Page 44 of Only a Highlander Will Do

Softly at first. He just brushed her lips with his, intending to pull back and head belowstairs, but a desperation took hold of him, coiling inside him with a power that was so overwhelming all he could do was hold on to her as if she were the only stout branch he could cling to in the throes of a gale.

He’d never felt like this before, never had this all-consuming longing, never felt like a single kiss could cause him to lose all control. He drew back, trying to catch his breath.

And heard her cry out, echoing his own sense of longing, of need.

The sound was his undoing. It broke through his slim grasp of control, and with a groan, Tormod took her mouth, urging it open, wanting, needing to taste the sweet, heady essence of her.

Her tongue touched his with the same urgency as his own. He felt her hands on his body, felt her breasts pressing into his chest. He skimmed his hands down, brushing over her breasts. His palms engulfed the tender fullness and found the nipples already peaked and straining.

With his mouth firmly over hers once more, he began untying the row of ribbons over the bodice of her night rail. When they were loose and dangling, exposing her flesh beneath, he pushed the muslin off her shoulders, down to her waist, then over her hips until it pooled on the floor at her stockinged feet. When he reached down to remove her stockings, she shifted her leg away from his hand.

“Leave them on,” she whispered, then as the cool air touched her skin, Tormod heard a shivered cry of pleasure that had him lowering his head and capturing the taunting sweetness of her breast. He took her into his mouth, as much as he could hold, groaning when he felt her raking her hands through his hair to pull him even closer. Her back arched as she thrust her breasts forward for his pleasure.

On a quick intake of breath, she shifted back on her heels, staring up into his face. Desire dilated her eyes. And something more—a look that said she trusted him, desired him above all else.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for that look. Nothing. Not her sweet surrender or the heady yearning in her eyes. Frantically, Fiona released the penannular brooch from his shoulder, then the belt at his waist, sending his tartan to the floor. She tugged at his shirt, but her fingers fumbled on the muslin. He reached down and with one tug, pulled the garment over his head before guiding her back to the edge of the bed, then down into the softness of the bedding.

Tormod loomed over her, staring down at the woman who was his wife. He still couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re so beautiful, Fiona. So beautiful.” He buried his face in her hair and gently kissed her brutalised neck, breathing deeply, etching her rose scent into his memory, storing her essence for that moment when the blade of his enemy pierced his chest.

Their bodies came together, and Tormod revelled in the heat of her limbs twisting with his. He trailed his fingers up the delicate curve of her hips, her waist, and to her breasts, circling her nipples, urging them to taut peaks. He heard her soft moan of desire, felt a responding echo within himself, inflaming his passion all the more.

He replaced his fingers with his tongue. His mouth fastened on first one breast, then the other, licking, nipping, teasing. Continuing his assault, he kissed the valley between her breasts and dipped lower, to her waist, her belly, her navel, and lower still, until he kissed the softness between her thighs.

She tensed in surprise, but he allowed her time to adjust to his presence there, until the heat spreading through him also spread through her with his hot, wet kisses. He continued to gently stroke her until she was able to control neither her broken moans nor her trembling limbs.

He circled her with his tongue, then pushed inside her. She thrust against him in response, wanting more, and he could feel the tension building inside her, growing tighter and tighter with each thrust and circle of his tongue. Then, on a broken cry, she arched against him, erupted, surrendering to the dark, whirling pleasure he’d created.

For a moment he backed away, and she reached for him with hungry hands, urging him upwards, over her body. She rose up to meet him, kissing the sensitive flesh of his chest, his shoulder, his mouth. “Please . . .” she murmured against his lips.

In answer to her plea, he rose over her and parted her legs. He tangled his hands in the silken cloud of her red hair, then cradled her head, drawing her mouth to his once more. “Fiona . . . my sweet.”

Her lips parted in unconscious provocation. And he accepted what she offered. With one quick thrust he entered her slick core, his mouth crushing hers, absorbing the sigh of ecstasy that twined in their breaths.

Warmth and fullness. Deep. So deep. He thrust inside her, never wanting to let her go. In and out, he continued to stroke her, holding himself back, wanting her pleasure to soar again before he joined her in that dark plane of magical sensation.

She locked her legs around his hips and rocked with him, until the very essence of her being—her feel, her taste, her scent—merged with his own. Until there was no telling where she ended and he began.

Unable to hold himself back a moment longer, he guided her hips, thrusting hard, surrendering himself to her hot, wet sweetness, wishing the moment could last forever as they plunged over the abyss together.

He remained deep inside her, until their breathing returned to normal and the beat of her heart slowed to a steady, even rate. He rose up on his elbows and looked down into her face, memorising every detail of her passion-filled face before he rolled onto his back, taking her with him, pulling her against his side. She nuzzled against his chest. He lay back and gazed deeply into her green eyes. It was a MacDonald who had brought him to this woman. For that gift alone he should never fight against his enemy again. But centuries of fighting could not be assuaged so easily. And the MacDonalds still had Rowena in their grasp. So fight they must.

Fiona tipped her head back to look into his face, and the passion in her eyes faded, replaced with concern. “What’s wrong?”

With one finger, he swept the dampened tendrils of her hair back from her face, then leaned down and kissed her with great gentleness. “I must ask you to do something for me without question or argument.”

A flicker of unease crossed her face. “That would depend upon what you asked.”

She sensed something was not right and he could not put off leaving any longer. “No matter the outcome of this battle with the MacDonalds, I ask that you remain here at Dunvegan with my family . . . your family.” A raw ache settled in his chest.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, exposing her perfect breasts to his view once more. “Why are you talking as though you won’t return, Tormod? Why is this battle any different than so many others you fought and survived?”

He offered her a sad smile as he sat up beside her, forcing his hands to still, to not reach out and take her into his arms. “It’s just a feeling I cannot seem to shake . . .” He took her hand, fingering the jewelled ring he had placed there during their marriage ceremony. “When I gave this to you, I had no idea what you would come to mean to me. Let this ring always remind you of how special you are, how much you are loved.” He closed his eyes against the sudden jarring of his heart.

“I am not going to lose you so easily. If you will not believe you will return safely to me, then I will believe it enough for the two of us.” She brought a trembling hand up to cradle his cheek then leaned towards him and brushed her lips against his.

She lingered there, with their lips barely touching, and in that moment he felt it—the poignancy of her passion and her belief. Such innocent seduction would have worked to keep him by her side if only he could stay. But as much as he longed to remain coiled beside her, wrapped in her warmth, he could not.

Destiny had other plans. “I must go.”