The Lover

She wanted to cry out when he stepped back to spread his plaid on a bed of bracken, but he returned to her at once, his hands reaching for her hair.

His fingers pulled the pins from her bound tresses till the rich cloud tumbled down. “A man likes his woman’s hair down, hanging loose and free.”

His woman. If only she could believe she meant that much to him. It was folly to think she could ever claim his sole attention—and yet he was here with her now. Tonight she alone could command his passion.

His fingers stroked her hair, tangling in the shining fullness. With a hushed delicacy, his hand dropped to the neckline of her bodice, freeing the fragile skin of her shoulders and breasts to the night’s kiss and to his own. Her breasts tumbled forward, begging for the touch of teeth and tongue, her nipples impudent spikes in the chill air.

Niall’s jeweled eyes took in her nudity, before his gaze lifted abruptly, midnight fire. “You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice husky with intimacy.

When he held out his arms, Sabrina went willingly into his embrace, her body craving his heat and strength, a force as powerful as the moon’s spell. He drew her down to the soft bed to lie beside him, breast to breast. His arms around her, Niall wrapped them both in his plaid. The fabric held his body warmth, his alluring scent, mingled with the aroma of woodsmoke and crushed bracken. For a moment he simply held her close, arousing her with his mere nearness.

But when his hands began moving over her skin in a soft murmur, Sabrina took a steadying breath and pressed a palm against his chest. “No…’Tis my turn. I mean to pleasure you this time.”

“Indeed?” His tone was smokily sensual.

“Yes.”

“Are you certain you can manage it?”

She saw the smile lurking in his eyes and resolved to meet his challenge. Niall was a champion at this game of seduction, and she a mere novice, but she intended to make love to him this time. To seduce him.

“I was taught by the premier rake of Europe. You yourself said I was an apt pupil.”

At the defiance in her tone, Niall acquiesced gracefully, his lips wanting to smile at this sign of his proper bride’s growing confidence in her allure. He could have caressed her, charmed her, seduced her into willing submission, but he wanted Sabrina to take the lead.

She was far different from other women he’d pursued. Sabrina understood loyalty and duty and sacrifice, yet she had no notion of the usual feminine arts—cunning or wiles or the carnal games of dalliance. Yet, he’d seen in her eyes the fire of long-hidden desire. He meant to jolt her from her prim notions, to dare her to fulfill the promise of passion he sensed in her, to heed her reckless heart. Despite her unrelenting sense of propriety, he knew she could be as wild as any woman he’d bedded.

When she tentatively brushed her mouth against his, he felt his entire body clench. Her kiss tasted incredibly sweet, but the anticipation of the lovemaking to come was even sweeter. Closing his eyes, Niall lay back, leaving her solely in command.

Her first fledgling steps were uncertain. He felt her fingers trembling as she fumbled with the laces of his shirt, but she refused to allow him to aid her. She bared the strong column of his throat to her lips, but then seemed to falter.

When she hesitated, he murmured helpfully, “My shirt, mouse. Remove it.”

Sabrina wanted to demand “How?” Frustratingly her arms were tangled in his plaid, permitting her little access or room to maneuver.

Biting her lower lip, she rose to her knees. The plaid fell away from their bodies, but she scarcely noticed the chill, so intent was she in easing the lower hem of Niall’s shirt from his belt and pulling the garment over his head. She felt devilishly alive, throbbing with a sense of adventure and excitement. Never in all her tame existence had she engaged in any escapade so scandalous or daring.

He lay very still, the moonlight outlining the sleek muscle and sinew of his powerful chest, his breathing controlled, faintly rapid.

Sabrina drew a deep breath, remembering his counsel: Don’t be afraid to be a woman…

Placing her palms against his skin, she smoothed her hands up his torso, tantalized by the heat and hardness of him. Never before had she seen such perfection. It made her wild to possess all of him. Tonight she wanted to conquer him as he had conquered her.

“Now, what will you do, sweeting?” he taunted when she hesitated.

“I shall think of something.”

His lips curled with that dangerous, sensual smile that had the power to liquefy her limbs. “I trust you will.”

Reaching down, her fingers found his strong, sinewed thigh. Briefly she stroked the hair-roughened flesh, pausing at the hem of his kilt.

She heard the light, quick intake of his breath as her fingers crept upward, felt the hot coil of tension in his body. The muscles in his hard stomach quivered.

Relying on instinct, she raised his kilt to his waist, baring his splendid, blatant erection.

The vital depths of his eyes caught like kindling.

Deliberately she closed her fingers gently around him. The thick length surged in her hand, iron-hard yet silken to the touch. She felt his breath heat and quicken.