The setting sun burns the sky red. Or is it rising? One of the details lost in the fog of Jamie’s memory. Lightly calloused fingers brush his hips. The lithe arms that follow coil around him along with the familiar scent that is floral and woodsy and dark at the edges.
They made love again last night, and the night before. Love that was rough around the edges. Love that was giving and tender and obsessing and controlling. Love that was not love, but something else far more heady like wine downed too fast on a starry night with the biting wind against your back.
His hand is healed now, although his fourth finger is at an odd angle and will perpetually be prone to rebreaking. Restored to full health, he could turn around and crush the man who holds him; a man whose basest desires have been sated not awhile ago, and so is tender and unguarded and unarmed. He knows his strength matches the other’s; nay, is superior to it.
But being able is one thing. And wanting is another.
Tempting is the man who commits the basest of acts and rises from them unsullied. Who for all his ruthlessness possesses a delicacy in the curve of his lips, the caress of his fingers. Who stokes the fire of your imagination with the very whisper of his voice before even laying a hand on you.
In the dead of a peaceful night he inflicts chaos upon you. In the heart of chaos he brings you peace. His very touch conjures a whirlwind of emotions that have you clinging to the one certainty he affords you: pain, and your reward for bearing it.
James Fraser, the golden laird of Lallybroch, turns around and claims his just reward.
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“I have held the soul of his manhood; have taken from him what he has taken from me. I know him, as he now knows me. We are bound, he and I, by blood.”
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