Ye Give Love A Plaid Name (Bad in Plaid 3)
“Aye, see?” Wynda tapped the relevant images. “She can take him inside her easily in this manner, with her knees spread and her feet flat on the bed.” Or whatever surface they’re trysting upon, she mentally added, surreptitiously testing the strength of the desk they were both leaning against.
“But that’s…” When she turned her head, she could see him frowning thoughtfully as he spoke. “That’s so…normal. What’s it called?”
Now she frowned as well, trying to study the illustration from his standpoint.
“It doesnae look normal to me,” she finally admitted. “It seems rather invasive.”
“Aye, but all sexual positions are invasive.” One callused finger tapped against the vellum. “But the rest of them involve strange contraptions and angles and props. And the names…!”
“This one’s called Missionary Position,” she supplied helpfully, remembering he couldn’t read the description, and wondering if he’d like to learn.
“See?” His hand dropped to her hip. “Why no’ The Fisherman’s Gambit? Or The Great Emu? Or the Straight Dozen?”
Should she be taking notes? “Are those coital positions?”
He blew out a breath which sounded like a huff of laughter. “How the fook should I ken? I just mean…what does missionary mean, anyhow?”
She shrugged, although it was delightfully awkward, the way he held her. “I assumed it had to do with cloistered life. Something about a nunnery, mayhap?”
“Ye think that’s how nuns fook?” Before she could answer, his breath tickled her neck once more. “Lass, ye really do have plenty to learn.”
The response was instinctive. As she turned in his arms, her own rising to his shoulders, she commanded, “Teach me, Pherson.”
His nod was little more than a jerk. “When a woman loves another woman, lass, it involves tongues and fingers—the nails must be kept trim on the first two fingers of yer hand—“
“That is no’ what I meant!” She was smiling when she pulled his lips down to hers, and when he huffed out a little laugh—at her expense—she trapped it in her lungs.
Luckily, the teasing hadn’t seemed to lesson his enthusiasm, and judging from the hard length of him pressed against her belly, he wanted this as much as she did.
When his lips moved to her jaw, then toward her ear, he was murmuring. “Ye’re certain, love? Ye want this?”
St. Tiffani, could she make it any more obvious? “Pherson!” she gasped. “If ye dinnae make love to me right now, I shall positively expire, which will be phenomenally difficult to explain when ye’re caught kissing my dead body.”
He was chuckling when he straightened, his hands still pressed against her rear end. “A bit morbid. Ye want to fook right here on the desk?”
Fook.
Mmm, she liked the sound of that. But instead of telling him that, she tossed her curls and tried a cheeky grin. “I want ye to make love to me on my bed.”
With that, she squirmed loose from his hold and tugged him by the hand toward a tapestry done by her great-great aunt, depicting a group scene which was either a battle or an orgy—possibly both, what with all the long pointy things—which concealed the entrance to the secret passages.
Ignoring his swallowed curse at the darkness, she kept her other hand on the right wall and counted out the steps to the wooden door which led to her chamber. As she’d planned, Robena was absent, but that didn’t stop Wynda from hurrying to the main door and latching it closed so she and Pherson wouldn’t be interrupted.
When she turned back, he was just closing the semi-hidden door. “So that was the secret passages?”
Instead of answering, she pointed. “And that is the bed. Take off yer kilt, please.”
He was grinning as he reached for his wide belt. “Demanding lass.”
“If ye kenned how wet I was for ye right now, Pherson,”—Thank St. Tiffani these laces are simple!—“ye wouldnae be taking yer time.”
It was almost funny how he fumbled with the leather, which then hit the floor in a tumbled heap as he bent to address his boots.
They fell into the bed together, reaching for one another.
So long.
She’d been waiting so long for this.