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The words were harsh, but the sentiment in them was surprisingly tender. I’d never heard any man call another a sick bastard with such affection before. And Ian’s eyes misted over, as if he, too, had been pained by their long estrangement.
It was so tender a moment, I nearly forgot that I was naked on a bed beneath my laird, his sweat cooling on my body, my tenderest parts still pulsing with desire. He noticed, and kissed me again, this time, with something that felt like more than lust. And he kept kissing me, so tenderly, that Ian let out a little snort of impatience. “You want me to stay or go? You’re kissing her like you love her.”
“I do,” John Macrae said, staring down into my eyes. “She’s brave and beautiful in her rawness, and as willing to sacrifice as any of our swordsmen. So you might as well go, because I’ll be a while abed…”
No injured man ever fled a room faster than Ian Macrae, leaving us alone, leaving me reeling with the words I’d just heard. John Macrae loved me? Love. Like in the poem he’d helped me learn to read. A beautiful thing that whores weren’t supposed to have, but then, rules didn’t apply to the Macrae. He didn’t need me to say it; he knew I loved him too. I wouldn’t have surrendered to him this way if I hadn’t. But now he was bashful in light of his admission. “I know I said I’d share you, lass, but I’m not sated of you yet. And have this fear, in truth, that I never will be.”
“Nor will I be sated of you,” I said saucily, happy as I’d never been happy in my whole life.
