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

He dropped the flannel into the bowl and bent to kiss her just above the damp curls covering her mound. More tenderness. The stomach beneath this tribute clenched in an agony of longing.

Brock shifted away to set the bowl on the washstand and returned holding a linen towel. As he dried her with an attention and thoroughness that roused more of that painful need, she sought some distraction from her wicked longings.

She asked him something she’d wondered about since she first saw him. "What were you like as a boy?"

Another of those intriguing half-smiles. Heaven help her, he was a handsome man. Selina was always aware of his surpassing physical attractions, but sometimes, like now, his beauty pierced her sharp as an arrow. The softness in the face she’d once thought hard and ruthless made him look younger, more approachable. The tumble of dark hair, the glow in his eyes, and the powerful, long-limbed body stole her breath.

He returned to hang the towel on its rail. "I was a little horror."

She could imagine he’d been spoiled. He was a beautiful man. He would have been a gorgeous child. What mother could resist smothering him with love and attention and gifts?

"Full of mischief, no doubt."

"I had my moments." In an action of breathtaking smoothness, he hooked up his breeches from the floor and slid them on. It reminded her of her nakedness. Odd how comfortable she felt unclothed in his company. It seemed natural to allow him every liberty.

When Selina slipped out of bed, she couldn’t restrain a groan. No man had touched her in years, and today’s exuberant sexual activity set long-disused muscles protesting at the sudden movement.

Brock paused in the act of pouring two glasses of wine from the decanter on the cabinet near the door. "Are you all right?"

As she recalled the day she’d just spent, heat tinged her cheeks. "I’m not used to such…vigorous exercise."

He gave an appreciative grunt and went back to filling the glasses. "I’ll get you into shape."

Into shape? Selina had a feeling she’d leave here as a completely new person.

She bent to collect her crumpled shift from the floor and tug it over her head. "I need to get back on the horse?"

Humor lit his expression as he turned to face her, carrying the two glasses. "Back on something, at any rate."

She gave a low chuckle as she accepted the wine and sank down onto a leather chair in front of the roaring fire. The room was so deliciously warm, it was hard to imagine it was snowing outside like the end of the world.

"So where did you grow up?" she asked, unwilling to let him wriggle away from her question. He’d admitted to a hunger to know all about her. At the very least, her interest in him rivaled his in her.

Brock wandered over to the window and pulled back the blue curtains to reveal a Stygian blackness. He sipped his wine and stared out with a pensive expression. "At Bruard. It’s quite as spectacular as it sounds. A man can breathe there."

"You love it."

An enigmatic smile hovered about his lips. "I do."

"When were you last there?"

He closed the heavy velvet curtains and turned from the window. "Five years ago."

Shocked, puzzled, she studied Brock. More was going on here than she understood. "That seems…a long time."

He shrugged and took another mouthful of wine.

Selina could take a hint, even if with some reluctance. He had a right to his secrets. As did she.

She sampled her wine, a fine claret, and stared into the fire. What a day this had been. Unlike any day she’d passed before. Sexual satisfaction was a lazy beat in her blood and for once, the constant fear that had been her companion for so many years receded. Life with all its problems lurked in wait, but something in this quiet, luxurious room made her feel safe. At least for the moment.

"For a woman who drives me out of my mind with lust, you can be a damned restful presence," Brock murmured from where he remained near the window.

Startled, she looked up. She was tired, pleasantly so, and she’d drifted off into a reverie crammed with memories of all the depraved things she and Brock had done. "You don’t sound very pleased about that."

"I’m not." He sighed and crossed the room to put his half-full glass on the mantelpiece. "It makes a man devilish prone to confidences."

If he hadn’t sounded so tolerant and so affectionate, she might have taken offense. She’d drunk even less of her wine than he had of his. She set it on the small table at her elbow. "I have no right to pry."