And the truth suddenly struck him. “I dinnae,” he gasped, and when he staggered back, his legs struck the chair. He sank down into it, his eyes wide. “I dinnae want more power. I want…”
I want to give up responsibilities to my brothers. I want to be able to relax. I want to be happy.
“Ye want to give up control.”
Aye.
But he shook his head, trying to clear the jumble of thoughts in his mind. “I…I dinnae ken how, Lara.”
Her lips curled enigmatically. “I do.”
“Show me,” he whispered. And he heard the pleading in his own voice.
Her nod was firm, then she whirled and strode toward his cot. He was surprised to see her scoop up the stool he kept beside his bed and carry it back toward him.
He watched her place the stool so that, with his chair angled the way ‘twas, he could face either the desk or her, and the desk stood between them and the door. Not that anyone would barge in on Alistair when the door was closed, but he appreciated the privacy at that moment, not knowing what she had in mind.
She sat on the stool, folded her hands in her lap, and studied him.
This wasn’t what he’d expected. But for some reason, his cock was throbbing in anticipation.
One of his brows rose—in question? In challenge?—and her lips curled upward.
“Are ye wearing braies under yer kilt?”
St. Elzear’s nipples! Was she going out of her way to try to surprise him? He couldn’t understand how her mind worked, and his other brow joined the first. “Nay.”
“Excellent.” She cocked her head and dragged her gaze down his torso to his lap, then further down his legs. “I came here today to discuss the celebration, and what I could do to make it easier for ye. But I think I’m going to like this kind of helping better.”
Something told Alistair that he would too.
“Ye told me ye’d show me how to give up control,” he reminded her.
“Do ye trust me?”
He’d known her since she was a wee lassie. He’d watched her grow up, but until recently, he hadn’t seen her as more than just his sister’s best friend. He knew Lara was a force to be reckoned with, and did an excellent job helping her mother run the household, but he also knew she was a good woman, level-headed and kind, with a sharp wit and a lovely smile.
Until recently, he’d seen that, but hadn’t really understood it. Now, though? Now he was seeing Lara as a woman, and he liked what he saw.
So he nodded. “I do, lass.”
When she smiled, it wasn’t blinding, it wasn’t adoring. Her smile was approving, and the Devil take his eyes, but that realization made him much prouder than the others would have.
“Alistair, touch yerself.”
Damnation, she was doing it again—surprising him.
“What?” he managed to ask blandly; sure he’d misheard.
“Ye trust me, and ye’re willing to give up control. Give control to me, Alistair.” She held his gaze, her eyes serious, something like hope lurking deep within. “Let me show ye.”
“By touching myself?”
One of her hands rose off her lap; the movement slow, deliberate. And entirely too sensual.
His eyes followed her fingertips as they rested against the smooth skin of her throat, then brushed upward to caress her own cheek. She touched her lower lip, then stroked both lips with her fingertips, and when his eyes jerked to hers, she held his gaze.
“I’m touching myself, Alistair,” she whispered against her fingers. “It feels nice. Can ye picture yer hands here?” She traced her lower lip with her index finger. “Or here?” Her fingertips fell to the hollow at the base of her throat.
His hands? Alistair knew he groaned out loud, picturing his lips there instead.
“Or here?” she whispered, as she languidly circled her breast with her hand.
When she—still holding his gaze—squeezed, he sucked in a breath.
Had he thought himself rock-hard before? Nay. Nay, that was merely a pebble, a piece of hardened clay. What he was now was rock-hard. Boulder-hard. Mountain range-hard.
Jesu Christo.
“Alistair?” she prompted. “I asked ye a question.”
“Aye,” he croaked, then shifted uncomfortably on the chair. “I can picture myself touching ye, lass.”
“Good,” she crooned, and she sounded proud of him again. “Now, can ye picture me touching ye?”
“St. Elzear’s tits, Lara, aye!” He groaned, and as his eyes closed, his hand dropped—of its own free will—to the tent in his lap.
“Can ye imagine me grasping yer cock, Alistair?” she whispered, the sound seeming to echo around the empty room, or mayhap ‘twas because his entire body was straining to hear her next words. “Can ye picture me tugging up yer kilt and running my hands along yer thighs? Wrapping my fingers around yer hard length?”
God help him, he could. “Aye,” he rasped.
“Then do it,” she commanded. “Show me what ye’re imagining.”
And there was no way he could deny that demand, not when he so badly—desperately, achingly—needed to obey.
Eyes still closed, he yanked up the bottom of his kilt and swore he heard her suck in a breath when his cock sprang free of its confines. He knew he was big—his brothers had ribbed him often enough about it—but that was just because he was so tall. Right now, he wanted to revel in her admiration of his size, but he couldn’t wait.
He groaned when his hand closed around the shaft, and his cock jumped in anticipation.
“Aye, Alistair,” he heard her whisper. “Now stroke yerself.”
He would’ve done it without her command; he was too far gone to step back at this point. As he dragged his palm up his cock, he encountered the moisture at the tip, which was enough to spread down its length.
St. Elzear bless me!
He sucked in a breath and began to pump his hand up and down his cock.
“Now open yer eyes.”
Command or nay, he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. He opened his eyes to find her eagerly watching him, her eyes locked on his long shaft, her hand still clenching her own breast. Her breaths were coming faster, and her tongue darted out to lick her lower lip.
That, more than anything, sent him so close to the edge.
Crudely, still staring at her, he spat into his hand and lowered it to his cock, the liquid lubricating his grip even more. His buttocks clenched, and he found himself trying to lift off the chair.
To get closer to her?
God help him, but he was so close to spilling his seed, like an untried youth, just because she’d told him to imagine it as her hands. Her lips.
Lara was panting now, as she dragged her eyes back up to his. Her free hand rose to cup her other breast, and she squeezed them both through the wool of her kirtle. Then, holding his gaze, she pinched her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, desire clouding her gaze.
“Now…” she panted, “finish for me.”
So he did.
With a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh, Alistair spilled his seed across his thigh in one explosive burst.
In the moment directly after, everything in the room became alarmingly, wonderfully clear. The way the sunlight caught the gold in her hair, the faint smell of parchment and leather and ink, and whatever flower she used in her soap. The sounds from the distant courtyard filtering up through the open window. The light and shadows dancing across the desk.