Claiming Her

It was difficult to be sure, but she thought his gaze looked ever so slightly unsteady. In any event, he lifted his glass. “To Rardove women. They’re a frightening bunch.”

She splashed more whisky into their cups. “What shall we toast to next?”

“Why are you trying to get me addled on the drink?” He broke gaze and took a slow visual sweep of the room, as if looking for clues.

Her heartbeat sped up. “Maybe I am not trying to get you addled. Maybe I am trying to get myself addled.”

He finished his perusal of the room. “To what end?”

She frowned. “Must I have an end?”

“You mustn’t…but you do.” But he seemed to be growing distracted. It was evident in his gaze, the way it kept drifting to her mouth. In the hard thrust of manhood pushing against her hip.

She smiled at him, then her focus drifted to the beautiful inkmarks visible above the collar of his tunic. “Aodh?”

He stretched out a leg, which shifted how she sat on him, and as she lolled on his lap, he said, “What?” very, very warily.

“Did it hurt? When they painted you.”

He hesitated. “Aye.”

“Are they Rardove dyes?”

“The legend dyes? That they are.”

“So it is not a legend.”

His eyes met hers. “Do you want to see them again, lass?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed.

Aodh watched her a moment, certain she was up to some mischief, but it hardly mattered; she was sitting in his lap, breathing unevenly with desire. For the time being, at least, she was entirely his.

He leaned forward, bent his elbows, and dragged the tunic over his head.

Her gaze traveled greedily over his arms, his chest, her eyes growing heavy-lidded with desire.

Then she reached out and ran her fingertips down the inked lines. He held his breath, holding himself in check as she trailed down his arm, to the bend of his elbow, then made the small but important leap to his stomach. And then down, to the band of his breeches.

Swiftly, she unlaced him, and he let her, did nothing but say, “Let down your hair.”

She did, watching him as the hair spilled over her shoulders, then together they tugged off his hose. But when he put out a hand to draw her back into his lap, instead of taking it, she dropped to her knees between his legs.

He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks.

He would have to ensure this woman drank whisky every day.

She settled in, her palms resting atop his thighs, and stared at his body, her brow now furrowed, her fingertips trailing lightly over his chest. “Why did they do this to you?” she asked softly.

“To mark me.”

“As what?”

“A savior.”

She looked up. “Of what?”

“Rardove.”