Hail Mary, Part Two
By popular demand, a wee morning-after follow-up to my original post based on this anon prompt:
I really liked this earlier Imagine: ‘Imagine in ep 1 they party stops to sleep for a little bit and Claire is freezing, so Jamie offers to warm her discreetly’. Would any mods be willing to continue this story or another alt point-of-view where J & C get closer, more affectionate, more sexual tension in those moments in beginning of book Outlander? Love your fanfic!! You ladies are so creative!
Catch up with Hail Mary PART ONE:
>> Be warned: this installment is slightly more NSFW -❤️ Mod Bonnie
I was ice and electricity. Every cell, every muscle fiber, every neuron somehow both frozen and exploding with the same insuppressible energy.
A sound of need. Mine? His? Yes, each rising to answer the other in kind.
Warm arms came suddenly tight around my back, lifting me, then lowering me—maddeningly slowly—down to straddle his broad thighs. Everything was heat. A warm mouth explored mine and I struggled against warm hands that kept my hips confined, keeping me from taking what I wanted. The warm fingers gripped tight even as they dragged upward, skimming under my shift to the narrows of my waist; up still further to thumb—for the barest of tantalizing instants—the tender, yearning underflesh of my breasts. I cried out in distress to feel the mouth—that blazing, devouring mouth—leave mine and a cloud of white obscure my vision. The sound had barely left my throat, though, before it was obliterated by another, a cracking moan of startled, throbbing relief as the mouth began to worship first one nipple, then the other, then the first again. The breathtaking sensations fell through me like whisky in my blood, and my body begged, begged, for more, pleading out a desperate, wordless question over and over in empty thrusts and moans. I gasped as the question was suddenly and forcefully answered, just as wordlessly; gasped at the visceral relief of being filled deep with red-hot iron. We moved together, the heat of his cock stoking and then igniting me, actual flames licking outward from my womb to encircle every inch of me. I wasn’t frightened of them; far from it, for they transformed me into a Fury, all-powerful to consume. Consume I did, riding him hard, and then harder, grinding furiously against the thumb that had the sensitive flesh above our joining glowing like a coal, sending shockwaves of heat up my spine. I began to keen, fast and urgently; then laughed darkly as I heard him begin to do the same under my power. My cries drove him, and his, me; together we roared, rising upward, and upward, and still upward into a seething conflagration of burning skin and breath and pounding blood, until—
I awoke to waves of pleasure rolling through me, my limbs quaking in the aftershocks of a rather spectacular orgasm. I closed my eyes tight at once, and exhaled, trying to savor the fleeting, pulsing sensations for as long as I might: the blood pounding between my legs; the comfort of being held by strong, warm arms; the beautiful, manly smell all around me; the unspeakable joy of being sheltered by the body that had just brought mine to compl—
My eyes snapped open.
His ruddy forelocks were in his eyes, inches from mine. His head was lolled back slightly against the grain sacks, but even so nearly rested against my own. His arms were tight around me, still… and mine were around him.
I was still trying to catch my breath from the rigors of orgasm and the heated encounter of my dream, and couldn’t tear my eyes away from his mouth.
Those lips…warm lips….
I supposed it…
Of course it was a dream, idiot. You saw how nervous he was to touch you. He nearly soiled himself when time came to get that sopping shift off.
Despite everything, I had to stifle a giggle at the memory of him, going suddenly stock-still and screwing his eyes and fists tight, looking unmistakably like a naughty child caught red-handed and steeling himself for a whipping. Thank goodness for Murtagh’s sang-froid; and, for that matter, that I was no fainting ninny! While, granted, I had never before had the experience of being urgently undressed outside the realm of the boudoir, my upbringing with Uncle Lamb—to say nothing of the exigencies of six years as a combat nurse—had trained me not to fret over prudish concerns. No embarrassment to be had over matters of propriety if one dies of hypothermia while quibbling over them.
No, it had been a dream. How could it be otherwise with those otherworldly flames that had surrounded us during our pounding, burning ecstasy? Besides, as little as I knew about Mr. McTavish’s past, I did think I knew him well enough to surmise that he was not one to seduce a lady in the night, particularly not one he had taken under his protection.
….but God, I thought, letting my palm feel the curves of pectoral muscle beneath it, the strength of him, “our ecstasy,” my subconscious brain had just called it. It had felt so real, so immediate, so….
Guilt gripped my stomach, violent and indicting, in an attempt to distract from the other, more pleasurable tightenings occurring in my body at the thought. I was a married woman, for Christ’s sake; and yet, here I was, practically naked by the standards of the eighteenth century, having both spent the night in the arms of a huge, rugged Scot and enjoyed shockingly detailed dreams about having my way with him.
E n j o y e d.
Yes, I felt guilt. Not for having the dream…but for the undeniable part of my being that wished it hadn’t been a dream at all. Even now, in the faint light of pre-dawn, that great opportunity to dismiss the foolish fancies of night and revert to reality with no questions asked, I couldn’t deny the things I was feeling for him, the sensations that still had my body lit like a candle against his…wanting more.
I shifted slightly to look more fully up into his face. I started a bit to see his mouth turned up in a smile. Good gracious, had he been watching me the whole time? Seen me staring at him for minutes while trying to get a bloody grip on myself? But no…he was still asleep, eyes closed and breathing steadily. The smile had been just a momentary flicker, it seemed, for his face was impassive once more. The high, elegant cheekbones; the golden stubble breaking out along his jaw; the soft movement of his breath against my forehead as he held me close and warm, even in sleep.
A sound of tenderness escaped my throat, as I thought thinking back on all the moments Jamie and I had shared, from the first day at the stones, to Leoch, these long days on the road….and last night.
No, it wasn’t just lust I felt, potent as it was. This man, this fierce warrior, big and strong enough to destroy a man in battle, had cared for me through the night, holding me as carefully and gently as he would a kitten. Despite his hesitation, his evident fear of crossing the boundary of propriety, he had given me the warmth of his body, cradling me to him and chanting soft words over me. He had seen me safe.
My fingers were reaching out as if of their own accord, needing to touch him. “You sweet lad,” I whispered, and I grinned widely to see him smile once more in sleep at the touch, the warm cheek tightening under my fingertips.
Suddenly, though, his eyes flicked open wide and met mine dead-on. My grin fell into an expression of blank shock, and I tried to adopt a casual air as I—bloody goddamn fucking fool, Beauchamp—moved my hand to my scalp to feign an itch that convinced no one.
He was gracious enough not to call me out on this half-rate pageantry. “Did ye sleep well, Mistress?” he whispered, voice scratchy with sleep, looking down now with an expression of shy eagerness.
“Yes,” I whispered back, tucking my hair nervously back behind my ear, avoiding his eye. “Thank—thank you again, Mr. McTavish…for warming me.”
The whooshing rush of melting ice. A burning tongue tracing up the lines of my neck and hollow of my ear. Our cries rising high and fierce above the roar of the fire.
AVE MARIA—GRATIA BLOODY PLENA—
“And—and you?” I stammered, my voice several notes higher than I’d ever heard it and my cheeks so red I thought he could surely see, even in the dim light. “Did you, erm, sleep well?”
He certainly didn’t look it. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark circles underneath. “Oh—oh aye—” he said, with a faint grin. “Verra pleasur—pleasantly!—to—to be sure.” He blushed furiously and averted his eyes.
Suddenly the panicked impulse to vomit came over me and I had to clench all the muscles in my body to quiet the screaming alarm bells going off in my head. My own nocturnal experience might have been a dream, and certainly I hadn’t actually ravished Mr. McTavish, but had I done something lewd to him in my sleep while having it? Frank had always said I was inclined to writhe wantonly about in sleep before initiating sex; my body’s own clarion call. Had I—?
Oh. FUCKING. Hell.
Mortified, my cheeks all pins-and-needles from anxiety, I began to jerk free my arm from where it lay pinioned behind his back, mumbling, “I should— gobacktomytent—proper clothes, you know—b-breakfast—”
Before I could extricate myself, though, his hands tightened on me, and he uttered the tiniest of sounds. I surely wouldn’t have heard it, had I not been still pressed against his chest. It was a pitiful kind of noise; a whimper? expressing, in the barest of instants, both protest…and need.
Slowly, I looked back up into his face. The same emotions were written there, too. “It’s…an hour or more until full dawn,” he said, voice tentative and cracking. “Ye might…stay a while longer, yet…so as not to wake the others?”
I might stay….
I might stay.
Shaking the image of standing stones from my vision, I saw the anxiety rushing across his features at my silence. “Christ, I dinna mean to say—not that—only if ye—”
I laid a hand on his shoulder and he stilled. “I wouldn’t want to wake the others,” I said quietly.
“No…” he breathed, blue eyes clear and alight.
“And…I am still a bit cold,” I whispered hoarsely. That wasn’t a lie, I told myself belligerently. It was a cold morning. It WAS.
“Well, then…” he said, voice low and deep and resonant against my skin, rippling down all the way to my fingertips.
Just until dawn, I bargained silently with my conscience.
Slowly, I lowered myself back down to him, resting my cheek against his shoulder. I thought I heard him sigh; in contentment? It was rather hard to tell for sure, for my own sigh—escaping me as I settled back into the warm arms and felt the warm hands pull me subtly closer against him—seemed to drown out out all other concerns.
God, lad…the things you bloody do to me.
…my sweet Jamie.