Chapter 18 #3
The sheet had slipped to below her breasts. His gaze heated, lingering on her puckered nipples visible through the thin cotton of her sark. A hot flush spread across her skin as she recalled the feel of his mouth enveloping her, sucking her.
“God knows I want your body, but it’s not enough. I need all of you. Can you give me your trust and forgive me for not giving you the same?” He paused, the stark pain of regret burning in his eyes. “God, Jeannie, can you ever forgive me for leaving you?”
The thick emotion in his voice snapped the last thread of doubt—he cared, then and now. They’d both made mistakes and had paid for them in different ways. But what he was offering her was something she never thought they’d have: a chance to try again.
She remembered the loneliness, emptiness, and anguish she’d felt when he’d left her all those years ago. He’d broken her heart and nearly destroyed her. The stakes had grown even higher now: his life … their son. But losing him again would be much worse.
It had been so long since she’d taken a chance, since she’d listened to that little voice at the back of her head, but he was worth the risk.
He always had been. For so long she’d thought of what had happened with Duncan as a mistake; it was a shock to realize she wouldn’t change it, not if it meant never having loved him.
Heart pounding with the significance of what she was about to do, she slid her legs under her bottom, lifted up on her knees to face him, and wrapped her arms around his neck.
He made a harsh sound at the contact—halfway between a groan of pain and one of pleasure.
His body was as hard as granite, his muscles coiled under her fingertips like thick steel ropes.
She pressed her body against his, savoring the strength and solidness of his broad chest. Their hearts drummed in unison.
He was so warm, heat radiated through the fine linen of his shirt and plaid.
She could smell the peat from the fires in the wool and the faint, intoxicating scent of whisky on his breath.
She moved her mouth to his ear, inhaling the dark spicy scent. She wanted to devour every inch of him with her mouth and tongue. “Make me forget, Duncan,” she whispered.
The primitive challenge of her words broke the last link in the steel chain of his control. With a fierce growl he pulled her into his arms and covered her mouth with his in a deep, primal kiss. It was a kiss of possession. Of hunger. Of need.
A kiss to make her forget.
It was as if all the years had disappeared and once again everything was right. More than right … it was perfect. For when he was holding her like this, kissing her like this, the world disappeared and there was only them. Unburdened by duty and clan loyalties, by treason and by secrets.
His mouth moved over hers—tasting, devouring. She felt the raw urgency as her own and returned it full force, melting against him and opening her mouth to his tongue.
Youthful fumblings? It hadn’t been true then, and such a claim was laughable now. He knew exactly what to do to bring her pleasure. Every caress of his lips, every deft stroke of his tongue was calculated with deliberate precision to arouse.
He cupped her bottom tight against him with one big hand as the other plunged through her hair to cradle the back of her head.
She melted against him, drowning in heat and passion.
She could feel the warm press of his fingers on her scalp, bringing her even closer.
The rough stubble of his beard scratched the sensitive skin around her mouth, as he kissed her deeper and deeper, leaving no part of her unclaimed.
Her body shuddered at every long, carnal thrust of his tongue, as he mimicked the rhythm of the pleasure he would give her. Molded against him, with only a few thin layers of clothing between them, she could feel the source of that pleasure hard against her stomach.
It had been too long. Desire came over her in a big, crushing wave.
The strength of it, the force of it, surprised her.
That part of her life had been quiet for so long, she’d forgotten how it felt when desire—passion—took hold and swept away everything else in its path.
But her body remembered the sensations. The rasp of his beard on her skin, the pressure of his hands on her breast, the heat of his mouth on her nipple, the dark, spicy taste of his kiss, the weight of his body on top of her. The fullness of him inside her.
Her body flooded with those memories.
She didn’t want to think, she only wanted to feel—him, inside her, filling her. Her hips circled against him, rubbing the thick column of his manhood. He felt so good. Too good. She couldn’t wait …
He broke the kiss with a groan, his breath coming hard and fast; his eyes burning hot with desire. “Not so fast, my sweet. Not this time.”
Jeannie wanted to cry out in protest, but she could see the resolve tight on his face and knew he would not be dissuaded.
She knew what he was doing, forcing her to acknowledge what was between them every step of the way.
No longer would she be able to hide behind blind passion.
He wanted to strip her bare—not just her clothes, but her soul.
The thought of what he could reveal terrified her, but she was beyond caution.
Without another word, he started to remove his clothes, holding her gaze to his the entire time.
Jeannie couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, utterly transfixed by the incredible man before her.
He unfastened the thick leather belt at his waist and tossed it to the ground.
The intricately wrapped plaid came next, the thick, heavy folds falling into a pool at his feet.
He still wore his brogues and sat on the edge of the bed to remove the soft leather boots.
He stood again to remove the linen shirt, but she stopped him.
“No, let me,” she said, her voice husky.
His eyes locked on hers. If he was surprised by her bold request, he did not show it. Instead his gaze seemed to burn even hotter.
She was not an innocent girl any longer, but a woman who knew what she wanted. And right now she wanted to touch him more than anything in the world. To spread her hands across the wide spans of muscled chest and feel his heat, feel the raw energy pulsing from him.
To know that this was real and not a dream.
His eyes followed her every movement as she reached forward and slid her hands under the front edge of his shirt. She gasped at the contact, at the erotic sensation of hot, smooth skin. Just touching him made her dissolve into a puddle of hot, liquid need.
Duncan made a sharp sound and jerked, his jaw clenched and the muscles under her fingers suddenly rigid. He didn’t seem to be breathing, but she had no doubt what she did to him.
His reaction only encouraged her—she felt emboldened by the sensual power she wielded over this fierce warrior. She splayed her fingers over the steel bands of his stomach, marveling at their precision, yet wickedly aware of the thick, swollen head of his erection jutting just below her wrists.
He wore nothing under his plaid which meant …
She looked down, a bold, naughty streak she didn’t know she possessed taking hold.
Her mouth went dry. Her memory hadn’t exaggerated.
Thick and long, the round head swollen and heavy with blood, his manhood rose prominently a few inches above his waist between heavily muscled thighs giving proof to his virility.
She blushed, realizing she’d been staring.
But the wanton attention only seemed to make him grow even larger.
She reached out, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her from touching him. His jaw was clenched tight and the muscles in his neck bulged. He shook his head. “Nay,” he said, his voice harsh and pained. “Not yet.”
Blushing harder, but strangely pleased, she returned to removing his shirt.
Slowly, she skimmed her hands up his chest, lifting the shirt. When she reached his shoulders, he raised his arms and she had to stand on the bed to take it all the way off.
Tossing the shirt beside the plaid, she ran her hands over his shoulders, his arms, his back, as if memorizing every ridge, every bulge of muscle with her palms. He was completely naked, and utterly magnificent.
His muscles sculpted to perfection, every ounce of his flesh hard-wrought steel. His virile strength was daunting.
He stood completely still, but she could tell from the harshness of his breathing that her exploration was torturing him.
She tore her gaze from his chest and looked into his eyes.
“You’ve changed so much,” she said softly, unable to keep the wistfulness from creeping into her voice.
The boy had become a man. He’d left her a promising warrior, and returned an indestructible legend.
Her fingers absently traced scars, the remnants of battles she knew nothing about.
“I hope for the better,” he said lightly, cupping her chin and forcing her gaze to his. His tone turned serious. “There’s still time, Jeannie. It’s not too late.”
Her heart squeezed. She hoped so. Uncertainty clouded her consciousness, until he dropped a soft kiss on her lips. A kiss that quickly turned insistent. Demanding. Wiping out all thoughts of the troubles facing them and returning her to the moment at hand.
She circled her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his, a body that she’d primed with her touch.
She could feel the fire blazing under the surface, ready to engulf her in flames.
All too aware of his nakedness and that only the thin linen of her nightraile separated them, she sank against him, sliding her body down to position him between her legs.
He drew back, his eyes dark with passion and shook his head. A predatory glint sparked in his gaze. “Now it’s my turn.”
The sensual promise in his voice quickened her pulse. She eyed him warily. Though she was far from a maid, she could hardly be called experienced in the art of love-making. She fought back the needle of guilt for the failure to her husband. Francis had deserved more than duty and quiet acceptance.
But she could no more force her body to passion than she could her heart to love.
She knew that now. With Duncan she never had to try, it was always there.
Bone deep. On an elemental level that could not be feigned.
With Duncan she’d never felt self-conscious.
Never been uncomfortable. Making love to him seemed the most natural thing in the world.
She was still standing on the bed before him, and she was suddenly aware that her breasts were right at his eye-level.
Slowly, he worked the ties of her nightraile, the heel of his hands brushing the hard tips.
She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel them on her, caressing her with their heat.
Her knees wobbled when his hands cupped her breasts and lifted them to his face. He circled her nipples with his thumbs, creating a gentle friction with the fabric, until she throbbed. She wriggled, her body restless.
But his exquisite torture had just begun.