A Wee Taste

"All right, Grace, why don't you go first? What have you brought today?"

At being singled out to read her story before the others, Grace's stomach felt like it dropped to the floor. She wiped her sweating palms against her gown and smiled bravely at the three young women in the room. After Lady Roberta officially opened their Wednesday morning writing circle, she was now handing the spotlight to Grace. For someone used to being in the background, Grace wasn't sure she could do this.

But she wanted to.

It wasn't often that she took time for herself. Especially time to do something so very wicked. If she was damning her soul to hell for doing this, she might as well enjoy it.

She may have written a sexual fantasy, but in real life, most of her fantasies centered around being the brave outspoken miss she knew must lurk somewhere within her. If she had more heart, and less guilt, then maybe she'd be pursuing her own dreams instead of spending her days copying Papa's sermons and verifying his biblical quotes. Pushing away the hated feelings of shame and inadequacy, she stood and walked to the center of the room, bringing her sheaf of papers with her. A bit crumpled and worn, they had obviously been handled a lot.

"Good grief, Grace. Did you write a novel?" Constance asked.

Grace looked at the petite blonde who always said whatever popped into her mind, no matter how inappropriate it might be. She shrugged, trying not to envy the younger girl. What they were doing might be beyond the pale, but envy would rot her bones.

Rot her bones? Oh, why must her mind forever bring scripture to the forefront of every thought? Here she was, about to read something very intimate and exciting, and her vexing brain was quoting the fourteenth chapter of Proverbs, of all things.

Clearing her throat, Grace started in a quiet voice, determined to enjoy the next few minutes, no matter how her nerves might be quaking inside. "My story begins in October, All Hallow's Eve, to be precise. It's--

"October? But it's not--" Constance interrupted.

Grace spoke louder, ignoring her. "It is a few minutes before midnight. The sky is clear, albeit a bit windy, and the moon--"

"We don't want to hear about the weather! Get to the good parts, already," Constance said, drumming her fingers against her thighs.

"I'm setting the stage." Grace heard the reproachful tone in her voice and wanted to cringe. This was supposed to be a lighthearted story, not a sermon. Why couldn't she relax? Everything wasn't always about punishment, penance, and guilt. Although, she was sure to be punished mightily for the words she was about to read.

"Leave her alone, Constance," Lady Roberta said. "These are our fantasies and if Grace wants her moon a certain way, so be it. Go on," she encouraged.

Grace smiled her thanks. Leave it to Roberta to keep the peace. Grace wished she could be as outgoing and gracious as her oldest friend. A little shaky, she started again. "The moon had peaked in the dark night sky only moments before. I felt the chill in the air and the dew from the grass soaked into my slippers, leaving my feet cold. The dampness of the night wilted the feathers on my mask. By the light of the moon, I--" She glanced up and caught the somewhat expectant, somewhat impatient look on her audiences' faces and sighed. Maybe she had waxed on a bit long about the moon. She ruffled through several pages and placed the top three face down in front of her. "Fine, I'll summarize… I'm at a costume party, and a Scottish laird kidnaps me and takes me back to Scotland to be his bride. He wants--"

"Hold a moment, if you would Grace," Leah began.

Lady Roberta's eyes grew wide. "His bride?"

"No one said you have to be married, Grace," Constance said, her foot tapping on the floor.

"In my fantasy, I do." Grace was adamant. "Now, are you three done interrupting?"

Duly chastised, Constance hung her head, after winking at Roberta and Leah.

"I saw that," Grace told them. "Let me see where to start… All right, we have just arrived at Gretna Green and he finally unties my hands and removes my blindfold. He--"

"But that trip takes days!"

At the interruption, Grace glared at Constance.

"Sorry."

"Ahem." Grace found her place on the page. "He removes my blindfold. I blink at the bright light reflected in the carriage. Before I can even focus, he goes down on one knee--"

"To propose? How sweet." There was a wistful tone in Leah's voice.

"No, because he has to untie my feet."

Lady Roberta laughed. "That'll teach us to interrupt. Now, let's do be quiet. I'd like to hear the rest of Grace's tale."

"Quite right. Forgive me, Grace?" Leah asked.

"Certainly." Caught up in her own story, Grace was feeling magnanimous. The wicked part was coming up, and her hand shook a bit, causing the pages to flutter.

After he cut the ropes binding my ankles, he crouched between my legs, pushing my skirt out of the way so he can lean in close.

I finally get to see the owner of the voice that has tempted and haunted me for three days. Wondrously fair, with dark red hair the color of sunrise, and deep brown eyes that have somehow found a way to look past my defenses and to see the real me, the woman who longs for passion and adventure.

He stares into my eyes. "Grace Elizabeth," he says, shocking me with his knowledge of my middle name. "You are such a beauty…"

His dark eyes roam over my face. I feel his touch on my every feature; he stares at me with such intent. The words I wanted to hurl at him dried up in my throat, and I bit my lip. "What do you want with me--" I begin.

He traces my brow with his finger, causing a riot of sensations to explode in my belly.

"Such a bonny lass… For days, I have dreamed of seein' your face uncovered, your hair unbound." He runs his hand down my tangled hair and then traces my face, his fingers lightly caressing my lips, cheeks, and even my nose and eyebrows. "Soft green eyes, the color of the moors behind me castle…hair the color of a doe's pelt…skin, so smooth and pale, that me heart pounds in me chest, longing to touch all of it."

At his words, chills race to my toes. The way he is looking at my lips makes them tingle. "I don't understand. Why did you capture me? What--"

He places a finger against my mouth. "I have done right by me country, assistin' your army defeat the Corsican monster. I aim to do right by ye, lass, by marryin' ye shortly. But fer the moment, after bein' cooped in this carriage with ye for days…surrounded by your scent, and listenin' to your musical voice… Even when raised in anger or hushed in fear, the tone is like that of an angel. Well now, me bonny maiden, right now, I aim to do right by me."

With that, he grasps my chin in his hand and holds me still for his kiss. His tongue plunges into my mouth, licking past my lips and teeth, and tangling with my own. He rubs his tongue against mine, creating a delicious friction, even as his fingers hold my jaw in a firm grip.

When I touch the collar of his shirt, running my fingers along his neck, he groans and rises onto his knees. The carriage creaks at the sudden shift in weight. His mouth presses against mine more firmly and his fingers fall from my face to touch my bosom. Through my dress, corset and chemise, I feel his hand rubbing, kneading, caressing the entire weight of my breast. It is heavenly.

My tongue tangles with his. My breasts throb and tingle from his touch. Between my legs, I grow wet. So wet, I can feel my juices soaking through my drawers and into my gown.

I press closer to his mouth, my lips opening wider in order to touch more of him. I eat at him, my lips devour his mouth, savoring his manly flavor. His taste floods my being. I want more.

Uncomfortable on the carriage seat, I squirm, trying to assuage the pressure growing in my body. I place a hand between my legs, hoping to rid myself of this yearning…for things I don't understand.

Kissing him harder, I whimper, feeling empty. Confused.

He wrenches his mouth from mine. I watch a gossamer thread of saliva connect our lips…holding us together.

"Elsbeth," he begins, breathing hard, heavy.

Elsbeth! My very first pet name. Oh how I love it! My legs squeeze together, but he is trapped between them. My knees press against his waist. I am itchy, wanting. Looking into his beautiful dark eyes, I lick the spittle from my mouth, wanting his lips again.

"Lass, we'll be meetin' up with the preacher shortly, but right now, I need a wee taste to sustain me."

"A taste?" I ask, running my tongue over my lips. Oh, heavens, he could have a taste any time he desired.

"A taste of ye…Elsbeth."

With that, he kisses my lips. Hard. Then pulls back and looks at me. "Trust me, lass?" he asks in a voice as smooth as sorghum molasses.

Inexplicably, I do. I trace his firm jaw, covered with dark red whiskers that tickle my fingertips. I nod my head, smiling in wonder at the man of my dreams.

In response, he kisses my fingertips and I see dimples appear in his cheeks. At the sound of another carriage nearby, he leans from the window and tells the driver we'll be out directly. Turning back to me, his eyes full of fire and hunger, he says, "I'll just be a moment. We've a wedding to attend shortly, lass."

Before I know what he intends, he has lifted my skirts and petticoats to my waist, baring my drawers. Instinctively, my legs try to clamp together, but he is still between them. Giving me a look that Satan himself must have perfected, he says, "Just a wee taste."

Then, his head dives between my legs. Through my drawers, he brushes kisses up my leg, stopping when his nose touches my midriff. His fingers pull apart the opening in my drawers, and he breathes deeply, inhaling my scent. I can smell my desire. The pungent aroma of my musky scent fills the carriage. Now that he has lifted my skirts and exposed me to his avid gaze, I feel my body's reaction.

I weep for him, desperate for his touch. Desperate for his lips on mine. As if he can read my mind, his fingers slip past the opening and he touches my feminine folds. His touch is too much. It isn't enough. My hips angle toward him, seeking more.

Drenched with desire, I hear the sound of my moisture when he places his fingers in me. My muscles clench, holding him inside.

"A taste…" he groans.

I watch his tongue peek out from between his lips. He looks at his fingers, where they are sliding in and out of my body. Watching my face, he leans forward and places his tongue above his thrusting fingers. Oh, heavens. Even hell is surely not too great a price to pay for the pleasure he is giving me.

The soft glide of his tongue against my sensitive skin takes away my breath. My heart pounds faster. I lean my head back against the squabs of the carriage. My hands tangle in his hair, pushing him away from me while pulling him even closer.

I cannot catch my breath. My hips rock into his mouth over and over. I want it to end. I want it to go on forever. I am so confused.

"Oh, my," I almost pant, the words coming quickly. "Oh, my."

He pulls his head away a fraction, easing the pressure of his tongue, then he slides his fingers from me and lifts my legs until they are resting on his shoulders. His tongue slips out from his lips, and he lightly flicks the tip across the area his fingers have just left empty. My hips bounce against the seat in reaction. He holds me still with his hands on my thighs. His tongue keeps moving. Even when I squeal, he never stops.

The pressure is building. I fear I am about to break. What is happening? I try harder to catch my breath, but the tension mounts between my legs even more. My thighs clench around his head, my ankles cross behind his back. I am a thrumming harp string, my body sings for him. Sensations crawl through me. The touch of his tongue licking me is echoed in my core. My insides are so tightly wound, I'm afraid my legs will crush his head.

"Come now, lass…" His words whisper across my sensitive flesh, their warmth stimulating all of me even as his tongue bathes my feminine folds.

I am his to command. My pelvis rides his mouth, and his touch becomes sharper, increasing my frantic pace. My hands twist in his hair…my eyes squeeze shut…my heart pounds for him…

I tighten. My body freezes. Tense, unyielding, then, with a whoosh of release, I am free, melting into the cushions, my desire pouring over his tongue and flooding his mouth with my essence. I am spent.

I am whole.

With fluttering lashes, I look at him. He is smiling, his face wet. He nuzzles my pubic hair with his jaw, then leans back and licks his lips. "That's it, lass. I gave ye just a wee taste of the pleasure to be had between us, and ye gave me a taste of heaven." With regret shadowing his features, he rises from his knees and pushes my skirts down. "Come now, Elsbeth. It's high time I make ye me bride."

"Whew! I didn't know you had it in you…" Constance fanned herself with the pages she'd brought to read.

Me neither, thought Grace, trying not to blush beneath the frank regard of her friends.

"My. Oh, my…" Leah seemed at a loss, unusual for the composed brunette who at twenty-four was a couple of years older than Grace.

"Hells bells, Grace. That was absolutely fabulous." For once, Lady Roberta lost her customary polish. "How in the world do you know about that?"

Assuming the question was rhetorical, Grace smiled, and gathered her papers, glad her turn was over. Her body was all jittery and it was an effort to maintain her composed façade. While the other women talked about what she had written, she returned to her seat and took her time organizing the pages.

Her temperature had spiked while she read, and now her insides were heated. Just thinking about him made her face flame brighter. Her friends hadn't a clue that he existed outside of her fantasy, and that was one little tidbit she certainly planned on keeping to herself. Lachlann Mackay…Lock. The one man who inspired fantasies about her body. And his. The man she longed to be brave and outspoken for. The man she thought never to see again…

"Grace, that was amazing," Leah said, the back of her hand against her brow. "I'm still flushed."

"Amazing Grace." Constance laughed at her joke. "Really, I need to rewrite mine now. I don't think it's naughty enough."

Feeling an unusual energy, Grace looked around. She saw Lady Roberta watching her with a speculative gleam in her eyes. Uh, oh. Roberta just might realize her story was more a wish than a fantasy. Hoping to distract her, Grace smiled brightly and asked, "Who's next?"

To her dismay, Roberta only looked more thoughtful. "I don't know, Grace. After your recitation, I think we could all use some cooling off. Ladies, let's walk in the garden a bit before we share our next tale."

Grateful for the reprieve, Grace rolled her pages tightly together and gripped them in her damp palm. Wicked fantasies or not, this no longer seemed like such a lark. After baring her soul to her three friends, she was feeling exposed. Even more exposed than when she dreamed of Lock kissing her down there.