𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐞 | 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐫 ✅

15 - Unbridled Desire

12th February 1739

James Fraser's POV

When I got back from university that day, there was post. I set my book down and immediately took the pile, flicking through it and hoping that there was something for me. I would have appreciated a letter from Jenny or my father, or even Ian, but I knew in my heart that there was only one person who I truly wanted to write to me.

My heart lifted as I saw my name and Jared's Parisian townhouse address in her scrawl on the front of an envelope. I dropped the rest of the letters on top of my book and hurried to my room as quickly as I could, ignoring the manservant entirely when he asked me if I wanted any refreshments.

I didn't even bother to take off my overcoat before I tore open the seal of the envelope and pulled the paper out. I unfolded it and saw the date that she had written it. Christmas Eve. So my last letter had made it by Christmas. Just.

I sat in the armchair by the fire and read through her words, imagining her beautiful, delicate hands gliding across the paper as she wrote.

I stopped after the first paragraph, searching for the rose. It was not enclosed inside of the paper and it had not fallen to the floor in my haste to take the paper out of the envelope. I stood up so I could manoeuvre better and reached into the pocket of my overcoat, taking out the now slightly crumpled envelope, but beyond grateful that I had not thrown it directly into the fire which I had instructed be lit for me every day just before I got home from university. I slid two fingers into the envelope and immediately found my prize. I gently took the pressed flower and held it up to the light of the early evening Parisian night.

I could faintly smell the flower and smiled, remembering how she had smelled just like it whenever I had been within a few inches of her. Eira danced across my mind again - she did it frequently, and whenever she did I had a problem.

I looked down into my lap and sighed, knowing that the problem would need to be taken care of sooner rather than later, but I wanted to finish the rest of the letter first. I went back to reading.

"Damn Faulkner," I muttered to myself after I had finished the second paragraph. I knew immediately that I had to write to my father and ask him, beg if I had to, not to give Eira's hand to the tanner's lad, and I made a mental list;

1. finish reading the letter - well that was easily done.

2. take care of the growth in your breeches - easily done, too.

3. write to father for Eira - I had no idea how I would phrase the letter, but surely that was easily done as well... though whether it would arrive in time or not was something that I could not bear thinking about.

The final part of the letter was all that I had wanted to know and more. What she had not written bluntly spoke louder than the words that she had noted down. She missed me, she wanted me by her side as she drifted off to sleep, and she was not angry with me for going off to Paris.

I placed Eira's letter in the pocket of my overcoat, not bothering to get up to reach it this time, and then I got myself comfortable once more. What I had to do next was something that I hated doing... and yet it thrilled and excited me to do it. I loved doing it at the same time. I took my cock, swollen with lust and desire for one ebony-haired bonnie lass, and wrapped my hand around it, squeezing gently. I sucked in my breath. It felt so good.

With my other hand, I held the Scottish rose up to my nose and inhaled deeply, closing my eyes and imagining that it was her perfume that I was smelling and that she was beside me, in front of me and completely at my mercy... or rather, imagining that I was at her's.

I imagined that it was Eira's dainty digits wrapped around my manhood as I stroked myself off, and I imagined that her legs were on either side of mine and that she was riding me like a horse, her bosom pressed flush against my chest, which I wished was bare. I wished that I could feel her flesh against my own, and delight in the feeling of her lips locked with mine.

I groaned loudly and slumped backwards, my head rolling against the back of the chair. I was too blissed out to think for several seconds, but when I recovered, I cursed Willie Faulkner for his existence, and it was not the first time that I had done so since returning from Beannachd. I stood up, using my own handkerchief to wipe away the mess that I had made, and then I tucked myself back into my trousers before throwing my handkerchief into the fire and going over to retrieve some paper, a pen and a pot of ink from the desk in the corner of my room.