Chapter 1: Claire
“Jesus H. Roosevelt… CHRIST!”
As was its usual habit, my corset turned me into a seething mass that called for swift and violent destruction. Of the corset itself, preferably. Fiddling with damp laces for what felt like half an eternity was completely fine, I supposed, if one was used to it. I was most definitely not, however.
A kingdom for a zipper…
Despite myself, I had to chuckle. Here I was, stranded in the 18th century, alone amongst strangers, prone to countless dangers and diseases (and dragoons, apparently). And what I really, desperately longed for was practical clothing.
Finally, I was able to loosen the last uncooperative knot. I wriggled out of the damnable thing and promptly dropped it next to my bed, along with stays, skirts, bum roll and other paraphernalia I couldn’t even put a name to.
On better days, I would have placed everything - neatly sorted - on a stool next to the fireplace, but this wasn’t one of my better days. I couldn’t wait to crawl under my blankets and quilts.
Not that it was particularly cold tonight. I made myself comfortable, then turned to blow out the small candle on my right. The room was left in the cool light of moon and stars, and I was left to think.
I closed my eyes experimentally, but I’d already expected that I wouldn’t just go to sleep tonight. I had known it since breakfast, actually, and then I’d been somewhere between resignation and anticipation all day.
Anticipation definitely won out as I let my hands wander over my body, imagining them to be bigger, strongly calloused, impatient and eager. I knew perfectly fine that the hands I imagined didn’t belong to my husband, but I felt no particular need to delve into the state of my conscience just now.
They were Jamie’s hands, of course.
In a lesser state, I’d have rolled my eyes at the sigh that left me at the mere thought of his name. As it was, I brought my hands up to cup my breasts and wondered what he’d have to say to them.
It was all Murtagh’s fault, really. This morning, I’d been running a little late for breakfast (again). I was just about to scurry off to one of the last benches when I’d seen Jamie gesturing for me. Ever the thoughtful one, he’d saved me a place, fresh bannocks, still warm porridge and even some honey. This kindness alone would have been enough to keep him in my mind for the remainder of the day, but then it was Murtagh’s turn to have a lasting impression on me.
Jamie, I learned, had decided to experimentally saddle one of the yearlings just before supper, which had earned him a swift kick to the ribs and an involuntary bath in one rather large, muddy puddle. Mrs. Fitz had met him on his way to supper by chance, and immediately sent him off to the nearest stream with a bit of soap. He’d returned to the castle clean as a whistle, but starving, and to cap it all - this was evidently Murtagh’s favourite part of the story - had to discover that he’d missed supper.
As entertaining as it was listening to a grinning Murtagh, Jamie’s embarrassment and bashful smiles across from me had been very distracting. Not to mention the image of him angrily dowsing and scrubbing himself, naked as the day he came.
I moaned and slipped my hands under my shift, lazily caressing my nipples.
Then there was the chance meeting around mid-day. As there had been no patients in sight for the moment and I was keen on fresh air, I’d ventured out to replenish some of my stocks. The weather had been agreeable for the day, and so I’d followed one of the nearby rivulets around the castle, hoping to find some watercress.
In no time, I’d been completely engrossed in my task. With my basket finally full, I’d discovered my search had taken me into a small, light forest near the stable grounds. Rather than trundling back along the river, I’d then decided to make my way back along the regular path.
I had to dodge some undergrowth and needed to scramble for a few feet, but soon enough I emerged victoriously on the path - only to startle Jamie, who’d mended the fence of a nearby pasture.
After the initial shock, he’d been delighted to see me again. He even asked about what it was I had been doing in the bushes and patiently listened to my hymns of praise for watercress. It was a joy to see him carefree and in his element, and I’d lingered for a while, asking him about his day as well.
The side benefit of our pleasant conversation had undoubtedly been that I was able to appreciate him in his kilt and loose-fitting shirt, dishevelled and sweating from his work. His collar had been wide enough to reveal a fair bit of his muscular chest, and I’d wanted nothing more than to -
One hand left my breasts and settled between my thighs, gently exploring the warmth and wetness there. I exhaled, a trifle shakily.
Just a few minutes ago, we’d met for the third time today. I hadn’t seen him at all during supper and already missed his comforting, encouraging presence. As I’d left the great hall, I allowed myself a moment to ponder my feelings for him, and was soon lost in thought. So lost in thought, apparently, that I’d walked straight into him at the first corner.
Once we’d recovered from our minor clash, we laughed together and mockingly checked each other for bruises. Then, there’d been silence and shy smiles again, and our gazes locked for quite a bit longer than what felt proper. Just as I’d opened my mouth to break the mood, Jamie took a step forward.
“I’ll see ye in the morning - Sassenach.”
And as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do, he’d gingerly tucked one of my stray curls behind my ear, and quickly strode off to his supper.
I spread more of my wetness with my fingers, and started a slow rhythm against my heated, sensitive skin.
There was no point in denying what I did, no point in reasoning that I simply missed my husband and our intimacy. But at this point, I was way too far gone to care.
My legs pushed the heavy blankets away, and I quickly brought my shift up over my head. Dimly aware of the increasing volume of my gasps, I sped up my motions, circling my nipples as well. I had room to move, and finally gave myself room to feel as well.
Jamie, wearing nothing but his kilt and boots as I’d tended to his wounds in front of the fire.
Jamie, eyes warm and glinting, mouth curled up in a smile, hanging on my every word.
Jamie, playing shinty on the castle grounds, strong and agile, glorious red mane flying in the wind.
Jamie, ever so gently, reverently tucking back my curl tonight, unravelling me with a simple touch.
A quiet sob left my lips, pleasure spread through my body like a warm, healing fire, and I found release with the image of him fresh and stark in my mind. When it was over, I gasped and drew out the aftershocks, still stroking myself.
Afterwards, I covered myself with the blankets again, turning to the serene light of the moon. The night felt calm and peaceful around me, and my mind began to wander.
I fell asleep with a smile on my lips, and discovered that dreaming of him was just as easy as thinking of him.
Chapter 2: Jamie
For what felt like the hundredth time tonight, Jamie’s eyes fell open. He exhaled strongly through his nose, then folded his hands above his chest, laying completely still in the darkness.
It was impossible.
The small partition he’d been given inside the stables grew cold rather fast, and his blanket was worn thin in places, but he still felt like he’d suffocate any minute now.
With a jerk, he turned on his left side, shifting until he felt comfortable. Well, as comfortable as he’d ever get right now, at least. He closed his eyes again, trying to will his mind to sleep, his body to settle.
That last one was what he really found impossible. What kept him awake at God only knew which hour, leaving him to stare holes in the ceiling, slowly but surely going mad.
He’d held out yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. It showed. Lord above, all he wanted to do was to slip his hands under his blanket and shirt and just…!
It would be so easy. So good. He wanted it so badly, his muscles strained from keeping him immobile and his fingers trembled where they gripped the blanket.
He wouldn’t do what he so desperately craved, though. He knew he shouldn’t insult the lass like that.
Her still grieving for her poor husband, and you lusting after her like a lecher!
He sighed again.
No. He shouldn’t even think about Mistress Beauchamp at all, let alone in that way, and he would stop with this insolence right this minute.
One thought of her name, and his mind’s eye was filled with a dozen visions of her beauty, each one more breathtaking than the last.
A pitiful whimper escaped him, his whole body tensed, and he clenched his eyes shut. With all his might, he forced himself not to think of -
This morning, sitting across from him, wolfing down the porridge he’d saved for her. Murtagh had entertained her with the embarrassing story of how he’d missed supper the day before, and her laughs and the way her cheeks slowly flushed red had sustained him more than his food ever could.
He grinned, he couldn’t help it, and thought of the way her face had lit up when he’d waved to get her attention. Or how she’d thanked him for thinking of her, so bonnie in her dark green dress, smiling down on him.
A familiar, searing warmth settled in his chest, and he swallowed thickly. She alone held all his heart, and no doubt about it.
With a gasp, he remembered more. She’d been so delighted about the honey he’d procured for her, she’d licked it enthusiastically off her spoon, closing her eyes and moaning softly for just a second, right in front of his befuddled self.
His cock throbbed at the memory, and much, much too late, he realised he was lost.
James Fraser, ye’re a fool.
With a grunt of resignation, he turned on his back, impatiently folding back his blanket. He’d meant to reach for the hem of his shirt next, but stopped short.
If he was going to sin tonight, he’d savour it.
A damnable fool!
He rested his hands on his thighs, not quite touching yet, and this time, he closed his eyes in concentration.
She’d almost made him jump this afternoon. He’d been mending and replacing the rotten fence posts near the forest, contentedly working in the solitude of nature. He’d heard all kinds of rustling and pawing and cracking all day, thinking nothing of it.
When there had been a particularly loud stramash, he’d thought he might well need to deal with a boar. But no, the dangerous boar in question had greeted him with a “Jesus H. Ruuuhsewelllt Christ!”.
He’d time enough only to realise that he’d recognise her voice out of a thousand. Then she’d abruptly emerged on the path before him, stumbling and swearing, just a few feet away from where he laboured.
He remembered that they’d talked pleasantly, but God, the way she’d looked! Most of her locks had come free whilst she’d been creeping through the undergrowth, her skin looked the loveliest shade of pink from her struggles, and she was breathing hard.
So hard that it took all his willpower not to stare at the way her breasts swelled against her dress. To add to his misery, he saw little droplets of water – or sweat? – low on her neckline. He’d heard himself asking questions about watercress or some such, but there was no other thought in his mind than to lick these drops off her.
He groaned and threw his head back against the pillows, finally gripping his cock with his left hand. He hissed at the contact, stroking once and rubbing his aching balls. He knew he couldn’t draw it out much longer, but there was still more to remember, more to relish in.
This evening, they’d met again. Well, they’d crashed into each other, more like. But still. He’d thought she looked happy to see him again, if not a little nervous. They’d both been a bit shy, but neither wanted to step aside, it seemed. And then – daft, so daft – he’d reached to smooth a strand of her hair behind her ears.
He’d been too embarrassed to wait for a response afterward, so he’d just hurried off to his supper, scolding himself for his carelessness all the way. According to Murtagh, his ears had been as pink as his cheeks.
But how that small touch had set him aflame!
He licked and bit his lips, slowly massaging the head of his cock with his thumb.
He wanted to thread his fingers through her soft, fragrant hair. To carefully pile it up atop her head and then to slowly let it fall on her neck and collarbone.
Oh, mo nighean donn!
His brown-haired lass. She’d fascinated him from the very first. How she talked to the other men - and to him! How she mended him with sure hands, how she saved the whole of their group with her knowledge. How she stood her ground against all odds.
When he’d met her, everything shifted. His every thought, his whole world was now focused on her. Although he was scairt, and he couldn’t quite grasp how, he knew it was meant to be that way.
He remembered their first ride together. She’d shivered and tensed at the beginning, but then gradually leaned into the warmth of his body. If it weren’t for the frail state of his health at the time, he’d have embarrassed himself in front of her then and there.
To feel her so constantly close to him, her lovely fat arse wedged between his thighs, her breasts brushing against his arms where he held the reins – he’d wanted her, so much more than he’d wanted anything in his life.
How he wanted her now.
He’d settled into a rhythm while reminiscing, not fast enough to end it, but fast enough to make his breath catch in his throat. Fast enough to allow the most tempting, most sinful of thoughts.
How would she feel like, against him, with no layers between them anymore? How would she look like, bared to his hungry eyes? How would she -
How would she taste like? And where would she let him taste her?
He moaned and sped up the motion of his fist, letting his fantasies take over.
What would it be like to bed her?
He must have thought about it a hundred times, but in his daze on this night, something novel struck him. Of course, him being a virgin, she’d have to show him everything. She would need to teach him the ways of her body.
It was half blasphemy, half prayer. Having her instruct him…
If he’d felt hot before, now there was fire racing through his veins. He keened and writhed under the blanket, his toes curling and his hard flesh pulsing against his hand.
All his thoughts were jumbled images. Dark brown curls, porcelain skin, whisky eyes. Her lips, her smile, the way she smelled of her wee herbs.
The sound she’d made this morning, only better somehow, louder. His name on her tongue, sighed in his ears.
Her underneath him, his hands full of her beautiful, plumb curves. Their legs tangled, his fingers roaming across her body, worshipping her.
And then suddenly, she was there with him. It was no longer his hand that touched him, it was hers.
Sassenach, please, oh please…
She covered his body with hers and worked him thoroughly, faster, harder, tearing him apart at the seams. She watched him and smiled like the vixen she was, enjoying his response. And he was completely at her mercy, he knew he was lost, he would break, he would -
“Come for me, Jamie.”
He shouted, a hoarse, broken sound. Everything was pure and blinding white for just one second, and then pleasure spread like lightning through him.
His release left him limb, gasping for breath, and grinning like a loon. He basked in it for a bit, then reached for his handkerchief and the ewer, cleaning himself swiftly.
He had one more thing to confess now, but he couldn’t seem to care yet. Still smiling, he turned on his right and closed his eyes again. Almost immediately, he felt his mind drifting, succumbing to sleep.
Tha gaol agam ort, mo chridhe.
Chapter 3: Jamie and Claire
“I could know ye all my life, I think, and always love you. And often as I’ve lain wi’ you, ye still surprise me mightily sometimes, like ye did tonight.”
“I do? Why, what have I done?” I stared down at him, surprised myself.
“Oh ... well. I didna mean ... that is -”
He sounded suddenly shy, and there was an unaccustomed stiffness in his body.
“Mm?” I kissed the tip of his ear.
“Ah ... when I came upon you ... what ye were doing ... I mean - were ye doing what I thought?”
Diana Gabaldon, Drums of Autumn
North Carolina, 1767
Jamie stilled abruptly and pressed himself deep inside me, completely lost in his pleasure. With one of my hands I tightly gripped his curls, with the other I cradled his back, urging him ever deeper. His forehead rested against mine and I gasped, still basking in the last waves of my own orgasm.
I opened my eyes just in time to witness the dreamy, unguarded smile I loved so much, and then Jamie’s eyes found mine.
“Dhia, Sassenach. The way you feel… I never want to leave ye.”
His husky words sent a familiar shiver down my spine. I exhaled, slowly, relishing the way he felt. I wasn’t particularly keen on giving up his comforting weight and warmth either, but I also rarely missed a chance to tease him.
“Well, I want to finish my whisky, sooo…”
He only snorted and leaned in for one of those kisses that had me sighing into his mouth. Then he touched the tip of his nose feather-light against my own, and gently smoothed the riotous curls that framed my face.
“Aye, well. Canna let my wife go wanting now, can I?”
Now it was my turn to snort. As if he’d ever do that. He graced me with his adorable try at winking, then swiftly disentangled our legs and reached to procure both our tumblers from the bed stand.
The clink of glass against glass was soft, the glinting blue of his eyes even softer.
“Slàinte math, mo nighean donn.”
Half an hour earlier, I had all but chased Jamie up the stairs, laughing at the decidedly futile protests he hissed over his shoulder. He was carrying two crystal tumblers and a flask of Jocasta’s best whisky in his hands, but all that I had eyes for were his thighs in front of me. And, well, his arse. What a remarkable piece of clothing the kilt was.
Once in our room, he had barely managed one sip before I had rid him of said piece of clothing.
Now, we’d moved to the small balcony our quarters were fitted with. We were still naked, save for the plaid that Jamie had wrapped us in, with no little pride. The feel of it was as familiar as breathing, and yet exhilaratingly novel. I told Jamie as much, and he hugged me tighter to his front, softly kissing my neck.
“I’m glad I’ve got the plaid back, even if it’s no mine. It minds me…”
He left the sentence unfinished, but I knew, of course. It reminded him of everything he’d had, and everything he’d lost.
A sigh left me involuntarily, a quiet, small sound in the stillness surrounding us. I leaned back against his chest, raising my eyes to the light of the stars overhead. Tonight, they seemed like a thousand beacons of hope.
And if the heavens listened to my prayers, Jamie Fraser would have everything again.
“Ah, well. It minds me of when I first wrapped ye in my plaid, is all.”
I chuckled, consciously turning away from all thoughts of melancholy and anchoring myself in his presence.
“I distinctly remember that we were wearing clothes back then.”
“That flimsy shift of yers? I wouldna call that clothes now, exactly.”
I swatted his arse, but the plaid prevented me from landing a satisfying strike.
“Pigheaded Scot. We had that conversation already. A hundred times, give and take. And I bloody well know you loved it!”
I felt the rumble of his laugh against my back, and answered it with a wide smile of my own, thinking of a young, bedraggled, blood-stained highlander on a misty night some 25 years ago.
“Aye, ye’re right at that, Sassenach.”
For a moment, I thought he’d wanted to say more, but then he froze quite suddenly behind me, gasping softly. I meant to turn in his arms, but his whisper stopped me.
“D’ye remember when we truly wore no clothes, though?”
Now I did turn, intrigued, bringing our bodies together fully.
“I believe there have been a number of occasions when we wore no clothes.”
“I’m thinking of the… occasion by the river. On the rock?”
Someone else might have missed the tremble and strain in his voice, or the careful way he schooled his features.
“On the… Oh. I do, my lad. What of it?”
I thought there was a blush creeping up his neck, but there was not enough light to tell for sure.
“It’s just… I canna stop thinking about it. About what ye did before ye saw me, that is.”
Ah. Now there might have been a blush creeping up my neck, too. I saw Jamie swallow, and then he rushed to fill my silence.
“Do ye… Did ye… I mean, d’ye do that often? Because I… I never even thought of it, and… God! Ye looked like a goddess, mo gràidh. So bonnie, bathed in moonlight and with your legs spread wide like that. And yer hand, right there… I…”
He trailed off, a far-away look in his eyes.
“I just… I need to know,” he finished eventually, looking sheepishly into my eyes.
I averted my eyes from his piercing gaze, grinning, and laid my hand on his bare chest. The wild flutter of his heart echoed my own pulse, and I breathed deeply, once.
“Well… There’s usually no need to do it when I’m around you.”
A chuckle, a lopsided smile. And, damn him, heartbreakingly honest relief in his eyes.
“In Boston, with Frank - I already told you about that.”
He nodded and cast his eyes downward, holding me closer to him. Neither of us wanted to dwell on time spent apart.
“And the rest of it is pretty boring, I suppose. I began to explore my body at some age. Just the same as you did when you were young, probably.”
He opened his mouth as if to inquire further, but suddenly there were more memories. Half-forgotten, buried, but nonetheless making my heart skip a beat. Memories I wanted him to know. Before I lost my nerve, I laid a finger on his lips and spoke.
“I did it fairly often when we were in Leoch, too. And I thought of you while doing it.”
“Ye did WHAT?!”
I had to bite my lip to hide my grin. He was a sight to behold, the way his mouth hung open and his eyes were blown wide in shock.
“I touched myself, Jamie. Just like I did on the rock. I touched myself - and I thought of you.”
He squeezed his eyes shut as my words sank in, and clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides.
“Oh Claire, Christ! Jesus God, oh God…”
One rueful chuckle, several moments of silence, and then his eyes bore into mine, mere inches away.
“Sassenach… I lay there every night, yearning for you, sleepless and half-mad with the wanting... I wanted so much to… But I said to myself: ‘No, Jamie. It’s not right. She’s still grieving for her puir husband. She’s not yers to think about.’ And ye mean to tell me that all the while you… Oh, Christ!”
It was adorable, really. By now, he was beet-red and shaking his head in disbelief. Between several astonishingly creative Gaelic profanities, he registered my shameless smirk. He stopped his swearing to take me in, and I was relieved to see an answering smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.
“Ifrinn, Sassenach. I should’ve known, eh? My wee vixen.“
His warm, calloused hands encased my face, and I gladly leant into his kiss.
“Hmmm. Vixen I am. But you don’t mean to tell me you never gave in to temptation yourself, do you?”
That had a sobering effect. He blinked and let a few seconds pass, then held me by my waist again.
“Well, no. Canna say I’m proud, but I canna lie to ye either.”
I pictured it in an instant. His kilt rucked up in some unoccupied stall one morning, his head thudding against the wall, trying in vain to suppress his groans. Or in his bed at night, alone with his thoughts - struggling - but giving in nonetheless. And always, always my name on his lips.
Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. I needed to get him in that bed again and then I would-
“Sassenach? Claire? Will ye let me ask ye a favour?”
I thought I knew what that favour would be. I nodded, breathless.
“Let me watch again?”
His eyes were as dark as the night around us. I let the plaid fall around my feet and gave him an unmistakable look, then slowly turned and strode to our bed.
His wife lay next to him, stark naked for his eyes and his eyes only. Her beautiful body was strung tight, and she writhed and sighed and gasped with the pleasure she was giving herself. If he’d die right now, he’d die a happy man.
A few minutes ago, he’d followed her back into their room. Dumbstruck he’d watched as she settled contentedly on their bed, fanned her riotous curls out on the pillow beneath her - and spread her legs. When she’d grinned and beckoned him with her fingers, he was helpless to follow her siren’s song.
He swallowed, and gripped the sheets beneath him with his fists. He didn’t trust himself to not touch her any longer (or his hard and aching cock, for that matter).
She’d thrown her head back, and her eyes were closed. She was worrying her lips with her teeth, and her face was contorted in the way that sent more blood rushing to his groin. He desperately needed to take in all of her, to not miss a single second of the sight in front of him.
Her left hand cupped one heavy breast, massaging it, gently teasing and pinching the hardened peak there. He wanted to kiss and suck it, to bite it until she groaned and pulled his hair hard enough to make him hiss.
Her right hand…
She was hiding nothing from him. He could see all of her, the dark, slightly frizzy hair that he loved to nuzzle so much, her delicate, rosy folds, and the wee nub that had her whimpering in his ear if he touched and licked it just so.
Not tonight. She parted her sensitive skin, then slid her hand lower, and back up again. She was dripping wet, he could see it, he could hear it, he could smell it. He must have made a sound, for suddenly her eyes were on him, heavy-lidded, golden, burning.
A lioness, eyeing her prey.
How could he not? He watched as two of her slender fingers vanished inside her, watched as she found that spot with a breathy moan, watched as her back rose from the bed.
His groan sounded desperate to his own ears.
He knew exactly how she would feel. Silky and smooth against his fingers. Wet, warm, pulsing, and so unbelievably tight around his cock. God, he needed to have his hands on her.
To hear his name in that voice. To know that she was thinking about him, that she’d called out to him like that before, even from the very first! To witness her like this, unguarded, primal, completely unravelled in front of him.
His eyes must have fluttered closed involuntarily. He opened them again to find her observing him from curious eyes, her right hand now raised to his lips. It was glistening.
He swallowed and gingerly took it into his own. He kissed the back of it eagerly, then touched his lips to his ring. Searching and finding Claire’s eyes again, he proceeded to lick her fingers clean, relishing the taste that was so quintessentially her. He sucked a bit, like she would have done, and couldn’t help smirking at her small intake of breath.
“Give it back, I need it.”
The command came a bit shaky, but he followed it nonetheless, pressing one last kiss to the back of her hand.
She surprised him by tapping the tip of his nose with her finger, making him smile. Then she brought her hand lower, and lower, and lower still. Claire sighed, and wasted no time continuing the dance from before. Only she was rougher now, faster.
If she wasn’t done teasing him, she was clearly done teasing herself.
Jamie bit his lips, and still tasted her. His cock felt impossibly hard, he didn’t know where to look first, and it took all his strength to keep his hands from wandering. He whimpered.
Soon, her wee noises took on that desperate note that he knew so well, her legs were moving on their own accord, her fingers all but flew over her sensitive flesh - and then, that glorious moment. That groan, and the way her lips parted in a silent scream. Her body went rigid, then boneless, and he felt the dizzying relief of her release as sure as if she’d stroked him instead.
Grinning widely, he leaned down to kiss her quickly before she opened her eyes again. Claire moaned into his mouth, and he let his hands trail down her body, finally, finally touching her himself.
Just when he started to gently thrust himself into her, though, Claire abruptly broke their kiss and pushed her hand up to his chest. She laughed at him, crinkling her eyes.
“Nu uh. It’s your turn.”
„I… I canna do that in front of ye, Claire!”
Jamie had lain down next to me again, but out of shock rather than obedience, it seemed.
“Fair’s fair, don’t you remember?”
“Aye, I do-”
“And what about marriage turning sin into sacrament?”
“Well, aye, but… Christ, Sassenach, dinna use my own words against me!”
He looked up indignantly, but the corners of his mouth trembled in amusement. I only snorted, raising one eyebrow at him. He let a moment pass, then his head fell back against the pillows. He exhaled, slowly.
“Fine! I yield, woman.”
He held my gaze as he smirked, and blinked in that endearing way of his. Then he swallowed, closed his eyes, and slowly lowered his hands.
At the first touch, he gasped. His right hand cupped and weighed his balls. His left started to stroke idly up and down his straining length - a bit rougher than I would have, I noted.
His movements were still a bit stiff, though, and I knew he was trying to hold back his groans. I watched him for a bit and decided that that wouldn’t do.
“What are you thinking about, Jamie?”
Something between a laugh and a quiet sob left him, and his fist sped up.
“You, mo ghràidh!”
I’d never tire of hearing these words, nor of hearing his voice like that. I let my eyes wander over his beautifully contorted face, over his heaving chest, and the flexing of his muscles as he touched himself.
To just sit back and watch suddenly sounded a lot less alluring than a few minutes ago.
“I think of you… On yer knees in front of me.”
He had his hands nowhere near my body, but he still managed to send shivers through it. He moaned quietly, and his fingers moved faster over his flesh.
“Ah… Your face when ye finish, Sassenach.”
He whimpered and bit his lips, and I tried my hardest to keep silent.
“Dhia, yer hands and mouth on me.”
He was temptation himself, writhing and moaning in front of me. God, how had he managed to watch me for so long?
“And yer arse, when I take ye from behind…”
By now, he had me wet and throbbing again. From his sounds and the faltering rhythm of his hand, I knew he was working himself to a swift release.
I thought not.
“What about this?”
I swung my legs over his torso, dislodged his hands, and sank down on him to the root.
His eyes snapped open and he gasped in shock. Then, a slow smile spread on his face as I began to move gently.
“That… That too.”
He smirked and groaned quietly, his mouth falling open in bliss.
“God, Claire. If I had known back at Leoch that that would wait for me…”
His eyes wandered over my body with reverence, almost unbelievingly, and his strong arms encircled my hips. I rocked back and forth, making him hiss, then cupped his cheek with one hand.
“I think I’ve always wanted this… I’ve always wanted you.”
His hands tightened on me, and he swallowed, holding my gaze in his deep blue.
“Ye’ve always been mine. And I’ve always been yours. Show me, mo nighean donn?”
And later, when we’d entangled limbs beneath the sheets, tasted whisky drops on lips, and fell asleep in each other’s arms, our hearts beat as one.
Like they’d done from the first, and like they’d do until the very end.