No Other Woman (No Other Series) (19 page)

"This seems comfortable enough," he commented.

For him. He had the benefit of clothing. Her gown had risen surely with every twist and movement. She could feel the fabric of his linen shirt brushing her flesh through the thin material of her nightgown... and the coarser fabric of his form-hugging breeches lower against her where the gown had risen. She swallowed hard, remaining still as a statue. She could feel the moist heat of his breath against her nape, touching her earlobe. He held her wrist just below her breasts, and it seemed she could feel his fingers brushing against her flesh, though surely she could not. To her incredible dismay, she became aware that her nipples had hardened and strained against her gown, that a sweeping rush of fevered heat raced through her veins.

She was so very afraid that he would touch her further.

And so terribly agonized that he might not.

"I—I really would enjoy the floor," she stammered.

"I wouldn't hear of it," he insisted.

She held still. Then burst out with, "I've got to sleep on the floor!" And again, she desperately tried to thrust free from his hold.

"I think not!"

And she found herself slammed back down into the softness of the bed, this time, with him atop her. She was imprisoned by the force of his body.

For brief seconds she met his eyes, and she tried not to breathe.

Then despite herself she inhaled and twisted. Her movement caused his fingers to brush against her breasts, knuckles riding softly against their swollen crests. She gasped at that contact and twisted further against it, only to realize that she had turned right into his touch, turned against him, into his body. His clothing did not feel like such a barrier then. His arousal was quite hard against her abdomen despite it, the muscled expanse of his chest and arms beneath linen seemed to be on fire. His eyes remained hard, green gems burning in the night as well. She opened her mouth to speak, but never found words. He covered her lips with a hungry, bruising kiss.

And she quickly realized just how high her gown had risen for his hand was upon the dark triangle of her mound, fingers deftly delving within it, parting, stroking, thrusting. She wanted to push him away. Somewhere within her, she knew full well that sex could have very little to do with emotion. He had told her to find a husband and bear children, his suggestion surely being that the husband should be some man other than himself. Yet within her own heart and soul, loving David, Laird Douglas, and wanting him had been one and the same for most of her lifetime. Losing him had shattered her dreams and her desires.

And though she halfway hated him for his accusations against her and her family...

She wanted him still.

She was dimly aware that his mouth had left hers and had moved to kiss her throat, pausing at the thundering pulse there. She tried to speak, yet he continued to touch her, his fingers stroking within her.

"No" formed on her lips, but found no substance.

And yet...

She wanted, oh, God, she wanted, the scent of him was filling her, the feel of him...

She should have attempted a true protest; she should have stopped him. Fought him, wildly, determinedly. She should have stopped this, she should have bitterly decried so intimate a touch as that with which he so easily stroked her. He had come seeking vengeance, nothing more. Revenge. Was part of this revenge to seduce her into the flames...

As she had done with him?

Her gown was open. All slim barriers she might have possessed were gone now. His hands were cupping her breasts. His tongue bathed one, and then the other. His body moved against hers. The wetness of his caress moved erotically over her abdomen, rising, falling, rising... wetting, licking, touching her while he stroked within her...

"Is this revenge?" she managed to whisper.

He groaned softly in turn, rising against her. His green eyes captured hers with passion and he told her, "From hell I dreamed of you, Shawna, longing for revenge. Longing to see you again, and you are here, and I am newly seduced by the perfection of your face and form, even knowing that your beauty can be as deadly as the captivating brilliance of a fire!"

"I tell you—"

"Tell me nothing!" he charged her. "For revenge, my love, can indeed be sweet."

The heat of his body seemed to be a fire, and that fire burned from the green of his eyes and into her. His lips fell upon hers again with fierce demand, bruising first in their passion and ardor, suddenly gentle, then demanding once again, seeking, delving, into the heart of her. Revenge, perhaps. But he was right, for it seemed that the violence of his kiss was unbearably sweet.

His hands, oh, God, they were rough upon her, yet so strong, holding her. They moved with trembling strength into her hair, then against the soft flesh of her cheeks, stroking her shoulders, drawing her tighter against him, running the length of her body.

Seducing...

Pressing her against his body, against the fever that burned in him now like an inferno, consuming, taking her with him into a conflagration. She felt the strength of his muscled power, the erotic hardness of his arousal. She could scarcely breathe. The pressure of his mouth demanded and ravaged, his tongue brought liquid sweeps of searing heat that seemed to awaken and arouse the length of her.

She could not do this.

She pressed her hands against his chest. He didn't seem to feel them. She tried then to find words to protest, yet the force of his mouth against hers gave her no chance to speak, no breath with which to do so.

In time she realized that his mouth had left her lips again to travel an erotic trail down her throat. Her gown was shoved to her waist and the rough, callused touch of his hands was against the bareness of her flesh, caressing her breasts, thumbs teasing and rubbing her nipples, sending exotic shafts of fire and light to sear throughout her like the rays of the sun. His lips, his hands, were everywhere. Ever more intimate. Whispered words escaped her at last, yet she could not comprehend them herself, and he did not hear or heed them. His thumb created a line down her abdomen from her navel, intimately invaded once again, thrust deeply within her. Again, some cry tore from her lips, and whether a cry of pure sensation or the dying gasp of a struggle she could no longer seek to wage, she did not know. She felt the gentle pressure of his teeth teasing against her upper thigh, the stroke of his tongue, a liquid fire that circled the center of her desire until she thought she would die, then stroking directly upon it until the sweeping sensations rose in a wicked explosion within her and a cry erupted from her lips.

He was atop her then, fumbling briefly with the buttons of his black pants. His mouth seized hold of hers once again, capturing her lips, her tongue, and her breath, and whatever whispers might have escaped her. A deep, trembling shudder swept into her at his next invasion, for he thrust within her with the burning shaft of his sex, blunt, hard, bold. She might have shrieked aloud again at the deep, knifing sensation that filled her, but she could not, for his kiss continued to absorb all sound.

To seduce and arouse, anew.

God help her, she was swept into his demand. And then, she discovered, she demanded in return, she was seeking herself. She wanted him so urgently. Forgetting him, forgetting herself, time, place, past, present, and all reason. She hungered, she ached, arching and writhing to meet his every thrust, to feel his every touch.

He covered and filled her, still dressed, with only his dark breeches loosened. Her flesh seemed almost unbearably vulnerable to the touch of fabric against it, and yet everything within her seemed drawn as well to that place where bare flesh met bare flesh, where his body stroked into hers with a thundering urgency, hard, wild, seducing no more, suddenly demanding everything. She clung to him, feeling as if she rode out a storm. His very fever touched her again and again, along with the driving relentlessness of his demand. The very force and power that filled her seemed to awake in her the clamoring to have more and more, to reach surcease. His body constricted in a massive wave of tension and heat, then it seemed that sunlight rushed within her, triggering the sweet explosion of her own climax. The feelings burst upon her, so incredibly wonderful, like a blending of all the hot, brilliant colors of the fiercest blaze within her body. She drifted in the sweet, warm fires, shaken again and again by a series of little rapid-fire convulsions, until she seemed to fall into the deep softness of the bed again.

David moved quickly, as if he had realized his weight just as she began to feel the pressure of it. He lay at her side, his face completely in shadows. Still clothed. She felt him button his breeches, then stretch out, his fingers laced behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

"Oh, God!" she breathed suddenly, realizing what they had done. Despite his flowers and gifts, he still accused her and her family.

And he had come for revenge. This, then, was nothing but revenge.

"Damn you!" she cried out, springing up to leap out of the bed.

She didn't manage to do so.

He caught her upper arms, flinging her back down upon the mattress. "What do you think you're doing now?" he demanded irritably.

"Getting up!"

"Why?"

"Because—because—" she sputtered. "Oh, damn you!" she cried again, a balled hand landing against his chest. She stared into his eyes and whispered vehemently, "I did not seduce you, Laird David Douglas!"

"You seduce me by
being,
Lady MacGinnis!" She felt his eyes sweep over her. "And I'm not sleeping in any damned chairs anymore, and you're not going to catch pneumonia on the floor and expire on me, either."

She was shaking, trying to fight when there was no fight left within her.

"You can't—"

"Did I hurt you in any way?"

He couldn't begin to know how he was hurting her.

"Say yes, m'love, and I'll call you a liar. Our greatest danger here tonight was that one of us might have shrieked out loudly enough in pleasure to have given us both away."

She gasped, ready to hit him. He gave her no chance to do so, drawing her to him.

"You had every chance to deny me," he told her.

"You're wrong; you seldom give me a chance at anything."

He stared at her in the darkness, then his knuckles brushed her cheek, and his thumb moved over her lower lip. "Maybe I don't dare give you any more chances!" he whispered softly.

"We can't—let this go on," she said fervently.

He shook his head, frowning. "You think that you can take back what happened between us."

"You don't understand—"

"Nor do I care to."

"There can be—consequences!" she told him.

"Not this time. I will not be taken this time!"

Shawna lowered her lashes, but she couldn't hold her tongue. "I don't mean you!" she lashed out.

"What, then?"

The truth she couldn't bear to share with him retreated within her. "Nothing."

"Damn it, what are you talking about?"

She shook her head vehemently. "Nothing!"

"Nothing," he murmured. "Nothing will change the fact that one of your kin is guilty, and I will discover who. Sleeping on the floor will not help you. My spending the night awake on a window seat will not change anything for anyone, either."

In the flickering light of the fire she saw him looking at her, his eyes filled with anger and passion and determination. She trembled, wishing that he could not fee! her every little movement.

"If you intend to continue to accuse my family and expect my help, you'd better intend as well to keep me advised about what is happening, what you're doing!"

He smiled. "You know I've been with you every night."

"Aye, the flowers, the necklace, left upon my pillow." She tried to study his face in the fire-lit shadows. "Why?" she asked very softly. "Part of your revenge?"

His teeth flashed in a white smile. "Most definitely," he told her.

She studied him gravely. "Five years ago—I did not mean to seduce you. I—perhaps that isn't exactly true, but I didn't intend—"

"You intended to seduce me, you simply didn't intend to consummate anything you started," he said bluntly.

She shook her head, then twisted away from him, lying with her back to him when she spoke again. "I didn't intend to seduce you into the hell you discovered. And I do fear your revenge—"

"Perhaps my revenge, my lady, is partly to make you want me as I wanted you when that fire began."

His husky tone sent warmth cascading down her spine. She swallowed hard, fighting a strange surge of tears once again. He couldn't know how she had wanted him. How she had missed him. How she had longed for him. How she had needed him with her.

"Perhaps, Laird Douglas," she whispered in turn, "I am determined not to let you take revenge so easily. Perhaps I shall refuse to want you—I didn't seek to seduce you now, and so help me, I will not do so—"

"No?" he queried.

His tone was oddly tender and yearning.

Yet his touch was firm as he rolled her back to him, suddenly straddling her in the darkness..

"Then it seems that I will have to seduce you," he promised her heatedly. "And I will want you. Again and again..."

He did want her.

And he did seduce her.

Expertly. Shedding his clothing that time.

And sleeping naked beside her when he was done, holding her close to his warmth through the hours of the night.

Chapter 11