The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress (The Lairds Most Likely 7)

They’d rushed up here like children promised cake. Now Brock felt like they had all the time in the world. Selina must feel the same, because her moveme

nts were unhurried as she removed each pin and placed it on the dressing table.

A long lock unraveled over her shoulder, then another. The tresses uncoiled one by one, until a veil of hair covered her shoulders. His blood began to beat a pounding tattoo of need. He stepped back to lean against the bed, fumbling behind him to curl his fingers over the elaborately carved baseboard.

His hunger was devilish sweet. He’d wanted enough women in his life to know that this keen craving was a gift.

"Run your hands through it," he said in a harsh voice, as his gaze ate up the cascade of hair. It was long and thick, cloaking her to the waist. In the mirror, it rippled down her back, hinting at russet and gold and flaxen blonde.

Building need turned her eyes dark. The urge rose to grab her and rip off her clothes and slake himself in her. But stronger yet was the urge to linger on each moment. Later they’d have the chance for a fast coupling.

This first time she uncovered her body for him, he didn’t want his greedy impulses to rule. He wanted to treasure each moment like a pearl threaded onto a necklace. So when she left him, he kept this exquisite memory of every step in her surrender to take out and cherish.

As if under a spell, she obeyed. The flush on her skin and the erratic susurration of her breath told him that undoing her hair in front of him excited her, too. She lifted the heavy weight of hair and released it to drift about her.

Brock heaved a lengthy sigh born in appreciation and rising arousal. His hands clutched the baseboard as he battled not to step forward and snatch up handfuls of that silky glory.

"I want to see you naked," he said in a choked voice.

She surveyed him with eyes luminous with desire. "I’ve never been naked for a man before." Her voice was low and husky and made his skin tighten for want of her.

"Are you afraid?"

When she shook her head, that mass of hair shifted around her. "No."

"No?"

"Perhaps a little." A faint smile lengthened her lips. "But I’m glad that my first time is with you."

Painful emotion stabbed him. Only Selina had this power to slice through his physical yearning. She was so vulnerable. Yet she was powerful, too. Purity of heart made her the strongest woman he’d ever known. "Selina, you do me too much honor."

She made a bewildered gesture with one hand. "What shall I do now?"

"Let me watch you undress." His voice turned hoarse, as the prospect of seeing her unclothed shot a shuddering thrill through him.

She didn’t move to cooperate, and the comprehensive glance she cast him seared like fire. "I hope you intend to return the favor."

"By God…" He straightened to reach for her, then sucked in a huge breath and told himself to wait. His roaring impatience was part of the rich mix of pleasure.

That smile flirting with her lips deepened, and he saw her uncertainty fade as she recognized the dominion she wielded over him. With taunting languor, she picked up a chair and placed it on the rich red and blue rug in the center of the room – and in the center of his view.

Selina cast him a sidelong glance, to confirm she caught his attention. As if any red-blooded man could look away. She lifted one foot to the chair and slid her skirts up to reveal the shapely legs he recalled so vividly. But there was a difference between catching a glimpse in a rattling, swaying carriage and now, when time spun away from them along a bright path.

His gaze traced the neat ankle in its white stocking and the taut calf. Up to the sweet little knee and the pretty blue garter he’d already remarked upon. Pale, slender thighs disappeared into a tumble of skirts. A growl of hunger escaped him, and he tightened his grip on the baseboard.

He expected her to fumble with the ribbon around her ankles as she removed her shoe. But while his turmoil grew, she seemed to become calmer. Blood thrummed like thunder in his ears as she took off the blue satin slipper, then untied her garter to slide the fragile stocking down.

Even her feet were pretty. His eyes feasted on the high arch and the small toes. By the time she did the same with the other leg, he was in such a lather, he was close to forgetting his own name.

Brock retained just enough sense to notice at least one thing. "You’re not wearing drawers," he forced out of a tight throat.

She lowered her foot from the chair and faced him. To his regret, her skirts slid down to lend her a spurious modesty. "No."

"I wish I’d known when we had dinner."

This smile was sly with sensual awareness. "I thought you might like a surprise."

"I do." His voice scraped out. Only she had the power to steal his ability to speak. "Don’t."