Deepening the kiss to a frenzied pitch, she arched her spine. The front of her body rubbed provocatively against his even as her tongue met and matched his rhythm, then in turn demanded and coaxed and increased it.
The hard, intimate length of him throbbed with need against the front of her hips. A hauntingly familiar ache pulsed in the juncture of her thighs. The sensation magnified, channeled throughout the rest of her body with a speed and power that both frightened and astounded her.
Gabrielle's knees felt weak and watery, alarmingly unsubstantial. She leaned against him, breathless and shaken. The virile cushion of his chest absorbed the tremors that wracked through her even as it offered a supportive brace for her abruptly precarious balance.
The need to feel him, skin to hot, sensitive skin was overp
owering.
Gabrielle's fingers unwrapped from around Connor's arms, opened and strayed inward. The laces beneath his throat felt rough to the touch as she fumbled with them, finally undoing the knot and spreading open the plackets. Thick, inky curls tickled her fingertips as she slipped her hand beneath the cloth and stroked his skin.
The sound that came from between Gabrielle's lips was half inhalation, half gasp. The smell of leather and horse mixed with a rich, spicy scent that was entirely, provocatively male; the aromas meshed, weaving around her, engulfing her. Her senses spinning, she used her free hand to unfasten the clan brooch on his left shoulder. Free, the clasp tumbled from her fingers to the moss-strewn ground. The plaid slipped down his thickly muscled arm as her attention detoured. She tugged at the hem of his tunic until it slipped free from beneath the waist of his kilt.
The back of her knuckles skimmed the hard, flat plane of his belly as she dragged the tunic up. Higher. Abandoning the ravenous kiss, she went up on tiptoe and pulled the garment off over his head. Like the brooch, it slipped from her hand, floating unnoticed to the ground at his feet.
Her fingers combed through his dark hair, twisted, fisted the strands close to his scalp as she angled his head up and back, exposing the thick expanse of his neck.
Her lips felt dry as, green eyes narrowing, she watched the shadowy pulse beating in the base of his throat.
Gabrielle groaned. Surrendering to temptation, her mouth mirrored her gaze. His skin felt hot, and tasted salty sweet beneath the darting strokes of her tongue.
While one hand continued to cup and knead her deliriously supple bottom, the other slipped upward. Hooking his fingers over her shoulder, his forearm supporting her back, Connor leaned into her, forcing her to arch backward.
His legs opened, his knees vising her thighs. Effortlessly, he lowered her onto a mattress of night-crispened leaves and moss. Her silky black curls tickled the underside of his jaw as he spread himself out atop the soft bed of her curves.
Despite the change in position, her mouth never left him; she'd suckled a patch of his skin into her mouth and now teased it with her teeth and tongue in a manner that was thoroughly distracting and extremely arousing.
It was Connor's turn to shiver. The tremors rocked through his body, starting on the inside and working their way out. He would have liked to blame the shiver on the cold night air, but knew damn well it would be a lie. Had the flesh on the side of his neck ever been so sensitive? Not that he could recall.
It wasn't until he felt her fumbling at the waist of his kilt that Connor slipped his hand from beneath her. His palm slipped over the generous curve of her hip, brushing her own hands aside.
"Nay, firebrand," he murmured against the side of her head. "Not yet."
He captured her wrists and dragged them up over her head. The brittle end of a twig scraped the back of his knuckles as he pinned those wrists in one fist. It was a double-edged form of torture, Connor realized too late. The gesture made her breasts push up into his chest more fully, until he couldn't help but be excruciatingly aware of every voluptuous inch of their firmness.
His free hand shifted to where his mind had locked, and locked hard. He'd been in the process of inhaling; his breath caught in the throat she continued to nibble as his open hand settled over one plentiful breast.
Her nipple had begun to soften. He felt it grow instantly rigid beneath his palm. As much as the weight of him atop her would allow, she arched up into the touch. A sound that was one part moan, one part whimper, skimmed past her lips.
Anchoring his weight on the elbows flanking her ribs, Connor levered himself up a fraction. Not far, yet enough to allow him to gaze down into dark green eyes that were glassy and heavy-lidded. The color in her cheeks was high, awash with a telltale peachy flush. Her lips were parted, the rosy skin there damp and still a wee bit swollen from his kiss.
"Tell me, lass," Connor said, his voice low and controlled, revealing nothing of the anticipation that raced through him as he wondered what her reaction to his words would be, "is the idea of becoming my bride, of spending the rest of yer nights entwined with me thus, truly so unappealing to ye?"
A frown flickered over Gabrielle's brow. Good heavens, why would he ask such a thing? Could he not tell from her lusty response that she found his touch anything but unappealing? She shook her head. "Nay, m' lord, not unappealing," she murmured, and again arched so that her breast pushed fully into his hand, as though to prove the sincerity of her words. "Not unappealing at all."
"Yet still ye resist the idea of wedding me?"
"I'll admit I'm not as opposed to the idea as I once was." Gabrielle blushed and glanced quickly away when he grinned down at her.
Connor's hand shifted. Through the thin cloth of her tunic, he circled her passion-hard nipple with the edge of his thumbnail. "Then ye've no objection to me doing this... tonight and all the nights after?"
Gabrielle lifted her chin, luxuriating in the sizzling bolt of sensation that shot through her. "Nay," she whispered hoarsely. Her voice, she noticed as though from a distance, sounded oddly low and rough. "No objection at all."
"Or this?" he asked as his hand strayed downward. Gathering the folds of her shirt in his fist, he dragged it upward. The cloth bunched around her middle, just beneath her breasts. His hand snuck beneath. "Still no objection, lass?"
The tip of his index finger dipped into her navel, circled, then slowly, slowly, began a breathtaking ascent. His bare hand cupped her aching flesh as a sort of pleasure-pain sizzled through her.
"None," Gabrielle rasped breathlessly.