To Tempt a Scotsman (Somerhart 1)

"Yes, caitein. You'll wait." And he moved away, away from her center, denying her, destroying her.

Alex squirmed and shifted her own hand from her side, reached to touch herself since he would not. "If you'd prefer to do it yourself, Alex, I've no idea why I'm here in England."

"I'd prefer you!"

"You've another foot needs washing."

Growling, glaring, she splashed her foot down and spun to face him. She lifted her right foot to where her left had perched and opened herself before him.

"Do it," she whispered, wondering if she begged.

His eyes caught hers, held for a moment before falling to the sight she'd presented him. He leaned closer, closer, till her breath squeezed from her chest and ruffled the mess of his hair. But he was only searching for the soap. He drew away when he had it in his grasp.

I might beg him, she realized as he sat back. I might. But then she saw his fingers shake as he reached for her foot and knew she wouldn't have to.

He soaped this foot more slowly, no doubt a punishment for the interruption, but Alex didn't complain. She could wait. She could wait now that she knew he shook with need as well. It appeased something between her legs even as it tightened her there, tightened until she felt her body draw up and open for him. He just might fit. The prospect of penetration lost its terror.

They stared, together, at his hands. She wondered if he watched as she did, looking beyond the hard sweep of his fingers to what they would do to her minutes from now. Again he proved more patient. By the time he reached the start of her thigh, her hips were twitching, easing forward in a blatant attempt to claim his attention. His eyes strayed from his hands, caught by the sight.

Triumph blurred the edges of her vision until his face was all she could see, his face as he leaned in, his mouth as her hips drew him. That cool breath again, this time against her belly and the flesh beneath it. His hands, for­gotten for a moment, gripped one thigh and then the other, even as he pressed his lips into the dark shadow of her sex.

Her hands—her whole body—shook at the picture before her. . . his dark hair mussed against her bare belly, his shoulders square beneath her hands.

"Alexandra." The word rumbled through her fingers, through her stomach and the bones of her pelvis, up to her spine. "You smell o

f everything right in the world."

A laugh caught in her chest, thickened into something close to tears.

"You taste of everything I've ever wanted."

Yes, she wanted to scream. I love you, she needed to cry. But she only growled wordlessly, because she knew never to confuse lust with love, no matter that it felt more. It wasn't love, not even when he pressed small kisses to the wet seam of her body. Not even when he raised his head and searched her face with night-black eyes. Not even when his fingers finally found her.

She cried out then, but not of love.

He traced the shape of her with a touch as light as fur. More twitching from her shameless hips until she pushed at him, not begging with words, but pleading nonethe­less. Finally . . . Finally he stroked into the wet, rubbing the side of one long, callused finger into her folds. He laved her, worsened her need, forced a hum past her mouth.

He still refused to enter her, but he pushed farther, sweeping the thick edge of his hand along her, back to front and back again. A soft abrasion over that little nub of nerves, over her opening, farther still to the crease of her backside. Oh, please, she thought.

"Sit."

Alex clenched her thighs, trapping his hand as she squirmed. He slipped away. "Sit."

"Bastard," she huffed as she fell into the water, happy to splash him as she rinsed.

Collin laughed a growl. "Yes."

But she had little time for resentment. He plucked her from the tub, soaking up the water with his own clothes as he bounded up the stairs to the bed that waited above. She didn't even have time to shiver before he stripped off his sodden clothes and covered her with his body.

The weight of him was just right, regardless that it set the bed ropes creaking. The hard, jutting length of him pressing into her thigh, warm and smooth against her, was the perfect weight as well.

Collin's mouth fell upon hers and she opened to him, opened to the strong stroke of his tongue and the taste of hot need. She couldn't stop her hands from feeling him. Hungry, starving, they ran over his back, his waist, his shoulders and neck. She skipped over his ribs like piano keys, grasped his buttocks to test their give. He seemed to like that, pressing himself firmly to her hip and kissing her with a deeper thrust. So she did it again and dared to run her fingers into the crease of his bottom as he'd done to her. Collin gasped and reared back.

"Please tell me you're not afraid."

"No. No, I want it. Please."

He'd shifted his weight as he spoke, freed a hand to smooth down her belly to cup that whole throbbing-soft place between her legs. A small shudder flew through her as his fingers pressed gently.