Joanna's Highlander Read online

  “Mistress Martha has a wee necessities gift shop for personal items travelers might need.” Grant nodded toward the check-in desk, then pointed at the floor between Joanna’s feet. “Wait here.”

  Thank God these running pants are black. Grant had made her so wet with “wait here,” she’d soaked them. She glanced at her watch. What the hell was she thinking? It was getting late and she had to mentally spar all day tomorrow with the gangster grannies.

  Grant reappeared in the entryway, a pleased-with-himself smile on his face and a small brown paper bag in one hand.

  An expectant shiver starting at Joanna’s core arced and spread like erotic lightning. Ms. Give It to Me Now was back in all her lusting glory. Who cared how late it was? She turned and darted up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. A flicker of guilt, the faintest shadow of remorse, swept across her as she twisted her room key in the door, pushed it open, then stood staring at the twin-sized bed littered with the contents of her backpack. I’ve got no self-control. If this goes bad…

  The door lock clicked behind her. The room was so quiet, she swore she heard Grant draw in a deep breath. The uppermost branches of the oak tree outside her windows rattled against the glass, tapping out a hypnotizing Morse code as the tree danced with the wind. Grant was standing close behind her. She was keenly aware of him, feeling his presence like an energy that was about to wrap around her and squeeze. She felt everything. The heat of him. His pending touch. The pleasure about to ensue.

  “She did put bars on the windows,” Grant said. “She said she would do it just t’vex them and stop their yammerin’. Said it would save her on the insurance but still stay as she wanted.”

  “What?” Joanna turned and faced Grant. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Grant nodded and pointed to the double windows on the other side of the attic room, set back in their own alcove with a padded and pillowed bench beneath them to create a cozy little nook. “Mistress Martha said her insurance company was givin’ her fits over lettin’ this room in the attic when the windowpanes werena sealed for safety’s sake. She wanted her renters t’be able to open the window when they wished for a bit of fresh air. Said she’d put iron bars on the windows afore she’d seal the panes. Looks as though she did it.”

  “Oh.” Joanna glanced at the windows. “I hadn’t really paid any attention.”

  Grant walked over to the window seat. He tossed the small bag of condoms over on the bench. Keeping his back to Joanna, he slowly unwound his kilt, sliding it away layer by layer until he stood naked looking out the window. The soft yellow light from the bedside lamp turned his skin a mesmerizing gold. Shadows played across his rippling muscles, flexing and receding as though warming up. He dropped the kilt to the floor, turned around, and lowered himself to the seat. He sat with legs widespread and his impressive erection standing at full attention. “We need t’finish what we started in the wood. Do ye no’ agree?”

  Joanna didn’t say a word, didn’t trust herself to speak. She moved forward, sliding her fingers under the hem of her shirt and wadding it in her hands to pull it off over her head.

  “Stop.”

  Grant’s deep voice and his primal brogue froze Joanna in place.

  “Come here t’me,” he ordered, hand extended. “Ye may remove yer shoes and socks, but I wish t’disrobe ye m’self.”

  A tingling shiver thrilled its way through her. She was so not used to being the aggressee instead of the aggressor. She liked sex and had never had any qualms about asking for what she wanted. This was…different…and titillating. Joanna kicked off her running shoes, pulled off her socks, and padded closer.

  Grant hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her pants and, while looking up into her eyes, slowly slid them down to her knees. “Hold my shoulders and step out of them.”

  Drowning in the silvery blue of Grant’s eyes, Joanna did as she was told.

  Grant tossed her pants aside, then, placing his hands on her inner thighs, he gently pressed outward. “Now spread yer legs for me, lass.”

  Her breath catching in her throat, Joanna slid her feet apart until Grant stopped her.

  Bowing his head, he bent forward, fully licked her clit, then softly blew on her already soaking wet parts while tickling his fingertips up and down the inside of her thighs.

  With every upsweep of Grant’s touch between her legs, Joanna tensed and trembled, praying he’d run those fingers a little higher and sink them into her. Head back, eyes closed, she held on to his shoulders to keep from weaving off balance. A paper bag rattled. Then cellophane. Joanna smiled, unconsciously clenching her ass and rolling to the balls of her feet in anticipation.

  Grant rested one hand on the small of her back and stood. “Keep yer eyes closed,” he whispered as he slid against her. Skin to hot, flushed skin.

  Again, Joanna obeyed, her hands still resting on Grant’s shoulders.

  Grant’s arm tightened around her waist; his hard, muscular thigh spread her legs farther apart. “Not a word either, love. Not until I say, aye?”

  Joanna nodded, her clit about to explode with every prodding nudge of Grant’s engorged cock. She’d already fully slicked the condom with her juices as Grant took his erection in one hand and with slow, teasing strokes, rubbed it up and down her inner thighs and across her wet slit. Impatience. The ache for release quickly made her forget her promise. “Please…now…”

  “I said not a word, ye ken?”

  As soon as she nodded, he lifted her up, hugged her to his chest, and slipped his cock inside her. A groan escaped as she clenched him with her thighs and wrapped her legs around his waist.

  “Not a word, lass. Hear me well, for I mean what I say.” Grant spoke in a low, rasping growl, squeezing her ass with both hands, his cock buried inside her. “If ye speak or cry out, I’ll bring ye to the brink a thousand times but ne’er let ye come.”

  Joanna nuzzled the side of Grant’s throat, reveling in his salty-sweet taste. So many sensations. So many delights. She quickly nodded. Silence was a small price to pay for this long-denied first-class ride.

  Holding Joanna tight, Grant lowered himself to sit on the window bench. He leaned back slightly and with a quick, startling move, stripped Joanna’s shirt away and did the same with her running bra. He squeezed the cheeks of her ass again and slightly lifted himself up from the bench with this pumping move, his cock thrust so deep, Joanna shuddered and trembled with another moan.

  He trailed his hands up her sides and took hold of both her nipples, lightly twisting them between his fingers and thumbs. Sparks of deliciously enjoyable pain zipped out from Joanna’s tender buttons and radiated throughout her body. “Yer a stubborn lass and ye dinna listen well. Hush now and do as I say, m’love. I swear t’ye—I’ll make yer silence worth it.” He tweaked her nipples once more, then reverently cupped her breasts and squeezed. “Ye may answer me with words so that I know ye understand.”

  “I understand,” Joanna panted, then shuddered with a greedy wiggle on his lap.

  Grant kissed the tops of her breasts, cuddled them both against his cheeks, then returned his talented hands to their delicious task of squeezing her ass and working their massaging magic up and down her thighs. “Nay, lass. Ye must remain still as well.”

  Holy shit. Quiet AND still?

  “Open yer eyes and look at me, Joanna.”

  Joanna forced her eyes open, biting her lip and tensing to keep from coming and melting into a quivering puddle of satisfied bliss.

  “Ye must hold but a bit longer, m’love, aye?”

  Joanna agreed with a strained bobbing of her head.

  Grant smiled, then treated her to a chaste, caring kiss across the seam of her mouth. While nibbling his way down to suck her right nipple deep in his mouth, he slid a hand between their bodies and began a slow, tantalizing massage of Joanna’s clitori
s.

  Joanna dug her nails into Grant’s shoulders. He hadn’t made her swear she wouldn’t claw him up during this process. Let’s see if he could stay quiet while she did that.

  After thoroughly sucking Joanna’s right nipple until she thought she’d surely have to violate the silent-and-no-movement agreement, Grant rocked back and arched his hips upward. “Ye may hang on to the bars and ride for a wee bit, mo ghaol tòidheach, my fiery love. But ye still must not come or cry out until I give ye leave.”

  Bars. Ride. Quiet. Hell yes. Joanna leaned forward, grabbed hold of the sturdy iron bars that the delightful Miss Martha had installed in a fit of rage, and rocked hard and fast. Oh shit. Can’t do that. I’ll come for sure. She froze.

  “If ye come, I’ll be sorely displeased with ye.”

  Joanna vehemently shook her head. When she made a deal, she damn well kept it.

  Grant smiled, pulled downward on her nipples at the same time, then kissed both her breasts. He slid his hands down to her ass, spread her cheeks, and thrust upward hard. “Aye, lass. We’re matched well, you and I,” he whispered. “Soon,” he promised. “I swear t’ye. My control canna take much more.”

  Thank God for that! Joanna released the bars and spread her hands across Grant’s chest. This couldn’t be a mistake. Anything this good couldn’t be all bad. Right? Yes. Abso-fuckin-lutely right. She grinned at the wicked thought, leaned down, and branded Grant with a claiming kiss of her own. Then she seductively stretched, arched her back, and started rocking. Yeah…she was supposed to sit still, but this cock was made for motion. Damnation. Best ride in the park.

  Suddenly, Grant stood, one arm under her ass to keep her well fitted down on his cock, the other arm around her shoulders. “Even though ye cheated a wee bit…” Grant slowly lowered her to the floor, then propped his hands on either side of her head. “ ’Tis time, lass,” he whispered, low and deadly. “I mean t’claim ye. Claim ye for m’verra own. Yer mine, lass. Mine alone.”

  Claim. His. Hell. Yes. Joanna raked her fingernails down Grant’s sides and arched her back, struggling to pant out words into coherent sentences. “The bed. I can clear it. Yes? Easier on the knees.”

  Grant took hold of Joanna’s wrists and pinned them to the floor over her head. “M’knees dinna cause me concern.” He leaned down, nuzzled the side of her face, then spoke in a tone strained and rasping with slipping control. “Now, love. ’Tis time. Forevermore yer mine.”

  And then he pounded and drove into Joanna with a force and passion she’d never known.

  Her world exploded in sensory bliss. Wave upon wave of excruciating pleasure washed across her as Grant hammered harder and drove deeper with a rumbling growl.

  World spinning, Joanna gave herself over to mind-numbing ecstasy, coming hard, then coming again in rapid succession. Off in the distance, Joanna thought she heard a scream. A familiar scream. Then she realized why the scream sounded so familiar.

  It was hers.

  Chapter 8

  “So…” Grant’s mother stood beside the MacDaras’ housekeeper, Miss Lydia Higgins, who was more like family, quite grandmotherly in fact. Arms crossed and fingers drumming atop her sleeve, Sarinda gave Miss Lydia a smug look that Grant knew all too well. “So, Ramsay and Ross tell me we’re about t’meet the one woman who could quite possibly tame this braw beastie son o’ mine. Can ye believe that, Lydia?”

  “Is that so?” Miss Lydia replied in a singsong tone that grated on Grant’s nerves. “Then it’s a good thing we decided to take Joanna Martin’s group off her hands again today. She can spend the entire day with Grant and start teaching him to heel.” She poked Grant with her elbow and gave him a serious scowl. “Don’t screw this up, boy.”

  He was too tired for these two and their teasing games. He’d left Joanna’s bed but a scant hour or so ago, and barely made it back to the park in time to shower and don fresh clothing before Joanna and her tour group arrived for their second full day at Highland Life and Legends.

  Both Sarinda and Miss Lydia, on the other hand, were obviously looking forward to spending time with their special guests again today and had taken the opportunity to clothe themselves in the period dress of Highland women ready to go about their daily chores—yarn dyeing, in fact. They had a full day planned for the Alverest Knitting Chicks and Textiles Club and in Grant’s opinion, they looked entirely too damned pleased with themselves and the plot they’d cooked up betwixt them.

  “That’s quite enough, thank ye.” Grant raked his still wet hair back from his face and secured it into a tangled ponytail knotted at the base of his skull. “I’m in no mood for either of ye nor yer infernal nettlin’. The both of ye need t’find someone else t’poke.”

  “Dinna use that tone with me, boy. Ye ken good and well how to speak to yer mother.” Sarinda stretched as tall as her petite, barely five-foot frame allowed and gave him a look that still had the effect of making him tighten his buttocks in preparation of getting his arse tanned.

  As if reading her son’s mind, Sarinda continued, “I’d sooner take a switch to yer arse now than I did when ye were a wee’un, aye? ’Tis time t’pay the piper for the song that kept ye dancin’ ’til the wee hours of the mornin’.” She shook a stern finger at him, but delight sparkled in her pale blue eyes. “Dinna be pissy with me because ye’ve had no sleep.” Sarinda chuckled and nudged Miss Lydia with her elbow. “He was the same way as a lad. If the boy didna sleep, the devil himself couldna get along with him.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” Miss Lydia said. She looked at Grant and nodded. “A lot.”

  Carolina Adventures’ compact black shuttle bus pulled through the main entrance of Highland Life and Legends, easing through the sliding electronic gateway of black iron bars centered between two medieval towers. A kilted security guard held the bus at the checkpoint for a brief moment while he spoke to Joanna through the driver’s window, then pointed to a parking area reserved for VIP guests.

  “Thank the goddesses,” Grant said under his breath. At least now, Máthair and Mistress Lydia would have someone other than himself t’keep themselves entertained.

  “Mind yer manners,” Sarinda said with a stinging pinch of the tender flesh of Grant’s underarm.

  “Dammit, Máthair!” Grant jerked out of her reach and strode across the cobblestone greeting center of the bailey to the curb, where the bus had come to a stop and sat with lights flashing to warn of passengers exiting the vehicle.

  Glaring back at the still grinning women, Grant pointed them toward the bus. “If the two of ye can see fit t’be civil, come help me properly greet our guests and get their day started.”

  The sliding door to the bus opened and the Alverest Knitting Chicks and Textiles president, Hazel Abraham, was the first to emerge. “Step lively, ladies,” she called back up into the bus, then turned and winked at Grant. “We’re already running quite late this morning.” She leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “And we’ve all got a pretty good idea as to why. The rooms in the bed-and-breakfast aren’t exactly soundproof.”

  Grant pretended not to hear Hazel’s comment, smiling politely as he helped each lady step off the bus. The last Knitting Chick in line was Georgetta. She grabbed his hand with the strength of a man and shook it. “Holy Moses, you shook the house last night, and Joanna looks like she’s been rode hard and put up wet. Good job, son!”

  Grant grit his teeth and held his breath to keep from groaning out loud. Damned old women. Coarser-talkin’ than any bunch of warriors. If they had kept up that banter during the short ride from the bed-and-breakfast to the park, Joanna would be in a mood for certain. He steeled himself and looked up into the bus. Joanna was the last one on board.

  She sat in the driver’s seat with a large travel cup of coffee clutched to her chest. She’d slicked her hair back, its usual fiery red coloring a deep, rich burgundy this morning since it loo
ked to be quite wet. She’d twisted it to the top of her head in a messy bun with dark curling tendrils framing her face and throat. She wore a pair of black sunglasses so large that the upper half of her face was hidden. Her pale cheeks and lips attested to the absence of even the slightest makeup, and the holes in her ears were a dead giveaway that she’d forgotten her earrings in her haste to get dressed.

  Grant peered closer, eyeing her oversized black shirt and the loose black lounge pants she wore. Although he was no expert on this century’s form of women’s clothing, there was a distinct possibility that she had her sweatshirt on backwards.

  Grant couldn’t help but smile. Aye. He’d done well by his lady. He held out a hand to help her disembark and waited. “Good mornin’ t’ye, lass.”

  Joanna took a long gulp of coffee, then hugged it back to her chest. Slowly, she looked down at him from the top step of the bus. All he could see in the ebony lenses of the glasses were his twin reflections, but he could tell by the tilt of her head and the hard line of her lips that a storm was brewin’.

  Joanna took hold of the safety rail and eased down the steps. When she reached the bottom, she looked up at him, cocking her head as though studying his face. “Have you any idea what it’s like to be trapped in a bus with seven old women who haven’t had sex in twenty years or more and are determined to relive ‘the wild nasty,’ as they so grossly called it, through you?”

  “I canna say that I do,” Grant said with a glance back at said women impatiently milling about on the sidewalk. “But I do ken verra well what it’s like t’be nettled and fretted with first thing in the mornin’ after a verra short night.”

  He gave Joanna his most understanding smile, took her hand, and steadied her as she stepped off the bus. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but instead he hurried her around her tour group, shielding her from them by placing his body between her and the chattering mob of nosy hens. He came to a stop in front of his mother and Mistress Lydia. “Ye ken m’mother, but I dinna believe ye’ve met our housekeeper, Mistress Lydia Higgins.” He fixed both his mother and Miss Lydia with a warning, narrow-eyed look that he prayed they’d take to heart. “Mistress Lydia—this is Mistress Joanna Martin.”