My Fierce Highlander (20 page)

“Sir, this is not…this would not be
wise.”

She was right of course. ’Twas foolhardy and
reckless. Yet it was something he had to have, and whether she
admitted it or not, something she also wanted.

“One kiss and you’re free to go.” By the
saints, he did have the same blood as Lachlan running through his
veins. Alasdair hadn’t used his seduction skills in so long they
were rusty as a sword from the sea.

He inched closer to her, but in an attempt to
restrain his primal impulses, pressed his forehead to his fist
against the door. He didn’t touch her, though his fingers ached to
stroke her silky skin. “The kiss in the garden,” he said. “And the
one in the library…I cannot get either out of my head. Do you ever
think of them?”

Chapter Nine

Gwyneth couldn’t look Laird MacGrath in the
eye when he said such things, reminding her of the lascivious
kisses they’d shared. He stirred up a cauldron of wicked feelings
inside her. Desires she thought she’d experienced before, but
hadn’t. Her first seduction had been nothing compared to this.

Alasdair’s clean, woodsy-musk scent teased
the side of her that reveled in sensuality, tempted her to press
her nose to his chest and breathe him in. Clearly, he had bathed
this morn in a pleasant-scented soap.

He leaned against the door as if she might
escape. She should’ve fled earlier, just as he’d entered. The
rational part of her knew this. But now a battle waged within her,
and her sensual side craved naught but being pinned beneath his
strong body.

“I guess you’ve forgotten both kisses, then,”
he murmured. “They were naught, aye?”

Was he mad? She could think of little else.
The kisses would remain her fondest memories. She had to leave this
place, leave the enticement of this man.

Though her reputation and virtue were in
tatters, she had tried to gather the mended shreds about her in
these last few years. But he inspired her to set a torch to them.
He drew her to him like iron filings to a lodestone, and when she
looked into his eyes or stood in his presence, she questioned the
value of reputation and virtue. They seemed cold, lifeless
companions when she faced the brilliant, life-affirming heat of
him.

“I remember the kisses,” she admitted,
pressing her back against the solid wood of the door. “Indeed, how
could I not?”
I relive them every night. And every time I see
you during the busy, tiresome days.

His eyes, black as the depths of sin, trapped
her. She couldn’t help but trust him, couldn’t help but put herself
under his control.

“Why can I not turn away from you?” she
whispered.

He released a ragged breath. “’Haps the same
reason I cannot turn from you. ’Tis beyond my strength.”

And clearly he had impressive strength, but
whatever drew them together was far more powerful.

She moved toward him. “I shouldn’t do this
again.”

But she did.

She slid her fingers into his dark hair and
met his delectable lips with her own.
Ahh.
She had dreamed
of this, relived his kisses so often, it seemed Alasdair had kissed
her a hundred times. But he hadn’t, not like this. She had not
remembered each nuance—the wet warmth of his mouth, his arousing
masculine taste, the way his whisker stubble rasped her chin and
upper lip, the way his big hands framed her waist and pulled her
close.

She opened her mouth, hoping he’d slide his
tongue inside and flick it across hers. When he did, her knees lost
all strength. With a groan, he caught her to the solid muscles of
his body and lifted her, stroking her over his stone-hard shaft.
She squirmed and wrapped her arms around his neck. She craved him
beyond all reason.

Why this intensity? She could scarce breathe.
His lips ate at hers, his tongue tasted and seduced.

He kissed a teasing trail down her neck and
sparked sensations through her breasts without even touching them.
Oh, her nipples were hard, craving the heat and suction of his
mouth savoring them.

She murmured a sound between a gasp and a
moan before she could squelch it. How scandalous she was, but she
could not renounce her needs.

Harsh breaths escaping him, he set her down
gently and tried to hold her away from him, even as he kept
pressing light kisses to her mouth. “Sweet Mother Mary, I believe
you’re right, m’lady. Not wise.”

She didn’t want it to end, this dream, this
sensual haven. She had experienced what went on between a man and a
woman on a few occasions, but never had she yearned for it this
badly. He was like a lodestone, and she could not back away.

Already, she missed the heat and solidity of
his body. She followed him when he retreated, unable to smother her
wanton hunger.

“Let me lock the door.” He lowered his
lashes, half concealing the dark desire that burned in his
eyes.

She couldn’t respond to such a request, for
the implications far outreached the simple statement.

I can’t do this.

Yet, she had to. It was not in her power to
say no. She needed him too much.

“M’lady—Gwyneth,” he whispered against her
ear. “I’m wanting you now as I’ve never wanted another woman. You
have damn well bewitched me, and all I can think of is being inside
you, taking you over and over.”

Good heavens! Such shocking words he spoke.
But, because of them, she ached.

“What say you? Do you want me as well?”

She grasped all her courage together. “Yes, I
want you…Alasdair,” she whispered.

“Och! Dear God, how is this possible?”

She wondered the same thing. How could she
have happened upon such a treasure as him? And such undeniable
passion?

With a click of the key turning in the lock,
he shielded them from the intrusion of the outside world. For this
beautiful moment, he was hers alone in the intimacy of his
bedchamber.

He picked her up, flush against his body, and
kissed her…a deep devouring kiss. She perceived that he withheld
nothing, but infused this kiss with his soul, and all his hunger.
So fogged was her rationality, she didn’t realize they’d moved
across the room until he lowered her to his bed.

He drew his shirt over his head, removed his
sporran, but left his kilt belted at his waist. Viewing the
sprinkling of dark hair over the battle-honed muscles of his chest
and abdomen was a wicked indulgence. His eyes gleamed with
seductive promises, anticipation, but what she treasured most was
the care and compassion she saw there. This was a man such as she
never knew existed. He would not selfishly take from her; he’d give
her what she craved, generously.

Standing at the edge of the bed, watching her
with eyes near dark as onyx, he gently pushed up her petticoats and
skirts. His rough hands smoothing up her thighs above the tops of
her stockings sent chills over her body.

“Mmm…Gwyneth.” He crawled onto the bed,
between her legs, and kissed her neck, licked a trail down toward
her breasts where they were pushed up by her corset.

With a muttered Gaelic word, he pressed
kisses to the upper swells of her breasts and slid his tongue along
her cleavage.

A sharp yearning speared her, and she
mindlessly thrust her hips toward him where he hovered over her.
“Oh,” she gasped.

His hand beneath her skirts, he caught her
and cradled her derriere. At the touch of his warm palm rasping her
delicate skin, she grew impatient and pulled him closer.

Gazing into her eyes, he stroked gentle
fingers through her moisture, parting the sensitive lips of her
sex. Drawing air between his teeth, he hissed, his eyes almost
closing.

Such forbidden cravings that he elicited
stole her thoughts and reasoning. “Alasdair?”

“Mmm, I wish I had time to take off every
stitch of your clothing. But I’m on the edge. I cannot take another
minute of your tempting.”

He couldn’t be talking about her. Yet when he
gazed at her with such raw intensity, she knew he told her
true.

Shifting, he brought her hand down to his
sleek hard shaft. Fever-hot and generously proportioned. She
wrapped her fingers around him, marveling at how exquisitely made
he was.

His eyes drifted closed and his jaw tightened
at her touch. Though she should be embarrassed, she wasn’t. The
feel of him was heaven. And she wanted him, that part of him,
inside her. She squeezed and stroked.

“You’re amazing,” she whispered and couldn’t
help the way her voice trembled.

“Och, lass.” He shook his head, his hair
tickling over her face. “You’re the one who’s amazing. You’re my
undoing.”

“I want you now,” she whispered, unable to
tolerate the aching need any longer.

“Aye.” Drawing near, he kissed her, flicked
his tongue between her lips in an erotic echo. “Guide me into you,”
he murmured against her mouth.

“Yes.” How he aroused her and empowered her,
giving her control over their lovemaking. She stroked the broad tip
of his shaft through her moisture. “Oh. That feels…”
Splendid.
Her yearning for him magnified. She positioned him
just where she wanted him.

His muscles bunched, and he slid in, slowly
stretching her with sublime fullness. “Beautiful,” he moaned in an
awed tone against her ear, blocking out her own frenetic sounds.
“You are so…beautiful. Gwyneth. Mmm.” He inched slowly deeper.

Yes, yes!
She wanted to give herself
over to him completely. She wanted him to pin her down, thrust
hard, fast and without restraint. Instead, he held himself still
and rigid within her, scarcely breathing, as if savoring their
erotic bond.

“Please,” she whispered. “Alasdair.”

“Aye,
m’eudail.
” In that moment, he
seemed to understand what she needed for he withdrew and plunged in
deeper, again and again, becoming slicker, sliding easier each
time. His movements came faster, more forcefully.

Oh, she could scarce believe what carnal
bliss.

“Saints!” he growled.

It seemed she had never experienced this
before, because never had the joining given her such an upheaval of
pleasure. But not just pleasure—magnitude, a depth of meaning.
Something this thrilling had to be sinful, but she felt no
shame.

Her body burned where it joined with his. She
couldn’t discern her own breaths from his against her lips. She was
as close to him as she could get, yet she grasped him to her,
wanting closer, more, wanting to touch all of him at once. Her
clothing was a hateful barrier between them. Craving his naked skin
against her own, she wrapped her legs around his, and her arms
around his neck.

And the way he moved, undulating. He slid in
a fluid motion, thrusting to her depths and away, fast and
powerfully. What magic.

“
Mo dia,
Gwyneth,” he rasped between
kisses. “You’re so lovely.” He watched her, gazed into her soul. As
if he understood and felt what she did. As if he was wholly there
with her, drowning in this ocean of madness. He was. He had to be;
she saw it in his eyes.

Her corset turned sweltering and
constricting. She couldn’t breathe deeply enough.

A hot tingling began in her center where he
slid. It gathered speed and intensity. A breathless sensation
gripped her and the pleasure crashed in on itself, magnified,
seized her thoughts.

What’s happening? I’m dying!
She
screamed, but Alasdair closed his mouth over hers, muffling her
sounds. She pulled him harder against her. She wanted him all the
way inside. More, more, more.

She reveled in a moment of reckless abandon
such as she never allowed herself. And if she truly were dying,
there could be no better way to go.

But she didn’t die. She’d never felt more
alive. Joy bubbled up inside her, and she laughed. The pleasure
flowed away from her in little waves. Alasdair chose that moment to
growl, drive himself to the hilt and pour into her. From his fierce
expression, he seemed in pain. But she knew he was experiencing the
same rapture she had. She had only thought men did that. She had
not known a woman could find her release, or enjoy this act so
thoroughly.

Just as he withdrew, someone pounded at the
door of the bedchamber, shattering the sensual spell woven around
them.

“Oh, no.” Gwyneth struggled from beneath
Alasdair. She yanked down her skirts, stood and adjusted her
clothing. “No one must find me here.”

Not yet recovered from his climax, Alasdair
glared at the door and muttered Gaelic words amid harsh breaths.
“Don’t fash yourself, lass,” he whispered, then yelled “
Fuirich
mionaid!
” at the person on the other side of the door. Breath
calming, he lazily stood, pulled his shirt on over his head and
moved toward the door.

She scurried behind it. “Do not let them
in.”

He shook his head and opened the door a crack
to peer out. “Aye?”

“Is everything all right?” a man outside the
door asked.

“Aye. I was but changing my shirt.”

Alasdair closed the door and approached her.
He stroked his fingers beneath her chin and pressed a sweet kiss to
her lips. “Gwyneth,” he said as if the word itself were sacred.
“You’re a treasure more fine than ever I touched.”

Vulnerability rolled through her and
threatened to fill her eyes with tears. She had made her own
choice, and she was glad.

I refuse to regret it.

“Are you well?” His dark brows furrowed with
concern.

She nodded.

“Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. What he’d made her feel
was far from pain, but now…

His worried gaze lingering on her, he stepped
away and stuffed his shirttail beneath his kilt and fastened the
top portion with his brooch.

She faced the door and waited for him to
finish.
Upon my faith, what have I done?
Any woman who
followed her body’s urges was full of folly, was she not?