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The Highlander’s Little Lass by Ava Sinclair – Sample

Chapter One: A Hard Man, but a Good One

The Highlander's Little Lass by Ava Sinclair“Come back here, ye saucy little dish!”

Morag squealed as she felt herself pulled backwards against a hard, muscular chest and looked down to see the broad forearm pinned across her pillowy breasts.

“Ach, you’ve got a fine pair of big titties on ye, Morag.” The voice in her ear was husky, deep. A large hand jerked down the top of her chemise and hefted her left breast, testing its weight. Long fingers rolled the nipple, then pulled and pinched it until she wriggled and squealed.

“Oh, no, ye don’t!” Bran McKinnon’s voice was gentle but firm as he held her still. “Here I am, come to the tavern on the way to fetch my bride and you flaunt your wares at me like a common strumpet? You knew what you were getting into, so you’ll not play coy with me now.”

“That I did,” Morag admitted, opening her legs as his hand roamed the curve of her belly. The curls of her pubic thatch, as black as her raven hair, were damp with her arousal. “Are you going to punish me now for being the cock-tease? I canna stop you. After all, you’re a powerful laird. And I’m just an innocent serving lass.”

“Innocent, my arse,” Bran said with a knowing laugh. “You’re a hard-rode mare, Morag, and make no mistake. But you’ll not have to ask twice for me to skelp that bonny bottom.”

Bran grinned as he bent the plump tavern wench over the bed and pushed up the hem of her chemise as he pushed her legs apart. Morag’s ass cheeks were full and round and soft, her bottom hole pinkish brown between them. Just below, the curls covering her mound now dripped with evidence of her excitement, and he could see the pink flower of her pussy peeking from between the spread outer lips of her labia. The smell of her tang was strong; Morag was a lusty girl.

Bran’s mind made an unwelcome jump ahead to what he might expect from the next woman he bedded. He imagined some weak-eyed highborn lass, clutching the bedcovers to her naked form, and then lying stark still as he pushed into her. It repulsed him, and he forced himself to dismiss the thought. He liked his women wanting it, begging for it. He liked feeling the bend of a woman when she gave in not just to him, but also to her own desires.

“Please!” As if reading his thoughts, Morag looked back at him.

“Settle down,” he growled, punctuating the command with a hard slap to her bottom. He was a large man with a large hand; the imprint covered nearly the entire of one broad cheek. Morag squealed at the impact, but she kept her bum out, inviting more. And Bran delivered, peppering her generous backside with hard, heavy smacks until her moans turned to squeals and then cries of pleasure pain.

“Now that’s a nice red arse,” Bran said, stepping back after reddening her bum with a dozen or so healthy swats. “And that quim….” He ran a thick finger through the slit, up through the engorged folds until it came to rest on a large, prominent clit. “…‘Tis slippery as an eel.”

“And where’s your eel?” Morag snapped, looking over her shoulder.

“Impatient, are ye?” Bran smiled proudly as he lifted his kilt and wrapped his large hand around the impressive girth of his cock. “Maybe I should put it in your arse for tryin’ to tell me what to do.” He nudged the angry, ruby-red head already oozing with pre-cum toward her bottom hole.

“No, my laird!” she begged, raw need and trepidation warring in her eyes. He grinned down at her.

“Ach. You’re right. ‘Twould be cruel. It’d take some practice to stretch a woman’s back hole for such a monster. Would also be a waste anyway, since yer little nest has been made all hot and ready.” He rammed into Morag’s sopping pussy, relishing her cry. The woman was hardly chaste, and hardly tight. But even a well-used lass as Morag found herself stretched by Bran the Bull.

If her cries were contrived during the spanking, they were genuine now as she adjusted to his hammering thrusts. Soon enough, though, she’d stretched to accommodate his legendary cock, and thrust back, moaning and clawing at the bedcovers.

Bran kept himself in check until he felt Morag’s slippery passage convulsively milk the length of him. He grasped her punished ass cheeks, groaning as he relished the feeling of her orgasm as he felt his own build. His balls constricted, and the tingling sensation grew along with waves of pleasure as he emptied his load into her with a satisfied grunt.

He stood for a moment, staring down at her ass cheeks, split like a great pink peach with his cock buried between them. When he began to slowly withdraw, he kept his gaze still trained downward as he watched as his cock slide inch by glistening inch from Morag’s sated pussy. A stream of pearly cum slid out, trailing through her pubic hair and dripping onto the rough wood floor. Bran lowered his kilt, gave the lass a gentle swat on the hip, and stepped back.

As he turned to adjust his kilt, Morag flopped down on the bed.

“I guess you’ll be away now,” she said sulkily.

He smiled and tossed her a coin. “Aye. The lads are waitin’.” He walked over to the bed and chucked her playfully under the chin. “Dinna look so sad, lass. A fine thing like you won’t stay without bed sport for long. If I know you, another lad’s seed will mingle with mine before the sun sets this day.”

Morag fixed him with a pretty pout. “Maybe,” she said. “But that’s what he’ll be compared to you—a lad. Not a man, and certainly not Bran the Bull. Yer a ruthless man, you are, ruining a lass for other men.”

A rap from the other side of the door caught the laird’s attention before he could reply.

“Bran, are ye within?”

“I am, Col,” he replied, giving one last wink to the maid on the bed. Bran turned away from her wistful gaze to open the door. Colin McKinnon, his brother and second in command over Clan McKinnon, stood waiting impatiently.

“Were ye planning to lay abed all day with that one?” Colin asked, jerking his head toward the bed, a look of obvious disapproval on his face. “Now is not the time to play the rake, Bran, not with our being off to fetch your betrothed. Kiernan McLeod will not thank you for sowing your seed from here to Loch Rannoch.”

Bran scoffed at this. “Kiernan McLeod knows well of my reputation. And as a man whose only get is a passel of daughters, he’s likely happy to kill two birds with one stone by marrying off the last one, and appeasing King Robert at the same time.”

Colin barked a laugh. “My brother. The man who avoided hearth and home until forced to wed by the king in a move to unite the clans McLeod and McKinnon.” He clapped his larger sibling on the back. “But my advice stands. Keep your cock stowed best you can, brother. Morag’s a lusty piece. Let hers be enough to satisfy you until you’re wed.”

They were outside the inn now, where their other kin were standing with their horses. The men stood as Bran McKinnon mounted his large, shaggy-footed gelding. As he turned the horse and waited for the other men to mount up and follow, Bran reflected on his brother’s words.

Let hers be enough to satisfy you until you’re wed.

If only it were that easy. But in truth, Laird Bran McKinnon had yet to meet a woman who could leave him truly satisfied. Many a wench had milked his cock and left him drained and spent, but despite his many lovers, Bran McKinnon felt something was lacking. It was women like Morag who brought him the closest to actual pleasure. Morag liked a bit of pain, and offered her bottom up for his hand or the strap. But it was always for his arousal, and for hers. It got him rock hard, but always left him empty. Bran was a dominant man, and longed for the company of a lass who could take a genuine skelping. He longed to stare down at a milky white bottom and churning thighs as he spanked the pale globes to a deep pink or red—not for fun, but for genuine correction. Then he longed to hold the faceless woman to his chest while she cried, to wipe her eyes and set her back on her feet with a pat on the head and warning not to cross him again.

He supposed this tendency was bred into him. His ma had once told him that he was born in charge. The oldest of twelve, he was the natural leader, and the rightful successor to the father who’d served as clan leader until his death seven winters earlier. As a lad, his siblings had looked to him with respect, and imbued him with the same authority they gave their parents.

But as he passed into adulthood, Bran became conscious that his dominance had become fused with his sexuality. It gratified him on a base level to dominate and spank his partners. He also felt a strong need to nurture, and his ascension to clan leader, at least, fulfilled that part of him. Clan was kin, and kin was clan. Caring for the some six hundred folk who looked to him was an enormous, but welcome, responsibility. It gave him a good feeling to look from the walls of his keep at the houses dotting the highlands, and know that all within were warm and fed by his management and protection, and at times his sacrifice.

Now he felt he was about to make the biggest, but most significant sacrifice of his adult life. Tensions between the McLeods and the McKinnons had been brewing for years. Now that they were at a fever pitch, not everyone agreed on just how the problems started. Some maintained it was a dispute over the ownership of McKinnon cattle that had crossed onto McLeod land. Others said it was the stolen virtue of a McLeod girl by a McKinnon lad. Either way, the hostilities had resulted in reaving of cattle and even kidnappings. Of late, armed conflicts had sprung up, something King Robert did not want. He’d called the heads of both clans together for a stern talking-to, and demanded a physical manifestation of the peace he expected to be made. Bran McKinnon would marry Kiernan McLeod’s daughter, uniting the clans, and he’d expect to hear no more of border clashes or cattle reavings.

As lairds and landowners, neither Bran McKinnon nor Kiernan McLeod were willing to risk the king’s wrath. As they stood on a windswept hillside by the king’s castle preparing to part ways, it was agreed that Bran would come to claim his betrothed in a fortnight. Now, as he approached Castle McLeod, he wondered what to expect from Kiernan McLeod’s daughter, the youngest of his six girls. He’d heard that she’d once been betrothed, but the marriage had not happened, and Bran—who cared not for such gossip—now found himself wishing he had listened more closely. He only knew that the man—a distant cousin—had ultimately refused to marry her in defiance of the laird. Bran frowned. What kind of defect cause such rebellion in a potential husband? Was she slow? Ugly? Sickly? Mad?

He put the worries from his mind as they crossed into McLeod land. No matter what he found in his betrothed, he’d not have the luxury of turning her down. What’s worse, if he were to maintain a good relationship with the McLeod—a relationship the king was insisting upon—he’d have to remain faithful, or at least give the appearance of fidelity. Laird McLeod was a pious man, and had been faithful to the wife who’d died in bearing the young woman he was about to marry. From what little gossip Bran had heard, Kiernan McLeod had warned the men who married his other daughters that to take a mistress would incur his wrath. For Laird McKinnon, keeping the peace may now mean putting an end to his reputation as Bran the Bull.

But there was no time to dwell on such things. They had crossed the western border into McLeod territory. Bran knew there were orders to let his party pass unmolested, but outside every stone house they passed was a glowering man, or—in some cases—an entire glowering family. Word of the impending truce had spread, but old hatreds died hard and the McLeods seemed determined to show their disdain until the very last minute.

Castle McLeod loomed in the distance. While not as big as Castle McKinnon, it was well-situated on a crag with the loch behind and valleys all around. A watchman on the walls could see anyone approaching by water or by land. Above them, the spring sun brightened the dark green hills and dales with a golden glow before the occasional cloud shrouded them in more muted hues.

“There she is, Castle McLeod.” Colin had trotted his stocky gray mount level with Bran’s horse. “Not as big or fine as Castle McKinnon.” Colin’s tone was edged with pride.

Bran laughed as he looked over. “What’s the matter, Col? Afraid you’d have to tug your forelock had the place been grander?”

Colin’s face grew as cloudy as the skies above. “Tug my forelock to a McLeod? Never. Did you see the way his kin looked at us as we passed?”

“I’ll mind you not to let their anger be catching, and to stow your pride, brother.” Bran fixed his hotheaded sibling with a commanding look. He knew that even if peace was being made by the king’s command, there were those who secretly rebelled against the notion. But he also knew that as clan leaders, both he and Laird McLeod would strictly enforce the new peace. That fact was something he now emphasized to his second-in-command. “Remember, our lands and own kin will be at risk if things are not soothed by this union,” he said, shooting Colin a stern look. “Would you compromise the wellbeing of us all to soothe your bitterness? If I can put mine aside, so can you.”

Colin sobered immediately, and the men rode on in silence. Behind them, their companions—James, Fergus, and Thom—continued to keep wary watch as they approached the shadow of the castle. The closer they got to Castle McLeod, the closer Bran and his men moved into the rival laird’s protective circle. A red-bearded man with a jagged scar down the side of his face spat on the ground as the group passed.

Within the keep, things were different. Angry glares were replaced with nearly cordial nods. Whether this was a natural courtesy, or one ordered by Laird McLeod, was of no matter to Bran. He and his men were just relieved to remove hands from sword hilts.

Only one concern loomed for Laird McKinnon, and that was the nature of the woman who would return with him as his wife.

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