Page 19 of Much Ado About a Scot

Xander had spent years tracking down every pair of shoes and boots his mother had ever made, paying whatever he had to in order to repossess them. “My mother was very good at her craft. That’s enough of the questions. May I have the drying sheet?”

Isobel picked up the cloth but did not extend her hand toward him. Instead, she asked, “Is your mother still alive?”

“I’m willing to walk out of this tub wet and naked.” As he started to rise, Isobel thrust the drying sheet at him but did not turn her back.

“Nay. She died when I was nine.”

“I’m sorry. That is very young to lose a mother.”

He shrugged. “I made my way in this world.”

“Your mother would be proud. She raised an honorable man.” Her voice was soft but confident as her gaze held his.

He was strangely moved by her persistence. She’d asked about his mother, reminding him that he’d been raised by a strong and ambitious woman. His new wife was every bit her equal.

Xander dropped the drying sheet. He was starkly, boldly aroused. He moved toward her. She remained still—simply waiting. He had to have her. He had to touch, taste, and explore this woman who worked as hard as any man, yet in this moment looked as fragile as a white rose with her tousled hair and shift that was almost translucent in the firelight.

“I want you, Isobel. I’ve made no secret of that. Is this what you want?” he asked, his body tense.

“Aye. I want you.” The words were a whisper of need.

He stopped in front of her. He drew her shift over her head and tossed it aside. “All day today—”

“I couldn’t get you out of my thoughts.” She took the final step toward him.

“Outside, surrounded by the earth and the wind, I wanted to pull you down in the dirt and have my way with you right there.” He caught her by the waist and brought her against him. Her naked breasts molded to his firmness, yet her nipples hardened at the feel of the course hair of his chest. He rubbed against her, breathing in her scent. There was something wildly exciting about the intensity of his need for her. Never had he had such an earthy, almost animalistic response to a woman before.

“I almost wish you had.” Her breath caught as she moved against him, running her palms feverishly against his back. “No more waiting.”

“No more,” he repeated as he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.

*

Even though she knew she should not give in to this forbidden pleasure, she couldn’t form the words to object. She wanted this moment with him. She wanted to forget her obligations as a mother, a landowner, a provider. For a few precious moments she wanted to be his lover, to experience pleasure, to feel the warmth of a man beside her instead of the exhaustion that was her nightly bedfellow.

She would have this moment with him even if it was the wrong choice to make. Pushing all her reservations aside, she looked her fill as he set her on the bed sheets. His erection was thick and hard and everything in her longed to feel that strength inside her. It had been so long—too long since she’d felt this way. Ezra had never invoked this kind of response from her. To be honest, Rory hadn’t either. Nay, this was something entirely new—this raw, sensual moment—with a virtual stranger.

He knelt on the bed and settled himself between her knees. But instead of entering her as she so desperately needed, he brought his flesh to her flesh. She inhaled sharply at the slide of his damp skin against her own. His hands moved over her, exploring, delving, finding every curve, every crevice, as if it was essential that he touch all of her.

And Lord help her, she wanted that. Everywhere he touched, a trail of fire followed, swamping her with sensations almost too intense to bear.

His mouth came down to sample her lips, then more urgently, forced hers to open, his tongue sliding inside, tangling with hers until her breaths came in gasps. Her body was taut with expectation as his hands cupped her breasts. Her nipples were on fire. She was on fire.

She reached for him, tracing his nipples with the backs of her hands, wringing a groan from deep in his throat. He broke their kiss and spread her thighs, his palms running feverishly up and down her flesh, feeling the textures of her skin, and finally the mound of tight curls at her apex. His fingers touched her, probed, and sank deep.

She released a muffled cry, the muscles of her stomach clenching, convulsing. Her body was one entire nerve on the brink of climax. She moaned his name, heard the desperation in her tone, but she didn’t care.

“Tight,” he muttered. “You’re so tight.” He moved closer, positioning himself. “God, I want in,” he said through clenched teeth.

She wanted him in. Her heart pounded hard. She trembled from head to toe. A breathless “please” was all she could manage.

His fingers released her to shift one hand to her center and thumbed her core until she was writhing and twisting beneath him. When he raised his head and looked at her, she read more hunger in his dark eyes than she’d ever seen before. His hands touched her, parted her tender flesh and he entered her in one long stroke.

Isobel’s spine arched up as she gave a low cry of wild satisfaction. He pushed into her heat again and she moved against him, taking him even deeper. He rocked against her and she felt every stroking glide of his body. Again and again he claimed her, his body entering and retreating in a fast and furious rhythm that stole her breath and her thoughts.

She scraped her hands up and down his back, along his buttocks, and up the muscular ripples of his chest, feeling his muscles tense with each caress.

“Now,” he commanded. “Shatter with me.”