Page 17 of Wicked Passions

Aroused beyond measure, a low wail of agonized need tore from her throat.

Time nearly halted. The two men looked at her with horrified dismay as they hastily disengaged, cleaned themselves with a linen cloth and righted their clothing, before walking toward her.

Isla couldn’t move. Couldn’t even flee as shamed guilt and unfulfilled desire turned her usually nimble feet to stone. She could only stare, her heart nearly thumping out of her chest, her cheeks hot enough to boil water.

“Lady Isla,” said Glennoe, his face ashen. “We did not expect…that is—”

“Forgive me,” she blurted. “I’m here to…the sword lessons…I did not mean to watch. But I could not look away. I’ve never seen such passion.”

The two men stilled and exchanged a glance.

“You are not distressed?” asked Master Graham warily.

Isla shook her head so hard her gable hood fell to the floor. “I have seen women kiss,” she began, not wanting to reveal who, for that was Lady Janet and Lady Marjorie’s tale to tell. “Not like friends, like lovers. If they kiss and touch each other, then of course there must be men who do the same.”

“Indeed,” murmured Glennoe, his tension easing a little.

“But…those women also kissed a man with the same passion. So I think some people like to kiss both. Do you only like to kiss each other, or, er…women too?”

It was a bold question, far too bold for such a short acquaintance. Yet she had to know. A husband who did not desire her would be most unwelcome, no matter how kind. She had needs.

“Both,” said Master Graham, looking remarkably unruffled by the question. “Callum…my laird and I also enjoy kissing women. Bedding them.”

“Do you bed them together? As three?”

His eyes widened. Then his gaze heated to pure sapphire. “We have not,” he replied softly. “Yet.”

Isla whimpered, pressing her thighs together in a futile attempt to ease the ache in her throbbing center. After what she’d watched and this wicked conversation, she desperately needed release.

“Would you like to sit, Lady Isla?” asked Glennoe as he held out his hand, his gray eyes glittering.

She stumbled forward like she’d made merry with an entire barrel of wine, near-feverish with lust. The laird’s hand was smoother than hers but surprisingly strong, and she accepted his assistance gratefully as he led her over to the chaise. When she sat down on the cool beaten leather surface, a new scent teased her nose. Musky. Earthy…

Oh.

The cloth they had used to wipe his seed away rested on the low wooden table beside the chaise.

Isla bit her lip, her limbs trembling.

The laird frowned. “Are you frightened, lady?”

“No,” she said bluntly. “I’ve never felt unsafe with you or Master Graham. But my cun…”

The word died on her lips. It was so commonly used, but some men pursed their lips if a noblewoman said it. While she didn’t think that these two would chide her, it was never wise to assume anything.

Master Graham leaned against the fireplace. “Pray continue. Be honest and say your sweet little cunt is soaking wet and requires relief.”

Isla nodded, almost miserable in her acute need. “It aches. I touched myself in bed this morning, but that is such a long time ago.”

“Do you often do so?”

“Yes. It feels nice. I like to, even if it lands me in trouble. Actually, the thought of trouble has never halted me from doing something. But you know that already.”

Both men laughed.

“Well,” said Glennoe, his gaze approving. “If you wish to touch yourself, we certainly won’t stop you. It shall be our secret. Or…”

“Or?” asked Isla breathlessly.