeze an explanation out of them.

“Hold me,” she urged.

Jackson did just that, lying flat on his back and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her to him. In the firelight, he stroked her hair and stared up at the ceiling, his brow furrowed in thought. Desperately, Eloise wanted to ask what was on his mind, but as she wasn’t sure she’d like the answer to that, either, she kept quiet, content to enjoy the safety of his embrace while she had it.

And as she closed her eyes, letting the balmy heat of the room coax her into sleep, she sent a prayer up to whichever Gods were listening—old or new—regardless of Lorraine’s warning.

Don’t let the snows melt tomorrow, or the day after, and maybe not the day after that, either. Give us a while, but keep the real wolves from our door. After all, the bubble would certainly burst if Father Hepburn came knocking, demanding a sacrifice of blood and fire.