Kiss of the Highlander

Page 45

“Make love to me,” she repeated quietly. There was no tremor in her voice the second time.
His silver eyes glittered. “Lass, you honor me.” When he opened his arms, she leaped at him, and he swung her effortlessly into his embrace, pulling her legs around his waist. They both gasped at the intensity of the contact. A current of desire sizzled between them, zapping them both to the core. With powerful strides, he backed her to the perimeter of the stones until her spine rested against one of the megaliths. He lowered his head and kissed her, grinding his hips against her, and when she cried out, he caught it on his tongue.
“I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you,” he said roughly.
“Me too,” she confessed, with a breathless laugh.
“Och, lass, why dinna you tell me?” he asked, kissing her jaw, her cheeks, her nose and lashes, cradling her face with his hands. “Why did you resist? Three days we could hae passed doin’ this,” he said, his burr thickened by desire.
“Not if we wanted to get to your stones,” she panted, wondering why he couldn’t just shut up and kiss her hard on the mouth. “Shut up and kiss me,” she said.
He laughed and kissed her so hard that it unleashed ferocity in her tiny frame. She’d seen movies where people made love slowly, sinuously wrapping around each other, but theirs was a mating of wildness. Given their propensity to argue heatedly, she hadn’t expected their sex to be anything less intense. She couldn’t get enough of him, she wanted more tongue and more hands and more of his muscular ass. She wanted him naked against her body. Wanted to feel him pounding into her. She’d waited all her life for this, and she was ready. Just looking at him made her wet.
He tugged her shirt from her shorts and fumbled with her fly, kissing her urgently all the while. “Your trews, lass, get them off,” he said roughly.
“I can’t. My legs are wrapped around you,” she mumbled. “And ow. Your knife is poking my breast.”
“Mmm, sorry.” He nipped her lower lip and sucked it hard. “I must put you down, lass, to get you naked. And ’tis needin’ you naked I am.”
But he didn’t make any move to lower her, hostage to her luscious mouth nibbling at him, her wee hands clawing at his back.
“So put me down, MacKeltar,” she panted a few minutes later against his mouth, desperate to feel his skin against hers. “I have too many clothes on!”
“I’m trying,” he said, trailing kisses down her neck and scraping his velvety tongue back up, only to arrive at her lips again, a position he could hardly fail to take full advantage of.
“Don’t put me down,” she whimpered when he stopped kissing her. Her lips felt naked and cold without him, her body bereft.
The minute her toes touched the ground, she reached impatiently for his clothing, but he dived for her shorts at the same moment, cursing when he bumped his jaw on her head and she got tangled up in his hair.
She fumbled with his hair, then found her way to the leather bands across his chest but was unable to fathom how he’d fastened them. Brushing her hands aside, he tugged her shirt over her head, than stared at her bra. He touched the lacy fabric with fascination. “Lass, show me your breasts. Be quit of this thing, lest I tear it to shreds in my haste.”
She popped the front clasp swiftly and slipped it off. The cool air teased her nipples into puckered crests, and he drew a sharp inhalation of breath. For a moment, he didn’t seem to be able to move, just stood and stared.
“You have splendid breasts, lass,” he purred, cupping the plump mounds. “Splendid,” he repeated stupidly, and she almost laughed. Men loved breasts—any shape or form, they just loved them.
And he was certainly loving hers. He palmed them, lifting and squeezing, and with a husky groan he buried his face in her breasts, rubbing back and forth before drawing a nipple deep into his mouth.
Gwen panted softly when he scattered scorching kisses over her breasts. She twisted and turned in his arms, wanting his mouth there…and there…and there, telling him with her body just how and where she needed him. His fingers worked at her shorts, with little success, and grunting his frustration he tugged at her zipper but succeeded only in jamming it off the track. Encountering similar resistance with his costume, she moaned frantically. She wanted skin against skin; she needed it—every last inch, pressed slick and intimate.
“Oh, just do your own and I’ll do mine,” she snapped, impeded desire making her downright testy. She needed him naked now.
He looked as relieved as she felt by the efficient solution, and as she tugged and twisted at her zipper, then kicked off her shorts, he removed his plaid, tossing knives left and right, doffing his ax and sword and finally shucking his leather armor. He stood up straight, tossing his long dark hair over his shoulders, and looked at her.