Chapter Fourteen #2
Avery went perfectly still beneath the touch, though she did not move away from him. Her breathing changed though, growing shallower and quicker while his hand slid slowly from her hair along the outside of her arm.
He had desired women before in his life—desire itself was no novelty to him.
This was straightforward hunger, something he’d called curiosity before this moment, but there was something deeper and more consuming in him, an admiration tangled inseparably now with tenderness and protectiveness and fascination.
He thought of her standing toe to toe against Kerr moments ago, thought of the quiet order she maintained in her dreary little life, thought of the lonely bewilderment in her voice when she confessed that the world itself no longer made sense to her, and lingered over the beguiling image of her smiles from last night.
He clenched his jaw and told himself to stop, to walk away. He was leaving, mayhap as soon as tomorrow. He had no right. And yet, against all better judgment, his hand moved upward until his fingers curved lightly against the side of her neck beneath the fall of her hair.
Avery inhaled softly.
Morggán lowered his head and pressed his mouth just below her ear.
He would swear to God the noise that escaped her in a short burst of breath was an expectant, whimpering sigh.
The kiss remained there only a moment, warm and deliberate against her skin, but he felt the effect of it pass through her immediately in the way her arms dropped forward, almost languidly, the neatly folded breacan yet in her grasp and yet all but forgotten.
Still, he did not rush her. He remained close enough to feel the warmth of her body while allowing her the space to turn away if she wished.
God help her, she did not.
Slowly, carefully, Morggán turned her toward him.
She tipped her head back to look at him then, blue eyes wide and searching beneath the soft light of the midafternoon sun through the open door.
Standing so close, he became acutely aware again of the difference in their size, of how easily one of his hands might span her waist while the other still rested lightly against her neck.
Yet nothing in her expression suggested fear.
Uncertainty perhaps. Wonder certainly. But she remained where she was, watching him with that same steady openness she brought to nearly everything.
Holding her gaze, he took the plaid from her hands and dropped it on the bed behind her.
Then he brushed his fingers along the curve of her jaw and lowered his mouth to hers.
***
His intent, when she understood it, was shocking enough, but when his lips touched hers, the shock of it moved through her so completely she forgot for several seconds to do anything except feel.
His hand came lightly against the side of her neck, roughened palm warm on her flesh beneath her hair, and the kiss itself was unhurried despite the unmistakable hunger held carefully in check behind it.
Avery had imagined kissing before, in the vague awkward way of someone who had spent years alone with nothing but a memory of something known to exist but without any experience of it—but the reality bore almost no resemblance to those thoughts.
There was nothing abstract about the weight of his mouth against hers or the rough scrape of his thumb near her jaw or the heat that spread low and strange through her body each time his lips moved slowly against her own.
Oh, my God, was all Avery could think.
What startled her most was how naturally she answered him once the first stunned moment passed.
Her hand rose to his chest, fingers curling lightly against the rough wool and the hard muscle beneath it, and when his mouth deepened against hers she felt another helpless, joyful sound rise in her throat.
Embarrassment flashed hot through her immediately afterward, but Morggán gave no sign of amusement or triumph.
He kissed her with the same grave attentiveness he seemed to bring to everything he did, as though this too mattered enough to deserve patience.
The hand against her neck remained steady rather than demanding, his thumb shifting once beneath her jaw in a small movement that sent another wave of heat through her so unexpectedly that her knees nearly weakened beneath her.
She felt the sweep of his tongue against her lips and instinctively, she opened for him.
Her heart gave a resounding jolt when he touched his tongue to hers, tasting her.
His tongue tangled with hers, a glorious advance and retreat, and she responded in a way her dreams had never been able to imagine.
The intimacy of it was so sudden and shocking that for one dizzy instant she thought she might stop breathing altogether.
She clung to him, fingers tightening against the wool at his chest, the solidness of him having become the only steady thing in the room.
A soft sound escaped her into his mouth, helpless and full of astonished pleasure, and Morggán answered it with a low roughened breath of his own.
The hand at her neck slid farther into her hair, holding her against him with a possessiveness that stunned and gladdened her.
She felt desired in a way that left no room for uncertainty, and the realization itself seemed to melt something long frozen inside her.
Sound—some noise that was not her own pulse pounding in her ears—intruded then, voices speaking outside and drawing closer.
Avery scarcely noticed them at first, the world having narrowed so completely to the warmth of his mouth and the strength of him that the sound of men approaching seemed distant and unreal until one voice rose clearly enough to carry toward the house.
“Laird!”
Though Morggán did not jerk away with any fear of discovery, his lips left hers at last, and the loss of them struck Avery with startling force.
Cool air touched the damp warmth he had left behind, and she found herself drawing a quiet breath as though trying to recover something.
Nervously she tugged at the sides of her shirt, pulling the fabric down though it had settled properly when she lowered her arms as Morggán pulled back.
She searched his face almost anxiously, wanting to know what remained there now that the kiss had ended.
Daylight reached only part of his face from where they stood beside the bed, leaving the harsher lines of him in shadow while catching faintly along the gray of his eyes.
He didn’t look particularly satisfied, she decided.
If anything, he looked hungry still. His gaze remained fixed on her mouth for the briefest instant before lifting again to her eyes, and something in that look—something intent and possibly carefully held in check—made warmth spread through her all over again.
She became aware once more of the sheer size of him standing only inches away, of the breadth of his shoulders and the quiet steadiness with which he watched her, as though waiting to see whether she regretted what had just passed between them.
In answer to that imagined question, the faintest smile threatened at the corners of Avery’s mouth before Morggán finally stepped back as the voices outside drew nearer.
Even when he turned toward the door, she continued staring at him, understanding with painful clarity how long it had been since another person had touched her with gentleness that was not incidental or practical or born only of necessity.
Years of survival had reduced touch to usefulness: a bowl passed from hand to hand, a shoulder brushed in confined spaces, rough contact while carrying wood or tending work.
Nothing in her life since arriving in this forest had prepared her for tenderness freely given.
And absurdly, tangled somewhere in the back of her mind beneath the shock and wonder of the moment, came the memory of that other life and the enormous glowing screen inside the crowded theater in 1995, that last week with her parents.
The last kiss she had known—not her own—had belonged to a Scottish legend and the gentle woman he loved, larger than life beneath orchestral music and flickering lights.
At eleven years old she had watched it with the fierce certainty that one day she too would grow up and be loved like that, with that same absolute devotion that made the rest of the world seem smaller around it.
It had never occurred to her that romance and love were impossible, but rather as viewed through the mind of a child—any child—who often mistook longing for destiny, believing it inevitable.
Standing here now in the narrow dimness of a shack deep in a Scottish forest with Morggán’s warmth still lingering against her mouth, Avery thought with sudden bewilderment that nothing she had seen on any screen had prepared her for the reality of being kissed by a man who looked at her a moment ago as though stepping away had cost him something.
***